Therein lies the difference

by Patti

My “lady parts” doctor’s office is located in an outdoor mall. That sounds wrong, doesn’t it? It sounds like I’m getting my pap smears done at a kiosk. But no – fortunately for all the shoppers, the office is actually in a building, neatly and discreetly tucked away in the corner of the third floor. But I digress. The cool thing about having an appointment is I get to hit the Starbucks right across the way, or go to TCBY and eat a $9 yogurt, or window shop at Macy’s. Look – when you’ve had a stranger’s hand up your hoo-ha, a little retail therapy is in order, don’t you think? Yes, I think.

The other day, I had a little extra time before a scheduled appointment, and decided to stroll around the breezeways a bit. There was Table de la Sur, with its Martha Stewart-esque kitchen gadgets to make one feel like a complete domestic failure; there was Forever 21, teeming with middle-aged mothers and their gum-smacking, eye-rolling teen-aged daughters, both feeling horrified for entirely separate reasons; there was Vera Bradley, with its North Shore paisley prints splashed on Every! Single! Item! Even! Their! $20! Pens!

I realized the time, and decided to start heading to the kiosk doctor’s office for my appointment. As I walked, I noticed a man walking with his little boy. The boy was around two years old, and he did his best to keep up with this rushed dad.  As the boy hurried to catch up, he started to hobble. And that’s when I realized that the kid’s pants were sliding right off of him. Down over his diapered butt they went until they were circling his ankles and catching his every step. But the little dude muscled up and still tried to keep up. The dad? Totally oblivious. At that very moment, another lady who had been walking near me and I both piped up at the same time, pointing to the boy. “Uh, sir? His pants fell down.”

That’s when the man finally turned around, and when he saw the predicament his poor son was in, he swiftly hitched the pants right back up. “Buddy! You’re supposed to tell me when your pants fall down!”

After the man hurried away with his now clothed son, the other lady and I looked at one another and burst out laughing. We both knew that had the boy been with his mother, her motherly spidey-senses would have sensed the pants’ plan to fall long before they even fell, and the kid would have been spared diaper-flashing the shoppers.

This reminded me of when my friend, mother to three young girls at the time, left for her first vacation ever sans her children and husband. She reported to me that when she got back, her husband lovingly shared with her photos of some of the things he had done with the girls in her absence. My friend nearly fainted when she realized that most of the pictures included an outing to the top of a mountain, where he posed the girls by themselves in front of THE EDGE OF A CLIFF so he could snap a souvenir photo. Later, her older daughter told my friend that “Daddy dressed Rachel in shorts and Rachel couldn’t walk!” When my friend questioned her husband, he had no choice but to admit that he had dressed their youngest daughter for the day in shorts, and noticed throughout the day that she was walking “funny”.  It wasn’t until the end of the day that he realized he had forced both of her legs into ONE opening.  Of course, once the horror of thinking her children could have fallen to their deaths had passed, we both laughed and laughed and laughed, because, really?

Let’s face it: Fathers love their children just as much as mothers do. They love them fiercely, wholly, protectively. They love them to the moon and back and around the world three times. But that doesn’t mean they won’t shove two legs into one pant leg and not notice, or allow a child to streak naked through a mall, or forget to feed them breakfast because what’s wrong with marshmallows? Why? Because they’re not mothers. It’s as simple as that.

Summer Fun(k)

by Patti

When S was little and I had the luxury of being able to stay home with her, I never understood the complaints of those mothers who couldn't wait for school to start so they could get the kids out of the house. While I certainly respected their points of view, for me, there was something about the unscheduled ease of our lives during that time; the ability to come and go, and see and do, and experience and experiment. As cheesy as it sounds, being home with my daughter simply felt like a blessing to me.

As S grew into her elementary school years, I went back to work part-time, and - in the past two years - as she morphed from a still-clinging fourth grader to a, as of today, freshly-out-of-sixth grader, I went back to work full-time. Working full-time is not a new thing for me; I did it all my adult life until I had my kid. But going back to working full-time after your life has been altered by family? It's different. There is a whole new set of feelings that go along with being financially independent and feeling intellectually fulfilled. These days, even though my child is now 12 years old and most certainly does not need to hold my hand or have me pinned to her side every second of every day, I know she still needs me in even more complex ways than ever before. And most of all? I find I still need her.

Yesterday was S's last day as a sixth grader. Last night I asked her what her dreams were for this summer. "Dance, spend time with friends, and go to Jamaica." I can grant two of those wishes. My wish? Spend with her the last summer before she becomes a teenager. Do things with her. Watch her grow. Know her dreams and grant them. Cherish the moments she might still need me.  Alas, I have to work. So, with the exception of some planned vacation days, I will still have to hustle to find those days with her. And because of that, I now find myself selfishly wishing the summer away. After all, how can summer happen for her and not me? How can it not happen for us together?

The truth is? She will be fine. She will dance and spend time with her friends and her dog and have full days with her papi. She will eat ice cream and swim and spend some time with her grandmother, and she will flourish. She might even grow an inch or two. Because here is the other truth: my baby is no longer a baby. And all those summers I did have with her have made her who she is and who we are together, and as much as I might pine for those days, I now live in these days. And these days are wonderful in their own way.

Over and...Done.

by Cathy

Today is the last, official day of school for my kids and I'm freaking out.
I did not expect this. At all.

It blindsided me during the usual morning breakfast rush. We were running late as usual but there was a relaxed feel to the harriedness. Then my youngest, Ari, knowing we were going to be late, asked if I could walk her to her locker after getting the obligatory tardy slip in the main office. (I did this last week, one day with her, but only after she insisted that I do it because as usual, I was in my own crazed bubble, mentally running through lists of where I have to go and what I have to do for the day. But boy, once I did it, I was so glad I did. Small, inside peeks into your child's school day - her stuff, her routine, her interaction with friends and teachers - is something I never get to really see.)

"Mommy, can you walk me to my locker today?"
"Oh, honey, papi will be taking you today."
"Papi," she turned. "Can you walk me to my locker today?"
He looked at me quizzically. "Why? Is it something I need to do?"
"No," I said flatly. "But just take her. It's something you'll remember doing. It's her last day of first grade."

Boom! Something inside my heart exploded. My husband noticed it but kept quiet. He turned to Bella, my now TWELVE-year old.

"Do you want me to walk you to your locker, too?" he offered quietly.
And just as we suspected, she replied, "No, that's okay."
At that moment, we both knowingly felt that pang of harsh reality that one day, we will not get asked to walk our kids to our lockers. Or lay with them at bedtime. Or read them a story. Or hold their hand. Or want to sleep in our bed or crawl in there in the middle of the night. One day, they just stop asking.

I quickly ushered them out the door with a kiss while my husband hurried them into taking an end-of-the-year photo before they drove off. In the still quietness that just minutes ago, was my hurricane of a kitchen, I sat and cried. Where was this coming from? From the quietness of the house that will one day be forever this quiet once they both move on and live their lives? From seeing the remnants of their rushed breakfast still on the table and realizing that for all the bitching I do about getting up early, and packing them lunch and snacks and preparing breakfast that the school year is already over and done?

Last night, as I was laying with Ari in bed (I don't refuse these invitations any more, I cherish them now) I saw she had posted some collages on her wall. Pictures of makeup, fashion, accessories that she put together.
"What are those?" I squinted in the dark.
"Oh, those are my pictures I cut out. I want to be a girl now."
"Noo!" I whispered loudly to her. "You are still little."
"Yeah, but mommy, I want to act like a big girl, but I'll still be little, okay?"
"But you're little, so you should act like a little girl."
"I'll still be little. I'm only six. But I just want to act like a big girl," she said, clutching her pillow and sheepy, clearly comforting my inability to accept this.

 I guess it makes sense that for all the comforting we dish out to our kids during the course of their childhood, it would only be fitting if they do the same for us at some point. I just don't want it to be so soon. I just dont' want it over and done with so fast.

Titles? Ain't nobody got time for that!

by Patti

 As you read this, just know I need my fingers to get used to the idea that they are typing something. Something other than reports and summaries and lists, that is. Plus: I got stripper nails. Typing with stripper nails is a whole new world. There is something frustratingly limiting yet deliciously freeing about stripper nails, and I've come to the conclusion that I have waited far too long in life to experience them. Also: I've been a little busy, you see. Busy with work and  life and appointments that I finally made (stripper nails!) - and kept! Like you haven't, right? So you know what I mean. But you know what? Suddenly, at the moment that I am preparing to catch a flight for a work trip, the mood struck me, and I told myself, SELF! Go with it!

So.

The kid turned 12. Last month I rented a van - a real., 12-passenger kind-of-van - and, after slapping a number of embarrassing signs on it and decking out the interior with streamers and balloons,

I stuffed 10 screaming tweens into it and cranked the tunes all the way to a hotel! With a pool! Near a mall! And those 10 screaming tweens ate pizza, and shopped, and swam, and watched movies, and had pillow fights, and sprayed whipped cream, and stayed up 'til a billion o'clock. But, oh, did they have fun. And I still cannot believe, not without feeling slightly panicky and totally melancholy and fully bewildered that my baby - my baby -  the one that came out of me screaming into the world, hair curly and damp, eyes wild and wide, hands flailing and sure - is now 12. Can I get TMI on you? I pulled her out. I did. I leaned forward with the deepest of gasps and final-est of pushes, and pulled her right out of me and onto me, and she was born. And it was magnificent. And now, 12 years later, I am pulling her out of bed, out of cars, pushing her onto buses, into classes, into life....

You know what else happened? Braces. I mean, of course, right? She's 12 now; braces are pretty much a must. They're not on her teeth just yet; that will happen in two weeks. But she's had all of the pictures done, and suffered through the mold process - which basically entails the stuffing of mushy clay into the mouth and lots and lots of gagging - and she's picked out her colors. Did you know they have colors now? They have colors. In "my day", the only "color" was metal, and there seemed to be a hell of a lot more of it in a pubescent mouth than the braces of today.

S has picked out her colors: Baby blue. Or mint. Or pink. Or neon green. I DON'T KNOW. The picking-out-of-the-colors seems to cause more stress than the actual braces. Two weeks to go, let's pray this awful world problem of what color to pick will be solved in time. God FORBID.

Since the braces are an inevitable part of the junior-high uglies, I made a promise to my child that had her leaping over the moon: I told her she could get contacts. I mean, the kid's glasses are unbearably cute, what with their oversized frames on her undersized face. But let's be honest: Glasses AND braces? So two weeks ago, we headed to the eye doctor for her annual eye exam, where, surprise! She's a year blinder! With new prescription in hand, we determined that S was ready for contacts. Did you know that putting in contacts for the first time is pretty much as easy as shoving a frisbee into a coffee cup? That poor kid spent an HOUR AND ONE HALF trying to get in just the first contact.

But she did not give up! And today, two weeks later, she is a total pro, putting in those contacts at lightning speeds. She still has her hipster glasses, and she still loves them unabashedly, but she now at least has the option to geek it up or geek it down at will. When you're 12 and the world is perceived through the amped-up eyes of pubescent drama, options are crucial.

Guess what? I have lot's more to say. Stay tuned.....

Sisyphus, Meet Wonder Woman

by Cathy

The struggle itself toward the heights is enough to fill a man's heart. 

One must imagine Sisyphus happy.   - Albert Camus

In Greek mythology, Sisyphus ended up with some seriously whack punishment from the Gods...

He was to push an absurdly large and heavy boulder up a sloped hill in the underworld (who knew hell had hills?) only to watch the boulder roll back down on its own weight right before it reached the top. His punishment was to do this for eternity; the quintessential example of a senseless, futile job that would never have an end nor a positive outcome. There is nothing more abhorrent than a fruitless labor - one that accomplishes nothing. Or is there?

Some argue that his punishment was anything but futile, but rather there was fulfillment and dare we say, even happiness in it, yet I struggle to see how - until I realized that we are each, in our own way, in our own lives, figuratively doing what Sisyphus was physically condemned to do. We are each pushing that proverbial boulder up that hill, only to have it come back down in a different form, a different challenge, a different problem. Once we think we have overcome one challenge, along rolls another; maybe not immediately as in the case of Sisyphus, but eventually, it does come back down.

I have been feeling that way for the last year, both in large challenges in my life - my parents, my kids, my marriage, my job - as well as the daily grind. As soon as I accomplish one task, 10 more crop up almost simultaneously. I honestly feel like Wonder Woman, flashing those reflective (and may I add, stylish) cuffs that deflect and bounce back anything that comes her way. I only wish it were that easy.

Boom...done! Back at ya! Next!

However, it is imperative that we try to find the truth behind Albert Camus' quote above. That even though what goes up will undoubtedly roll back down, there is a lesson to be learned, an experience that will alter your perspective, deepen your understanding, shape your soul or enrich you, open your eyes or change your mind. It's all there for a reason, whatever those reasons and yet unlearned lessons may be. No matter the outcome, the efforts of taking on these challenges and pushing those boulders uphill, will yield a fulfilled outcome of some kind, perhaps in ways you never imagined.

Mugs

by Cathy

If you've given birth to a baby, remember this word: Mugs.

This has now become the code word used to describe the hormonal peaks and valleys, coined by me and a dear friend of mine who had her first baby about a year ago. We got together the other day and I asked her how things were going.

"I'm a little better now. Not as bad as in the beginning."

Ah.....the beginning. That was hormonal highway hell. I shared with her just one of my many stories revolving around my post-baby, real-world shock.

For the first time in a year since getting pregnant with my second, I attempted to try to shop for my post-baby body. I had no idea what size I was. I had no idea what women were wearing these days. I had completely forgotten how to put a stylish outfit (or any presentable outfit) together. Stretch had become my best friend.

I halfheartedly approached the women's section at my local Target. I walked around, pulling at a skirt here, skimming a top there, completely whizzing by the jeans as if they were the devil - who was going to squeeze into those now? I realized after about 10 minutes of this, I was walking in circles. Then I stopped. I stood in the middle of the women's section, frantically trying to spot large ads showing me what to wear, what to pair up, how to style, what to choose. I couldn't find any, so I panicked. I stood there frozen, looking like a serene ocean on the outside, while a hurricane was wreaking havoc on the inside. I think I stood there for about 20 minutes, motionless, eyes glazed over, confused and helpless. Then I left and went home with nothing.

"Oh! OH!" my friend replied. "You remember my story, don't you? About how I went into Marshall's after having the baby to try to shop for myself?"
I looked at her quizically.
"Tim suggested I go in and shop for myself. He said, 'I got the baby, just go in and buy something for yourself.' In five minutes flat, I was back outside with mugs."
"MUGS?!?"
"That's what Tim said. I said, 'Yeah, mugs. Let's go.' So he asked me again. 'MUGS?! We don't need mugs.' So I said, 'YES. WE. DO. Now let's go!' And we never talked about the mugs again.I don't even know where I put them."
I was laughing so hard at this point I couldn't breathe.

"Oh, you think that's funny?!?" she continued. "It's still happening!"
"What do you meeeaaannn?" I asked in a high-pitch howl of laughter.
"I was in Ulta the other day because I really need a new curling iron and found this one I really liked among some sale items so I took it to the front desk and asked if this was on sale. And when she told me it wasn't, I started crying."

"Bwhahahahahahahahahahaa!" I howled. "You had another Mugs Moment!"
"I'm glad you think this is so funny."
"Girrrll...girrrlll..you know why I'm laughing?!?! Because I can totally GET IT! This is how it gets! This is how WE get!! Hahahahahahaha!!!"

Yes, motherhood makes you cray cray in many ways - both bad and good, both cute and ugly - and it can strike at any time, no matter how old your kids are. So I am here to say that Mugs Moments will happen. And it's okay. Because who couldn't always use another mug or two?

Never did a message ring any truer

Happy Mother's Day!

Oh, Snap!

by Cathy

Have you ever known anyone who is continually cool, calm and collected? Someone who remains unnaturally calm in the face of chaos, someone who exudes confidence that no matter what, everything will be okay?

I know a couple of people like that and it always baffles me that they never let their emotions get carried away with them. For us, on the other hand, this family of Greek and Latin hot blood, yelling is our way of talking, so it's to be expected to hear cranked up shrilled voices coming from our car, our house, or whatever space we grace.

Often, I am envious of such people and think, Why can't I be more like that instead of getting all-out Greek loud and dramatically animated over things? I picture these people as examples of social anchors, living a grounded serene, stress-free life, having all their affairs in order, and consider them perfect for seeking advice and solutions from.

Then I begin to wonder. Are they repressed? Is it affecting them in some other way to not express their emotions? It must be exhausting having to be the grounding force. We are told, after all, that it is healthy and cathartic to let your emotions out, to express the way you feel inside instead of shoving things down deep within the confines of your soul to where they can build up and manifest into some toxic explosion of sorts.
Eventually, however, people snap - even these people.  I inadvertently became privy to one of these rare scenarios recently.

Apparently, this acquaintance was on the phone with some bank or credit card company (and had been for the past 45 minutes, according to what I could make out). Yes, I was eavesdropping but let's be clear that the environment we were in wasn't conducive to extreme privacy given the paper thin walls. So when I heard the shrieks through those said walls, I kinda freaked out a little bit. Was there an intruder? Was she being murdered? The more I listened, the clearer it became.

"FIVE! TWO! SEVEN!....NINE! NINE! FOUR!...." Every shrilled number became louder and louder. Then...
"PERSON! PERSON!"
(pause)
"I WANT TO SPEAK WITH A F*$#ING PERSON!!!!!!!!!!"
(long, long pause)
"WHAT IS THE F&%^ING PROBLEM?!?!?"
(pause)
"NO!! I WILL NOT BE PUT ON HOLD AGAIN! DON'T YOU DARE PUT ME ON HOLD! I AM NOT DEALING WITH YOUR AUTOMATED MACHINES ANYMORE! I'VE SPENT ALMOST AN HOUR ON THE PHONE WITH YOU PEOPLE AND ALL I WANT TO DO IS..."

Then the pacing began and her voice trailed away only to return again with vengeance.

"I GO THROUGH THIS WITH YOU PEOPLE EVERY MONTH! THIS IS RIDICULOUS!"

Her voice, which is usually evenly well-tempered and stable, was starting to give way...it was going...breaking...out. I felt so helpless because I knew exactly how she felt because, who hasn't been there?

Apparently, we all go to Snapville. And it feels so comforting to know that we are all capable of that visit.

Spring Break Flakes

by Cathy

Yesterday, my kids went back to school after almost two weeks off for spring break. We decided to forgo any trips because we are a) planning on taking one this summer b) it's just one more thing I'd have to schedule and c) we didn't want this to turn in to Spring Broke. Quite frankly, we were all looking forward to a little under-scheduling. 
 

There was going to be none of this nonsense.

So, while Florida, Hawaii and Washington D.C. were overflowing with strollers, cranky parents and even crankier kids, we decided to sit this one out and have a staycation of sorts. We decided to go local.

The week before, my husband and I were filled with fantastic ideas! Activities! Trips on the train! Museums! I was humming along making lists in my head and envisioning fun, productive days off! Oh, what we will do! Oh, what we will see! This didn't feel like scheduling - this felt like fun planning! Let's take trips to different cities in our own hometown!, we said. Chinatown! Pilsen! Greektown! Little Italy! The world was our oyster and we didn't even have to board one overcrowded plane or wait in one miserable line. Oh, were we gonna be smart. This was genius!

Apparently, we were all looking forward to that under-scheduling more than any of us thought. Each day started off with a glimmer of hope - hope that I'll get them up early enough, hope that they'll still feel like checking out that museum, hope that they'll want to do more than just veg. Alas, it didn't happen. (Not to mention that the weather was more conducive to staying in rather than hitting public transit.) On the days I had to work, I felt bad they were sitting at home, doing nothing. Little did I know, they preferred it that way. I wanted to give them a memorable spring break so when they went back to school and get asked "What did you do over spring break?" they would have a weighty, productive answer, worthy of two weeks time.

So what will they go back with after almost two weeks? ('Two weeks?!' Patti shrieked in an email to me. 'You could have gone to Greece!!') "Oh, we just hung out at home, did lots of shopping, saw a movie, got together with friends and family and just relaxed."

And you know what? That sounds like a break we all deserve.

Diagnosis: Gettin' Old

by Patti

I had my first complete "wellness" check in years. Maybe in ever, even. I don't know, maybe it was the burning butt, maybe it was the heart palpitations, maybe it was the scary-looking mole on my leg. I finally took all those annoying little symptoms as a sign that death was near, and found time in my life for a physical.

I've been feeling kind of old lately. Not near-death old, just.... old. There's a new, subtle sag to my face, an ache in my hips, a longer recovery period from too much wine. But this day, the day of my physical, I walked into the waiting room and felt instantly younger. The patients were all old. I mean really old. One woman, the few hairs she had left standing at colorless attention on her head, was having a conversation with her daughter, and I'm pretty sure that the people in the state of Iowa could hear her. The thing is, I don't think she heard herself.  She was complaining about something on the television that was blaring on the wall above, and her daughter nodded along absent-mindedly. The receptionist called over the daughter to give her some take-home instructions, and the daughter motioned to her mother it was time to leave. That is when the old lady got up, the beige shoes on her feet sporting squeaky 5-inch orthopedic support wedges, and promptly began to fart her way toward the door.  I looked around the room, wondering if anybody else had heard, but apparently they were all deaf or busy holding in their own farts. Off she went, leaving a trail of farts in her wake, and then she was gone. I thought to myself, wow. Will I one day fart my way out of a room and not give a damn?

Suddenly a cell phone rang, and the cute old suspendered man a few chairs away from me pulled a shiny blue flip phone out of his pocket. "HELLO? HELLO? HELLO?" He shouted repeatedly into the phone, not giving the person on the other side a chance to respond. "OH, YES, BOB? Yes, it's me!" Ol' Bob had answered the phone with his speaker on. But Bob didn't seem to mind that his speaker was on; he simply kept the phone pressed to his ear as if it weren't on speaker, and carried on his conversation. Actually, it was Bob's wife that carried on the conversation. On she went about the cable company and the broken computer and did Bob think she should call a repairman? But before Bob could answer, she answered for him. Over and over again. And as hard as Bob tried to hang up, his wife kept going. So Bob just nodded along, the shiny blue phone pressed to his ear, his wife chirping away on the other line for all of us to hear.

I was finally called into my appointment, where I was promptly asked would I mind if a first-year resident joined us for the consultation. I gave my permission, and was then handed a paper sheet and told to disrobe from head to toe. So I did, wrapping the thin paper sheet around my now totally naked body, and sat down on the paper-covered exam table. I saw myself in the mirror, and, despite the middle-aged face staring back at me, felt a little younger than I had before the appointment thanks to Bob and Fart Lady. So smug in my youth, was I. Until, in walked the most gorgeous, dewy creature on the planet. He was a Doctor from the Movies kind of doctor, and instantly I regretted my decision to allow the resident to be present at my appointment. Suddenly, all the "old lady" problems I had planned to discuss with my similarly "older woman" doctor began to swirl before me, and I felt humiliated before I even opened my mouth. I felt myself break out into a sweat, knowing all of my secrets would soon be discovered. In I had walked, put together, lip-glossed, leopard heels showing sass. But now, stripped and vulnerable, I was simply another aging human being holding in my fears - and farts.

Fortunately, I appear to be healthy, save the burning butt that will soon see an MRI. Otherwise, I received a clean bill of health - and a reality check. Yes, I am getting older; I will probably one day fart myself out of a room or not quite know how to use the latest technology. All I'm saying? They better make those orthopedic wedge shoes in a leopard print. Because I ain't goin' down without a fight.

Trash or Treasure?

by Cathy

The other evening, my six-year old walks determinately into the living room where my husband and I were engrossed in an episode of Southland, and asks in a rather demanding tone:

"Mommy, why are my school papers in the garbage?"

I stop short of the formerly captivating television show to deal with the drama unfolding in my living room.

I look over at her, one hand pinned just so on her hip, the other hand thrust forward holding the accordion-folded stack of papers I had just hours ago, unsuccessfully disposed of in our kitchen garbage bin.
Oh crap. I thought I hid those!
"Why do you always throw my school papers away?" she persisted as my mind reeled about how to respond.

Fumbling over what to say, I look over at my husband to find his face buried in the crook of his elbow, head bobbing up and down with silent, but apparently uncontrollable laughter. I shot him the look of death and turned to face my daughter, who was shooting me the look of death.

Why does she automatically assume it's me?!? Maybe because this isn't the first time this has happened. My excuse of, "Oh no! They must have accidentally fallen into the garbage!" barely passed muster the first time and didn't cut the mustard at all on the second. So after that, I learned my lesson and began folding up the papers and tucking sideways under banana peels and coffee grinds so that they couldn't be seen. This day, I apparently forgot to be sneaky.

It's not that I don't love keeping every cute, meaningful little art project, note and drawing from my children; in fact, I have stacks in the storage from each school grade for each kid. (And even those I had to riffle through alone in the confines of my dungeon storage, away from the prying eyes of my hoarding family.) As much as they want me to, I just can't keep every scribble of scrap paper and every puppet made out of a brown paper bag; I just keep what I perceive to be the milestones, the special, the unique items.

All of this cannot - and will not - be saved

My husband, on the other hand? He keeps every. little. scrap. of. paper. Where does one draw the line?

I turned to look my six-year old straight in the eyes and said, "Oh honey, we don't need all of those. I already kept your important papers."

Before her look of mortification could be expressed verbally, my husband jumps in in the form of Captain Dad, to apparently save the day.
"Honey, you can put those on my nightstand. I'll file them away."
Ta da da DA!

"No," I stopped his rescue mission flat. "Just go put them with the other papers under the computer desk and I'll take care of them," I directed her.

Satisfied, she turned on her heel and marched into the kitchen to complete her task.

My husband turns to me, and says rather matter-of-factly: "Wow. You deserve the mother of the year award. Nice going."
"I'm not going to apologize for being practical," I retorted."I keep what I need to keep. I can't keep everything. I'm not a hoarder."
He looked at me, shaking his head.

This whole scenario reminded me of an episode of The Middle in which Brick, the youngest of three kids, finds the handmade card he lovingly created for his mother (and which she had just gushed over mere hours before) mockingly teetering atop a pile of garbage in their kitchen trash. After confronting her, Brick dared her to produce past projects of his, which she swears up and down she has kept. Needless to say, after ransacking her garage and even bribing a fellow neighbor to use one of her kids' projects as a stand-in, she was found guilty on all charges. Feeling horrible, she creates a beautiful heart-shaped card with a thoughtful, tearjerker of an apology and places it on Brick's bed. Guess where that ended up.

While I would never throw away a handmade card from my kids, I wouldn't think twice about ditching math tests or spelling quizzes. After all, one person's "treasure" can be another person's hoarding nightmare.