Category Archives: Motherhood

Do Not Disturb

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I kicked off my slippers and melted onto the queen-size bed in a pool of new-mother exhaustion. It was mid-afternoon, and I had just laid down my six-week-old after nursing him for the fourth time since dawn.

Or was it the fifth time?

The only thing I tracked accurately without pencil and paper in those early weeks was the number of hours until my husband would return from work. I longed desperately for some time to myself, adult conversation and, more than anything, undisturbed sleep.

I’ll just lie down for a few minutes while he naps.

I had never been very good at napping, but the more experienced moms I knew told me to try to sleep when the baby slept. The chores can wait, they said.

As I sprawled out guiltily on top of the peach-flowered comforter, I thought of all the things I should be doing: scrubbing dishes, folding laundry, writing thank-you notes.

This is a waste of time. I should get up and accomplish something while he sleeps…

But the whir of the air-conditioning unit in the window was a soothing lullaby, even for a Type A mother with countless chores to cross off her list. I drifted into a deep sleep, bobbing in and out of consciousness with the occasional sighs and rustlings coming from the nearby baby monitor. Upon each brief awakening, my head felt heavier, the room seemed darker.

Is it dusk already? How long have I been asleep?

I looked for the clock on the bedside table, but it wasn’t there. I lay there in my haze, searching the room for a buoy of wakefulness. I needed to get myself together and check on the baby. The pale mocha walls seemed fuzzy as I watched the ceiling fan spin round and round overhead. Suddenly, a large shadow in the doorway appeared in my peripheral vision. My eyes darted in its direction, but it was gone.

What the hell was that? Is someone in the house?

Panicking, I tried to sit up. But something was holding me down, a weight so heavy I struggled for breath. The dark, giant mass covered my entire body, and I was completely immobile. I could see nothing through the blackness that enveloped me, gripping me with terror. I felt the insurmountable pressure of it bearing down on me, pushing me further into the pillow-top mattress. This thing, whatever it was, was trying to suffocate me.

I screamed again and again, but my constricted throat couldn’t expel the sound. I strained to move my limbs, to push the thing off me. My breath grew shallow; my body felt limp.

And then, as abruptly as it had appeared, it was gone; the weight, the darkness, lifted.

I rolled slowly onto my side, panting with fear, my muscles still flaccid and weak. I looked through the doorway and down the hall to my son’s room.

Nothing was there.

As I dragged my sluggish body from the bed, I noticed bright light streaming through the cracks of the blinds. I scanned the bedside table for the missing clock and found it right next to the baby monitor, where it always was. It was 3:02 p.m., just 20 or so minutes after I had put the baby in his crib, and nowhere near dusk.

I crept into my son’s room and found him fast asleep. I shut his door and wandered foggily through the house checking the doors and windows. They remained locked, the house quiet and untouched.

I didn’t sleep well that night. And it wasn’t because of the baby.

"The Nightmare" by John Henry Fuseli

 

My Failed Facebook Dry-Out

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If this one sounds familiar, that’s because it originally ran March 28, 2012. I edited and reposted it for this week’s Yeah Write Challenge.

I gave up social media for Lent this year, and I’m sure it comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me that it didn’t last. Let’s face it: I am a Facebook junkie. I like to “check in.” I like to “like” things. When I go a day without updating my status, people text me to make sure I’m OK. That last part probably sounds like an exaggeration, but sadly it is true.

Inspired by my husband, who gives up alcohol every year for Lent, I decided to try some clean living of my own. For 46 days (actually 40 because Sundays don’t count during Lent), I would give up Bejeweled Blitz (I am embarrassed to admit how much time I spent matching and detonating jewels); checking in (how would anyone know about the fun places I visited?); and updating my status (almost unthinkable for someone who has as much to say as I do).

Since I am not Catholic, I figured I would make my own rules and start Lent early. On Feb. 8, I announced my intentions publicly, via status update, of course. My friends wished me well and offered words of encouragement. One went so far as to send me a sympathy card the first week. No, I’m not making that up.

Somehow this perpetual Facebooker managed to quit cold turkey. For an entire week I did not take a single peek at my page or anyone else’s.

All was well until I realized that an email address I desperately needed was only available to me on Facebook. I knew I’d be cheating if I ventured back to the dark side and, although I may not be Catholic, I am prone to overwhelming guilt. So I signed on, got the email and admitted my lapse in a status update. I also said a quick hello because Lent hadn’t officially started and the temptation to let my 416 friends know how much I missed them was more than I could bear — even if most of them probably had no idea I had left Facebook in the first place.

Hoping it would be an isolated slip-up, I climbed back on the wagon. Again, I lasted about a week. This time I felt the overwhelming need to brag about my options guru husband, who had made an appearance on Fox Business News. It was a really big day for him, and he is not one to boast about his accomplishments. Someone had to do it for him, right?

By the time Fat Tuesday rolled around I knew I was in serious trouble. Giving up Bejeweled Blitz was nothing. It was going without the social interaction that was doing me in. So I deleted the Facebook app from my iPhone, and I deactivated my account.

I did pretty well initially. I logged in on two separate Sundays (the Catholic Church says they don’t count, remember?), but I deactivated my account before Monday, when Lent resumes.

Then I was faced with the mother of all tests of my addiction: My daughter, a fifth grader, won an essay contest. As her mom, I would have been proud of this regardless. But as a professional editor and on-again, off-again writer, I was thrilled. I had to let my friends know. I just had to. So I signed on to my dog’s account (yes, my Yorkshire Terrier, Rosebud, has her own Facebook page), and I sang my daughter’s praises. Rosebud only has 38 friends on Facebook, but, hey, it was something.

It was a Friday, not a Sunday, and I was on Facebook posing as my dog. I knew I had reached a true low point, so I gave up and reactivated my own account. Lent, for me, was officially over two weeks early.

Our dog, Rosebud, unsuspecting victim of FB identity theft

Am I embarrassed that I couldn’t last the full 40 days? A little. But I’m proud too. Although I’m a miserable failure at making Lenten sacrifices, I did accomplish what I had set out to do during my Facebook sabbatical: I started this blog.

After months of thinking and talking about it, of agonizing over putting myself out there and writing again, I did it. And I’m pretty proud of myself, broken Lenten promise or not.

I’m not sure where this journey is going to take me, but I’ll be sure to keep everyone posted in my Facebook status updates. Oh, and for the record, my husband is still happily on the wagon.

Rome if You Want To

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I don’t have fond memories of early travels with our children. I recall long, stressful car trips from Chicago to Detroit, one of which included a detour to the emergency room, and a particularly grueling weeklong “getaway” to South Haven, Michigan. During the latter trip, which was peppered with temper tantrums — both ours and the kids’ — I learned that when babies and toddlers are involved, vacations can be more work than the regular life you intend to escape. No matter how long the trip, we returned exhausted rather than rejuvenated, and the piles of mail and laundry that awaited us quickly erased any small moments of pleasure we had enjoyed while we were away.

Back then, if someone had told me things would get easier, I would have given him or her an earful that included a string of profanities.

Based on the trauma of those early trips, my husband and I decided to wait to take a major (i.e., extensive and expensive) vacation that involved plane travel until the kids were 4 and 6. We figured these were reasonable ages because they would both be out of diapers and nap-free, and, we hoped, old enough to remember something of the vacation.

Do they recall anything from our first family trip to Disney World? Our daughter, then 4, remembers the teacup ride, which terrified her. The kind operator of the ride stopped it after the first go-round so my hysterical, non-spin-friendly child could escape. Our son, the 6-year-old, recalls the luau and fire dancers at the Polynesian Resort, the teacups (for obvious reasons) and the Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Oh, and he liked the pizza at Pizza Planet.

I guess it’s a good thing we took lots of pictures.

Epcot, which the kids and my husband hated. Good thing there was wine and ice cream.

Did my husband and I enjoy the trip? I, for one, could have done without pushing that rented double stroller, with a combined 80 pounds of kids, for five days and through four amusement parks, while listening to endless whining, fighting, and begging for overpriced snacks and souvenirs. But watching their sweet faces light up with first-time Disney joy at least partially compensated for their sometimes not-so-cute behavior.

Despite our early bumps in the road, our family became fairly well-seasoned travelers in the years that followed. We flew to visit family in Florida and Los Angeles — with a stop in Disneyland, of course — and we even ventured to my favorite U.S. city, San Francisco. We took a marathon road trip several spring breaks ago to Philadelphia; Washington, D.C.; and New York City. And one summer we caravanned with a family we barely knew on a two-week trip across the country to Yellowstone National Park. After surviving a week together in a shoebox-size cabin, we were travel buddies for life.

Yellowstone National Park: Our best road trip ever.

This summer our son turned 13, and we decided it was time for another family travel first: Europe. My ecstatic husband became obsessed with planning his dream trip to Italy. He learned Italian with Rosetta Stone — the kids halfheartedly joined him for the first couple of weeks — and labored over every detail of the vacation. We had 12 days, and he wanted to cram in as much as possible.

The beauty of this family trip, however, was its relaxed tone and spontaneity.

We each had a passport, a plane ticket and a piece of carry-on luggage. We arrived in Rome, traveled all over Tuscany and flew out of Venice. The kids trekked through airports, from hotel to hotel, and in and out of taxicabs, trains, water buses and gondolas. Together we learned to order food in Italian, to navigate the country’s maze of a highway system in a clown-size car, to respect cultural traditions, to appreciate ancient art and ruins, and to enjoy long, leisurely meals and relaxing afternoon siestas.

Tuscany, especially the tiny village of Semproniano, was the hardest to leave.

On our family trip to Italy, we guided and our kids followed. But in some cases the opposite was true, and they taught us something. In one situation, my son, who can read a map better than anyone in our family, got us back on track when a wrong turn took us three hours in the opposite direction of our destination.

Were there other snafus? Many. Every family vacation has them, and it was our first trip abroad together. But despite the things that went wrong in Italy, we discovered just how easy and enjoyable traveling with our kids had become.

My husband’s trip of a lifetime turned out to be the family’s as well — at least so far.

Working Girl Me

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When I signed on to my computer that morning, an instant message popped up from my boss: “Please call me as soon as you get to your desk.”

He was not given to chitchat or small talk. We both worked remotely and when we communicated, it was via email or instant message. Before I could consider why he wanted to speak to me, my phone rang.

“This is going to be a difficult conversation,” he began.

Fifteen minutes later, I was unemployed.

It didn’t matter that I was being laid off because of a corporate restructuring at a foundering company or that my boss said he had pushed hard to keep management from eliminating my position.

I had lost my job and, along with it, a crucial chunk of my identity. What if I couldn’t get it back? I needed working girl me. She kept me sane. She was confident, self-assured. She paid the mortgage and car payment. She provided her family with health insurance. She showed her daughter the importance of working hard, being respected and standing on her own. She was the me I wanted to be.

I had willingly given her up once before to stay home with my young children. I thought I would be happy without her, that I would find the personal fulfillment I needed in being a mother. But it wasn’t enough. I wanted her back. Slowly, I worked her into my new life as a parent. I did some freelance writing and editing for a few years, and when my son started kindergarten I took a part-time job working from home.

She was back, and I was happy. We all were.

Then my husband lost his job. I was able to expand my position to full time, which helped, but it was still a frightening, stressful period for us financially. At the same time, it made us refocus on our family and our marriage, and it brought us closer. It also motivated my husband to start his own company as he had always wanted to do. Out of what he had perceived was failure came success. She, working girl me, helped make it possible.

And now she was gone.

How could I tell him? Could we get through this again, without her this time?

As I climbed the stairs to the master bedroom where my husband was dressing for work, I felt like a child coming home with a bad report card. I had failed, and there was nothing I could do to fix it. I was afraid of what he would think, what he would say, how he would see me — the me without her.

I saw the shock in his eyes, the fear, but he was there for me. It was his turn to be supportive, and he was.

“We’ll get through this,” he told me, as I cried into his T-shirt. “You’re good at what you do. You’ll find another job.”

I didn’t believe him. But she did.

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

Life in the Suburbs: Same As It Ever Was?

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"Once in a Lifetime," Talking Heads

I grew up in a bedroom community in suburban Detroit. It was filled with blue-collar families, modest ranch homes, pristine yards and, my younger self assumed, a lot of broken dreams.

As a 20-something whose dreams were firmly intact, I couldn’t wait to get out of there and see the world. My plan was to go to Chicago, work for the Tribune (this almost happened) and somehow wind up a music columnist for Rolling Stone (I have a subscription; does that count?). And no matter where my dreams took me, it would never, ever be back to the suburbs.

As a musical side note, I thought the Talking Heads song “Once in a Lifetime” was about someone waking up in the suburbs one day and wondering how he ended up there and if any of it really mattered. (For those unfamiliar, watch the video here.)

A few lines into the song, a bow-tied and bespectacled David Byrne asks, “Well, how did I get here?”

Well, Mr. Byrne, here I sit, pushing 45 and about to celebrate my 10th anniversary of suburban life, and sometimes I wonder the same thing.

Although I never did end up working for the Tribune (I was on a waitlist for an internship and got tired of waiting), I did find my way to Chicago. That’s where I met my husband — we’ll call him “the rock star” (he really is in a band, although you most likely have never heard of it). The rock star and I lived in apartments in Lincoln Park and then Bucktown in the early years of our relationship. We were married for about two years before thoughts of having children entered our heads, and life in the city suited us just fine.

When I got pregnant with our son — about five minutes after we decided to start trying and, yes, I realize how lucky we were — we decided to look for a house in the city. I was adamant about avoiding the suburbs and really wanted to give life in the city with kids a go.

Our shoestring budget led us to a bungalow in the far northwest neighborhood of Portage Park. We took the terrifying first car ride home from the hospital after our son was born to that house. (The ride home with our newborn daughter 22 months later was far less stressful since we were, of course, seasoned veterans by then.) It was our first home, and in many ways it is where my heart will always be.

Excuse me if I am having another Talking Heads moment here, but have you ever had a dream where you’re at home, but you’re actually in a place you’ve previously lived? Well, I always dreamed of being at home in the house where I grew up — my aunt and uncle’s house in Southfield, Michigan — until I moved to the Portage Park house. It’s where my life with my own little family began.

At some point, my stubborn refusal to “go suburban,” to be a “708-er,” gave way to wanting the best for our children. Both the rock star and I went to public schools, and we wanted the same experience for our kids. That couldn’t happen in the city neighborhood where we lived. We felt safe and loved our neighbors, but the public schools there were downright awful.

So we up and moved to the South Suburbs — away from everything I knew. Although the only place I had lived in Illinois was Chicago, the suburbs are the suburbs. It was strange yet familiar. And once I adjusted to people making eye contact at the grocery store and even smiling or saying hello (no, they were not going to try to mug me), it wasn’t so bad. It was slightly easier for the rock star. He grew up out here and knew the scene…at least better than I did.

Ten years later, we have a solid circle of friends and we are firmly rooted in our community. Our dreams aren’t broken, they’ve just been sidetracked a bit, and we’ve added new ones to the mix. I never knew I wanted to be a mother, and yet I wouldn’t change it for anything — not even that job at Rolling Stone magazine. And I’m guessing the rock star is pretty happy that the band he started with a few other suburban dads now gets regular gigs in Chicago. I know I am.

Despite having achieved a relative comfort level here in the ’burbs, we have every intention of moving back to the city once the kids go to college. Chicago, New York, San Francisco — we haven’t decided yet. But I’m pretty sure the kids we’ve dragged all over the country (and soon to Italy), won’t mind visiting us there. And we won’t mind visiting them wherever their dreams do or don’t take them.

And so, my fellow suburbanites and you city dwellers, what made you decide on the place where you live? Did you opt for the suburbs or were you able to make city living work for your family? I’d love to hear your story.

read to be read at yeahwrite.me

Who Is This Teenage Tyrant and What Has He Done With My Son?

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My sweet little guy, contemplating the universe, at age 6

My firstborn will turn 13 in less than a month, and let’s just say his attitude toward me has soured a bit in recent weeks. What once would have been a simple dialogue about what time he should leave for the bus turns into an all-out argument. My “suggestion” that navy blue and black do not go together is met with a dramatic roll of the eyes and a very audible sigh.

(Disclaimer No. 1: I feel it is my duty to intervene when the men in my life make fashion mistakes. I am certainly no fashionista — I purchase most of my clothes en route to the checkout at Target — but I know a blatant “don’t” when I see one. Plus, his father used to wear white tennis shoes in public, and he doesn’t even play tennis. Someone has to stop the cycle.)

The eyeroll-sigh combo is not something with which I am unfamiliar. My 11-year-old daughter, whom I adore (Disclaimer No. 2), has been shooting looks and stomping her feet since she was 3 (or was it 2?). But my son, the sweet angel boy who worships the ground I walk on? This is definitely new for him, and I don’t like it one bit.

Believe me, I understand teen angst. I was quite salty and rebellious in my teenage days (my husband might argue that some things never change). At 11, during the summer before seventh grade, I moved in with my father and new stepmother. My father and I hadn’t lived together since my mother died when I was a toddler, and my stepmom was 28 years old and had no children of her own. My teen years were a bumpy ride, to say the least.

Because it was such a particularly stressful period in my life, I kept a daily journal (there were no blogs in the late ’70s, folks). I guess that is part of why I remember it so vividly. I felt hurt, angry, resentful and unequivocally misunderstood. And so, as I remind myself constantly, I get this. I know what my son is going through, at least from the female perspective of being a teenager. But as his mother, it doesn’t make it any easier.

What gets me more than the bad attitude is that I just plain don’t want him to grow up. I’m not ready and don’t think I ever will be. So every once in a while, when I catch a glimpse of my sweet little boy in my almost teenager, I greedily gobble up the memory.

The other night, when he came home from swim practice, he bounded into the living room with his arms wide open and a big smile on his face. “How’s my favorite lady in the whole world doing?” he said, and gave me a bear hug. I knew that an hour later he’d be arguing with me about going to bed, but I held on tight and savored the moment anyway.

Do you have a teenager at home? How do you cope? This mama would love to hear your thoughts.

 

If ‘Everyone’s a Winner,’ Does Anyone Really Win?

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My son rocking the middle school talent show

I have received one trophy in my 44 years — for winning the fourth-grade spelling bee at my elementary school. As I wistfully recall, I would have won the school-wide spelling bee too if my nervousness hadn’t gotten the better of me. In the final round, I transposed the letters “u” and “a” in “guard” (I still get a little insecure when I have to write or type that word).

I know it sounds silly, but I’m proud of my trophy. I won it for doing something better than anyone else (well, at least anyone in the fourth grade at my elementary school in Southfield, Michigan). Isn’t that what awards and trophies are supposed to recognize — winning?

This topic came to mind last night at my son’s middle school talent show. At the end of the evening, after about 30 performances, the principal called everyone on stage and started handing out certificates — to all the students. My first thought was, “You have got to be kidding me! These kids sing, dance and otherwise perform their little hearts out, and no one gets to experience the thrill of winning?”

Well, it turned out that I was too hasty in my righteous indignation. There were, after all, ribbons for best solo, group, dance and miscellaneous performances. This, however, is often not the case.

You parents out there know the drill (bad soccer pun not intended). If young Johnny joins a soccer team, he gets a trophy, plaque or ribbon. It doesn’t matter if he actually kicks the ball or just stands out in the field and picks dandelions (the latter is exactly what my son did throughout his short-lived stint as a soccer player). If he’s on the team, he is a winner.

This “everybody wins” mentality is all well and good when you are dealing with young children. Why not delay the agony of defeat until they are able to process it? But preteens see through the pretense — or at least my almost 13-year-old does. In a recent conversation, he wanted to know what the rationalization is for the education system creating a society of mediocrity (I’m paraphrasing, but he did say something similar).

My response to him was that the schools (at least in this case) are not to blame. The fault lies with the “hover parents” who can’t bear to see their children lose. Let’s face the facts here: Losing, like winning, is a part of life. If Mommy calls the teacher to complain because Johnny gets a “D” on his spelling test, is this going to teach Johnny to study better? It’s one thing if he needs extra help with spelling and isn’t getting it. It’s altogether different if he actively chose not to study, and Mommy is calling to “fix” the bad grade for him.

One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned, and continue to learn, as a parent is how to let my children lose. If I fix it every time, will they ever learn to fix it themselves? If their rewards don’t come through their own diligence and hard work, are they rewards at all? Or am I simply prolonging the inevitable — cushioning their egos because it’s too hard for me to watch them fail?

One of my first painful lessons in letting my kids lose came when my son was 8. He tried out for a local swim team and didn’t make the cut. The poor kid was devastated. He’d never participated in an activity where you couldn’t just sign up and be on the team — where everyone wasn’t a winner.

At this point I had two options: I could call the coach to complain and possibly get my son another tryout, or I could let my son fail. I reluctantly chose the latter. But guess what happened? He took a few more months of lessons, worked really hard on his strokes and tried out for the fall season. This time he made the team and he couldn’t have been prouder of himself.

At last night’s talent show, my son and his friends won the miscellaneous category for their improv comedy routine, which was an unexpected victory. They are better known for their talents as violinists, guitarists and singers. Who knew they would be so funny up there?

Sadly, their rock band, The Amish Electricians, did not win the group performance award, although you can clearly see in this video that they rocked the house (yes, I know I’m biased). My son was happy for the talented rap trio who won the ribbon. They deserved it. And I, the non-hover mom, did not corner the judges afterward.

So what do you think? If everyone’s a winner, does anyone really win?

Best Mother’s Day Ever (I Planned It Myself)

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I am a control freak. Ask anyone: my husband, my children, the postal carrier. I like to know what is happening, when and with whom. I’ve gotten (a little) better now that the kids are older (11 and almost 13), but I still like to be in charge. I am not ashamed of this because I’m not rude about it. However, if I have an opinion about the plans we are making, you’d best be sure you will hear about it.

And this, my friends, is why I planned my own Mother’s Day. It’s no reflection on my husband or family, but I’ve always found the holiday to be a bit of a letdown. My husband is pretty laidback and doesn’t make specific plans. Instead, he usually wakes up that morning and asks me what I want to do. My response is a downtrodden “I don’t know,” and the passive-aggressive stewing begins. Mine, that is.

What he doesn’t know is that we moms have big expectations about Mother’s Day. It’s our day off, our day to relax, our day to do whatever the hell we want, right? Well, not if no one knows what we want to do.

So this year — finally, after 12 Mother’s Days — I took some time to figure out something I would enjoy doing and told my husband about it. Was that so difficult? Not really, especially for someone who is normally so vocal about her opinions. And it saved us both a whole lot of hurt feelings. On my end: I got to do what I wanted. On his end: He didn’t have to deal with the quiet wrath of a disappointed wife.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy the gifts and cards. Handmade or store-bought, I adore all of it. I savor every last word and shed boatloads of tears (see previous post “Confessions of a Mother’s Day Card Sap”). This year, I particularly loved that the kids made me breakfast in bed. Slightly runny eggs and mushy toast is, after all, my favorite. They even did the dishes. But what about after breakfast? Then what?

Honestly, the idea of heading to the local nursery and fighting other crabby moms who would rather be getting pedicures (maybe I’m projecting a bit here) for the last hydrangea hanging basket is not my idea of a good time. Do I like planting things? It’s not exactly at the top of my list. I’d rather get that pedicure or go to brunch, especially if mimosas are involved.

And that’s how I made Mother’s Day my own. I named the place. I picked the time. I told the kids what to wear (I am the mom after all). And I dragged my little family to the gospel brunch at the House of Blues in Chicago, where the four of us proceeded to get down with Jesus. I am not a very religious person, but that gospel choir’s performance moved me. And, you know, I think my husband and kids liked it too — or at least they did a stellar job pretending they did. I know they enjoyed the all-you-can-eat buffet.

The important thing is that we were together, and Miss Control Freak spent the day her way. Because if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy…especially on Mother’s Day.

Confessions of a Mother’s Day Card Sap

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Yes, it’s true: I am one of those ridiculously over-emotional types who cry while reading greeting cards. I don’t know who comes up with your schmaltz, Mr. Hallmark, but it gets me every time. It doesn’t matter what the melodramatic rambling is about — birth, graduation, wedding, death — because any cause for celebration or sympathy will start the tears flowing.

The worst by far are the Mother’s Day and Father’s Day cards.

I don’t remember being nearly so affected by them before I had children. (Then again, I sometimes have difficulty recalling anything before I had children.)  But once I did have kids, shopping for Mother’s Day and Father’s Day cards for my parents became a big deal — one that absolutely required Kleenex.

This year, as usual, I was crying before I finished the first card. Honestly, it had me at “Happy Mother’s Day.” But then it hit me: I didn’t have anyone to buy a card for. My husband had already bought one for his mother (what a thoughtful son she raised!), and my moms are both gone.

The short story: My birth mother died when I was two and a half, and my paternal aunt, who raised me, passed away in December. Obviously, I never purchased a card for my mother, but I always gave one to my aunt. Whether it was a card made with construction paper and crayons as a child or a dozen roses sent as an adult, she was someone I wanted to celebrate.

This year I’ll be celebrating her a little — actually a lot — differently. My husband and kids are taking me to a gospel brunch at The House of Blues in Chicago. It will be a first for all of us, and my children, frankly, seemed a little dumbfounded when we told them about it. But there are few things I can think of that are more uplifting than a gospel choir.

I’m looking forward to a new experience with my kids this Mother’s Day. And while I didn’t have any cards to shed tears over in the checkout line, I can guarantee the ones my children give me will get the waterworks started. It’s OK, though. They’re worth every tear.

Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Mean Girls

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When I was a young girl, my grandmother told me — and showed me by example — to always look for the good in people. What she didn’t mention was how hard it would be to find in some cases. I can’t tell you how many friendships I’ve let my alter ego, Miss Pollyanna Give Everyone a Chance, talk me into — and leave me wondering how to get the hell out of.

Let’s start with the mean girl in fourth grade. What I saw: She bossed around all the other girls and basically ran the playground. What I told myself: Oh, I bet she’s nice once you get to know her. What happened: She wasn’t nice at all. She belittled me in front of my other friends. She talked about me behind my back. She snubbed me whenever a better opportunity came along. She told other girls not to be friends with me. Basically, she was a total brat. Honestly, “brat” is not the “b” word that comes to mind here, but I can’t call a fourth grader that, right?

Fast forward to adulthood: The mean girls grew into mean women and became “meanie moms.” If you are a woman with children and say you don’t know a mom like this, I’d say you either live under a rock or are from some other highly evolved planet. I know for a fact you’ve never participated in a play group.

My kids are almost teenagers now, so I’ve had my share of miserable meanie mom moments. Over the years I’ve learned that the best strategy is to listen to your instincts and don’t get sucked in — or at least keep any required contact to a minimum. What you don’t like upon meeting someone will come back to haunt you in the end. Every. Single. Time.

Thanks to Miss Pollyanna, I’ve had to learn this the hard way. It might have been an easier lesson if my little-girl self had taken heed of one of Nana’s other favorite sayings: You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

Do you have any “meanie mom” stories? I’d love to hear them.