The First Time I Felt Like an Adult*

There are two kinds of people in the world: adults and children, and these designations have nothing to do with age.

My world today, at this moment, is crowded with all things adult. I've been trying to suck up all the adultness I can muster to find rational, effective, and productive ways to fight all the new battles that have been launched by our new administration.

In the midst of all that, my best adult role model — my mom (who I am pretty sure was born an adult) — is lying helpless in an ICU hospital bed. There is nothing like a critically ill parent to make you have to adult-up.

Then along came Christine Wolf (an amazing writer), who shared a writing prompt from ChicagoNow: When was the first time you felt like an adult. Thank you for the prompt and the distraction, Christine. I've already paced every square inch of this hospital and you reminded me that writing is my way through things.

It's almost ubiquitous that having children suddenly makes you feel like an adult. My first high-risk pregnancy and my very preemie twins certainly started me down the path to adulthood, but the first time I really felt like an adult was a couple of years later, when the daily traumas of their premature birth were pretty well behind us.

It was an ordinary day with two toddlers (if there is such a thing). I was on the phone getting a fix of adult conversation when I heard a small crash in the kitchen. Upon investigation, I realized Molly had knocked over the trash. Not a big deal. I picked everything up while I continued my conversation.

Molly came up to me and put her arms around my neck and hugged me tight. I finished up my call and picked her up into a hug. She was not crying and didn't seem upset, but she wouldn't let go of me. I set her down and noticed that her fists were squeezed tight. A stream of red leaked from her right fist down her arm. I started hyperventilate. I wasn't great with blood.

You are the grownup, I reminded myself. "Sweetie, open your hand so Mama can see," I told my daughter. She did, and I saw more of the internal anatomy of a hand than I had ever hoped to see. I figured out later that she had picked up the sharp lid of a tuna can from the garbage and in transferring it from her dominate left hand into her right, she had sliced open her palm. Not good.

I grabbed a clean kitchen towel and told her to squeeze it tight. Then I called my husband at work. "Hi …" That's all he got out.

"Molly cut her hand. It's really bad. And I just realized you can't help me." And I hung up on him. Poor man.

About to panic, I once again reminded myself that I was the only adult in the house and that meant, well, that I had to be an adult.

I called my neighbors who had four kids. Ed tried to chitchat, but I told him what had happened. He, being a full-fledged adult, asked "What can I do?"

"Come get Isaac," I said. I grabbed Molly and one diaper bag, practically threw Isaac, his blanket, and the other diaper bag at Ed as soon as he got to the door, and buckled my wounded daughter into her carseat.

A wave of vertigo swept over me as I started the car. "Stop it," I said to myself. "You can do this. You must do this." So I rolled down the car window and spoke encouragingly to Molly all the way to the hospital where they had spent the first five months of their lives.

Molly and Isaac were practically legends at Evanston Hospital. Several people on staff (even in the ER) recognized us. We had to wait quite a while for a hand specialist to make sure there was no ligament damage before they could stitch her up. Molly was stoic. She still had not cried.

Once the x-rays and exams had been taken, a nurse in the room let me step down from being an adult during the most crucial moments of the night. "Look," she said. "You don't need to be here. You won't be able to hold her. We have to strap her down. If you stay, she's going to think you are a co-conspirator. Go take a break, check on Isaac, and when you come back, you can be the hero who rescues her from us monsters."

I wavered for a good 15 seconds before I took her advice and bailed. Some adult! I called to check on Isaac. He was sleeping peacefully at the neighbors. I called my husband to apologize for leaving him hanging and to update him on everything. I waited five more minutes and then I made my way, guiltily, back to the ER.

The nurse was right. Molly stopped crying and reached for me the second I came back into the room. She glared at the medical staff as if they were the devil's own and clung to me as we left to go home and pick up her brother. In her eyes, at least, I was the adult she could count on.

*Thanks again, Christine, for allowing me to escape being an adult for this hour while I played with my words.

Teach a Man to Fish

"Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime."

— Chinese Proverb

There are two kinds of people in the world, facilitators and enablers.

The verbs facilitate and enable are synonyms, both generally meaning to make it easier for someone to do something. The noun forms, however, have taken on opposite connotations. A facilitator is a someone who helps a person or organization find a solution to a problem, while an enabler has come to mean a person who makes it possible for someone to continue with bad or destructive behavior.

A good boss knows how to be a facilitator — to help employees learn, grow and move forward. Most of us have experienced supervisors who are more concerned with their own success than that of their subordinates, a short-sighted vision at best. Effective leaders learn to delegate, support and encourage all team members.

I'm good at the supporting and encouraging part of this equation, but I think I fail as a delegator. I don't know if it's a lack of trust or my own control issues that get in the way of delegating, but I have never really learned to let go.

Good teachers also know the difference between facilitating and enabling. A teacher can talk and talk and talk, but most students need, in one way or another, to figure things out themselves. In this NY Times post, students were asked who were their best teachers and why. Over and over, responses included teachers who had high expectations and who encouraged independent thinking and learning.

But perhaps the arena where the difference between facilitation and enabling is seen most clearly is parenting. If you are a parent, you know that it is usually easier to do something yourself than to let your children to do it. Just think back to the last time your young child "helped" you fold the laundry or cook dinner or shovel the walk. If you're like me, your fingers itched and you had to swallow your offer of: "Here, let me do it." But that kind of restraint is essential for effective parenting, because we all know children who have been "over-enabled"; they're called brats.

Each child has different expectations of what constitutes parental help. My daughter has always been an "I'll-do-it-myself" kind of kid. I can't count the hours wasted when I butted in trying to help her, only to have her rip off her tights (for example) and begin again. "I do it myself" was practically her theme song. Despite sticking my nose in many times where it didn't belong, her innate independence has turned her into a highly motivated, successful young adult. She can be snappish, but she gets things done, and I think the art of delegation is going to take her a long time to master.

Her twin brother, on the other hand, has always welcomed any and all help. These babies were born at 24 weeks, and the boy's size and development lagged far behind his sister's for many years. There were things he could do and things he couldn't, but he was, and is an easy-going, lovely human being, graciously accepting any favor, large or small. I have never once heard him say "Let me do it myself."

When the twins were four, I learned about something called "assumed disability", which often goes hand in hand with an actual disability. With assumed disability, we assume that because someone cannot do one thing, they cannot do something else. From the beginning, my son had two loving, willing females to take care of him, and it took me a long time to figure out we weren't doing him any favors. One day, I heard myself ask the girl to go get her shoes and put them on; then I asked her to get his shoes so I could help him put them on. The bell finally rung and that poor boy's life has never been the same.

But the line between facilitating and enabling a child (especially one with disabilities) is a tricky one, serpentining across the sands of childhood, moving and changing while you're not looking. What is facilitating one day is enabling the next, and staying on top of that moving line takes constant vigilance.

I wish I had been better. I wish I had devoted more time, been stricter and demanded more. I wish I had worried less about his happiness and more about his independence. (Notice that I say this with perfect 20-20 hindsight.) Now the line between facilitating and enabling is a dotted one, and I'm not at all sure how to help him make the right connections. I feel lost, hamstrung by his age, the law and my own expectations.

Don't get me wrong. I've taught him many of the skills necessary for independent living: he does his own laundry, is a pretty decent cook and can get around on public transportation. But his ability to think things through from start to finish or to anticipate are impaired. Is it possible to teach common sense?

I know (hope, believe) that if he could find his passion, the independence would follow. But can you facilitate passion? Can you even enable it? I don't think so. This is just one of those things he's going to have to do himself. And I'm going to have to learn to let him.

How have you been facilitated, or how have you been a facilitator? Or tell us your tale about enabling instead. Just click here.

Parenting Deadline — CMB Post

Originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

As a writer, I justify my procrastination habit by claiming that I thrive under deadline pressure. But there is a pressing deadline looming large on my horizon that has me hyperventilating: my daughter is going off to college for the first time at the end of the summer.

That's right, I have fewer than 12 weeks to cram in all the parenting that I haven't managed to do in the last 18 years. First step, making appointments to get her wisdom teeth out, see the pediatrician one last time, and four or five other doctor visits so she can avoid the campus health clinic for as long as possible. (Done.)

Next, we definitely need to work on laundry. I taught her twin brother how to do laundry when he made noises about not going to college, but she has benefitted from my laundry largess for far too long. Then we have to work on making plane, train and shuttle arrangements for trips to and from Massachusetts. We also need to cover how to pack a ridiculously large bedroom that she has never had to share so that it fits into a dorm room with at least one roommate. (Not done.)

Sure, we've repeatedly discussed boys, drinking, smoking, drugs, partying, safe sex, and safe internet practices (you did not just see me patting myself on the back). We've even talked about the relative dangers of getting involved with older men and the pitfalls of falling for your professors. But what about the more subtle lessons of protecting yourself from users, being generous without giving away your soul, being open to new relationships while keeping your heart reasonably safe from unscrupulous manipulators. (Not done.)

What about all the stuff I need to teach her about men. Like how you should go for nice. Nice lasts. Good hair recedes and turns grey; tight abs turn into pot bellies; and you can buy your own damn car — but nice is a rare quality that should be sought and, if found, held dear. (Not done.)

How do I teach her to reach for the moon without forgetting her roots? To carry us with her without letting us weigh her down? To treasure every moment of the next four years as what will likely be the most exciting time of her life until she has children of her own? (Not done.)

How can I help her understand that the decisions she makes from here on out will have a lasting impact on her life, but that there is always time to change and grow? To be bold and brave, but not stupid? (Not done.)

How can I let her know how much she is loved and treasured, and how deeply she will be missed, without making her feel guilty or too frightened to move ahead? Most importantly, how can I send her forth with joy without letting her know that, inside, my heart is breaking? (Definitely not done.)

Clearly, this deadline is unrealistic. If anyone knows where I can file for an extension, please contact me.

When Susan Bearman isn't busy racing the clock, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog and freelancing at www.bearman.us.

Holy Crap, They're Graduating — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

Dateline Evanston: Micro-preemie Twins Graduate from High School; Mom's Non-stop Weeping Earns World Record

Denial is the thumb in the dyke holding back the deluge of tears that I know is coming. So far, it's working pretty well.

The fact that it's May helps. May used to be a pleasant, benign month, the waiting room for summer. Now, it's a whirlwind of award ceremonies, school concerts, final projects, class picnics, paperwork and soccer games. If you could see my color-coded calendar, you'd weep right along with me.

This year, May bustle is my lifeboat down the River of Denial, and I'm grateful. Each morning, I focus on one square of the calendar, and take things one day, nay, one event at a time.

But the subconscious is an uncooperative entity, and I'm having a much harder time keeping things in perspective during my short, fitful hours of sleep. For example, last night my dream-state kept pelting me with the reality that the twins really are going to graduate in just a few weeks. And what did the devil on the shoulder of my subconscious whisper in my ear?

"You are old."

"Well, OK, maybe not old, but you are definitely not young. Only not-young people have children who are high school graduates."

It also revealed to me that my role is about to change. Growing up, I had nothing but respect for my parents. (In the case of my mom, it was more like fear. She is all of 5' 2" and tiny, but she has the best mom glare you have ever seen. It worked every time.)

That was until my brother and I graduated from high school, when it all changed. Our parents became the subject of endless mockery — by us, their adoring offspring. It was gentle mocking, but mocking nonetheless. Every foible, every tiny misstep was held up for ridicule. They were easy targets and pretty good sports. I'm not sure I have it in me to become the butt of my kids' jokes. Oy, I can see it now: 

"Remember how Mama lost her keys every morning?" — followed by exaggerated pantomimes of me tearing apart the house in an eternal quest for the elusive keys.

"Remember Mama's escalating rants in the car while schlepping us around?" — followed by shrill mimicry of me losing my mind about something ridiculous.

"Remember how Mama always corrected everybody's grammar? Like the time she whipped out her Sharpie and crossed out '10 items or less' and wrote '10 items or fewer' on the sign at the Jewel?" (OK, I don't apologize for that. Once an editor, always an editor.)

I woke up in a cold sweat. This is not fair. I'm not ready.

I am Mighty-Mama, in absolute control of your electronics and play dates. I have the power of grounding and time out. I know your most embarrassing secrets and, if necessary, I am not afraid to use them.

I am Mama. Thou Shalt Not Mock.

When Susan Bearman isn't having nightmares about her diminishing authority, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog, as well as freelancing at www.bearman.us. Oh yeah, and Twittering @2KoP. This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. 

Bring on the Boredom — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

The other day, I heard someone discussing the benefits that being bored can bring to children: time to think, room to imagine, space to exercise creativity, and reasons to practice patience and interpersonal skills with peers. In other words, some time in a child's day that isn't dictated, structured and supervised by grownups can be a good thing. The line that has really stuck with me was "Give your child the gift of boredom." Turns out there's quite a bit of support for this in the fields of psychology and education.

When I was a kid (about 3 million years ago, according to my own children), not every single second of my day was booked with lessons, play dates, activities, school, and screens. And there were times when I was plenty bored, believe me. I learned not to express those feelings to my mother, however, because she would always solve my boredom by giving me chores to do. Have I mentioned that my mom is one smart chick? To avoid doing those chores, I quickly learned to entertain myself by doing crafts or making a puzzle or sometimes even playing with my brother. Usually, I would crack open a book and get lost in another, less boring world.

Kids today don't have that luxury. I've tried hard to avoid overbooking my children, but it's hard to turn down interesting opportunities. On the few occasions when my kids have told me that they were bored, I've tried my mother's line on them, but it doesn't seem to have the same impact that it had on me all those years ago. Maybe I'll call and ask her for a refresher course.

Spring break provided some much needed down time for our family, and the kids and I took yet another road trip to visit my parents in Florida. It's too expensive to fly, so we drive down, and 1,200 miles each way provides plenty of time for boredom to set in. But, we have that part down to a science: audio books, car-friendly activities in individual backpacks, and just enough junk food to keep everyone happy, but not enough to make anyone sick. Plus, we always listen to the deluxe anniversary edition of the original broadway cast of Fiddler on the Roof, complete with additional tunes and commentary by Sheldon Harnick. What can I say? It's a tradition.

The real boredom set in once we got down to Florida and my parent's 55+ community. Horror of horrors, there was only one computer available for the seven people in the house that week and March madness basketball occupied my father's TV. I could feel the tension rising as my usually bickering boys were forced to spend too much time together with not enough scheduled activities or screens to keep them occupied.

But guess what? They didn't bicker. They played games. They did crossword puzzles. They went down to the shuffle board courts. They become deep sea divers discovering new worlds in the pool every day. They learned how to play poker and Euchre. They played with girl cousins. They played with each other. They SHARED computer time. I think they may even have cracked open a book or two. They had fun.

And can I say it again — they didn't bicker.

I guess a little boredom never hurt anybody. Maybe we'll try it again soon. And if that doesn't work, there are always chores to do.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan Bearman isn't busy figuring out how to make her children's lives miserable and telling them boring stories about the good old days, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and on her freelance Website, www.bearman.us.

18 is Not a Magic Number — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

My twins turned 18 last November and are seniors in high school. Since last spring break, my daughter has been researching and visiting colleges, completing applications, filing for financial aid and pacing the floors with worry and excitement over where she'll be going to school in the fall.

My son has been going to high school. He gets up every morning, does his routine and goes to class. He hears and sees his sister whirling dervishly around the house, and spouting words like "deadlines", "recommendations" and "essays". It has had no affect on him. When asked what he plans to do after graduation, his eyes kind of glaze over and he launches into a brief nondenial denial that he has pieced together from things he's overheard.

"I'm not quite sure yet, but I'll probably take a few community college classes, do some volunteer work and get some kind of part time job. I'm just not ready to think beyond that right now."

It's a reasonable statement, I suppose, except that he doesn't really understand what any of that would actually entail, and he has done nothing to find out more information.

I have been a nervous wreck about him, but getting one kid ready for college has taken a lot of energy, so mostly I've been working with the girl, fretting about the boy, and feeling guilty all around. And hyperventilating my way through sleepless nights. And yelling gently hinting things like: "You are not living in my house for the rest of your life," and "Playing video games is not a viable career choice."

Then, one day, I listened - really listened - to my son's press conference statement. Especially the last sound bite. "I'm just not ready to think beyond that right now." And I realized that 18 is not a magic number; it's just a number, just the next birthday in what we hope will be a long line of birthdays to come. And that, in and of itself, is a miracle.

Born at 24 weeks and just 1.5 pounds, we didn't really think he would see any birthdays. Both twins were significantly delayed. Just to put things in perspective, he was born November 17 and came home from the hospital on March 27; he walked at 23 months; he talked at 4.5 years old. He weighed just 27 pounds when he started kindergarten, and 47 pounds when he started middle school.

Now, he's 18. He has finally caught up physically. He is intellectually very bright, but has a short-term memory deficit, a sequencing disorder (part of his learning disabilities) and some ADD issues. He will be graduating with his sister and his peers in June. He is among the kindest people I have ever met.

This spring break, we are visiting Beacon College, the only accredited college offering BA and AA degrees for students with learning disabilities, ADHD and gifted LD. My mom heard about the school and sent him the link. I suggested that we could visit, but he went to the college resource center at school and he made the appointment for us to tour the campus. Will this be the right place for him? Who knows. Will he be ready to go in the fall, or even the spring? I doubt it.

Why I ever thought that 18 would be a magic number, that he would suddenly start to reach milestones on someone else's schedule instead of his own, is only proof that I'm the one still suffering from developmental delays. My son is right on schedule. So, what comes next? I know what we're doing for spring break. I'm just not ready to think beyond that right now.

When Susan isn't worried about developmental delays, student loans and sending her kids to college, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and on her freelance writing Website, www.bearman.us. This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post.

Premature Peace Prize — CMB Post

This post originally appeared on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

Let me be clear, I'm a liberal. I lean so far left that there are days when I'm in danger of toppling over. I voted for Obama and think he's the best thing that has happened to this country in a long time. He makes me proud to be an American.

BUT, does he deserve the Nobel Peace Prize? I don't know. My immediate response is probably not.

Obama has only been in office for nine months and inherited an outhouse overflowing with messy situations. I believe he's trying hard to address these issues, but that it has been more difficult than he may have initially thought. This is probably true for every president who has ever taken the oath of office; I know it's true of every parent. It's always harder to change things than you think.

I heard one pundit say that Obama was awarded the Peace Prize because he has put a new face on America's place in the world. Well, OK, I'll buy that. I wasn't too crazy about the last face we showed the world.

According to the Nobel Prize Foundation, Alfred Nobel established the Peace Prize more than 100 years ago to honor "the person who shall have done the most or the best work for fraternity between nations, for the abolition or reduction of standing armies and for the holding and promotion of peace congresses".

In that light, it's hard for me to see that Obama is a deserving recipient. I did a little more research, however, and discovered a broader interpretation of how the prize is awarded in an article by Francis Sejersted, Chairman of the Norwegian Nobel Committee, 1991-1999. He explains:

"The Prize, in other words, is not only for past achievement, although that is the most important criterion. The committee also takes the possible positive effects of its choices into account. Among the reasons for adding this as a criterion is the obvious point that Nobel wanted the Prize to have political effects. Awarding a Peace Prize is, to put it bluntly, a political act — which is also the reason why the choices so often stir up controversy."

I get that the awarding of the Nobel Peace Prize is a political act, intended to encourage actions that promote peace, not just to recognize achievements.

But as a parent, I worry about this particular choice. Upon hearing the news this morning, my 12-year-old son asked me what Obama had done to deserve the Nobel Peace Prize, and I was honestly at a loss. I tried to explain the reasonings as I understood them, but he put his finger right on the nose by responding that "those are things he's going to do, but he hasn't done them yet."

There is a great deal of controversy in the world of parenting about the dangers of overpraising our children and giving them trophies just for showing up. While we certainly want to promote healthy self esteem, research has shown that overpraising can actually have the opposite effect. So instead of telling my son that he's the greatest soccer player in the world (which he is not), I try to say things like: "That was a really good effort. Keep up the hard work."

My middle son is studying for his bar mitzvah in November. He went through a balky stage and I found that we were fighting about it all the time. I decided to try a different tack and offered to help him by establishing an incentive plan, where he could earn money toward a prize if he did the work every day with only a gentle reminder and no complaining. He thought that was a great idea, but wanted to know why he couldn't have the prize up front if he promised to work hard every day toward his goal. I explained that that would not be an incentive, it would be a bribe. As Chicagoans, we know that bribes are usually not very effective motivators. Once you have the prize, why should you do the work?

I'm not disparaging our president or his good intentions and efforts toward making this a more peaceful world. I did not expect him to be able to solve the complicated problems we face over night. But, we are still waging two wars in the Middle East. Guantanamo is still open.

So, what about this Nobel Peace Bribe? Right now, it feels a little like Obama got the trophy just for showing up. Then again, according to Woody Allen, "eighty percent of success is showing up." Let's hope that's the case and that being honored with the 2009 Nobel Peace Prize motivates President Obama to evaluate every policy he pursues through the lens of peace, and that he uses it to help us all keep our eyes on the prize. And to President Obama, "Really good effort. Keep up the hard work."

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan Bearman isn't encouraging presidents and future presidents with reasonable amounts of praise, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.

Inoculating Against Family Ailments — CMB Post

This post originally appeared on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

Vaccinations are a hot-button topic among moms these days, and I'm sure the controversy will boil up again as flu season approaches. I'm not interested in stirring this particular pot — each family (along with its physician) should make informed decisions about whether to vaccinate, which vaccinations to get, how many and when.

In our household, after careful consideration, we have decided to get both the seasonal flu shot and the H1N1 ("swine flu") vaccination. I won't go into the details about what brought us to this decision other than to say that my middle son missed 25 days (Twenty. Five. Days.) of school last year due to illness. He got every bug that crossed his path, and at this point I would send him to Lourdes or do nightly ritual dances around his bed if I thought it would help.

But it's not the flu I'm worried about this season, it's a whole slew of other illnesses that have compromised the health of our family. For example, some time ago my two youngest boys broke out in a terrible case of sudden-onset Bicker Fever. One minute they are feeling just fine, and the next minute they are bickering about the minutia of their lives. Everything and anything can precipitate a spike in Bicker Fever. Just the other day they bickered about whether they were bickering. I've tried every cure known to mom-kind, but this particular strain seems to be treatment-resistant.

My middle boy (the one who suffered so many maladies last school year), has lately been afflicted with a near-fatal bout of the "yeah-buts". No matter what I tell him to do, he is incapable of responding with anything other than "Yeah, but … "

• "Yeah, but I took the dog out twice yesterday."
• "Yeah, but he did it first."
• "Yeah, but I have to finish this game before I can study my Torah portion."

It's tragic, really. If this illness continues to progress at the same rate it did over the summer, I have serious doubts whether he will live to see his bar mitzvah in November.

Now that my youngest son is in middle school, I find that all four children are suffering from chronic adolescent-itis. In case you are unfamiliar with the symptoms of this serious disease, they include impertinence, orneriness and self-absorption, frequently accompanied by uncontrolled whining, pouting and eye-rolling. Sadly, there is no known treatment, but most children seem outgrow the disease by the time they reach their early-to-mid twenties.

You can see we are suffering. I believe in Dr. Mom, so if any of you have developed and tested reliable vaccines for the above mentioned illnesses, please let me know before I break out in a horrible case of Mom-has-lost-her-mind-again Hives. I'm sure my insurance won't cover it, but I can't wait for healthcare reform — I'm willing to pay cash.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan Bearman isn't busy warding off illness with hand sanitizer and medicinal nagging, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.

Summer's Bounty — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not much of a gardener (OK, huge understatement). But this summer, everywhere I look, I see growth.

It's true. Each time I walk into my kitchen, a new crop of dishes has sprouted. Bowls and cups are especially plentiful this season, but the silverware must also be pruned regularly, lest it overrun the countertops.

Summer is only half over, and already the piles of laundry are as high as an elephant's eye. In theory, shorts and t-shirts are smaller than sweatshirts and jeans, and therefore should mean less laundry. In reality, sweaty play results in more changes of clothes, not to mention the trips to the pool and the beach, so the harvest of summer laundry has actually outpaced the winter crop.

Towels, which here-to-fore have restricted their growth to the bathroom floor, are proliferating throughout the house like colorful ground cover. Bath towels, hand towels and especially beach towels are the creeping phlox of my indoor garden.

I shouldn't really be surprised by the fecundity of my summer garden. After all, since the first thaw, the entire family has tracked in layer after layer of top soil each time they traipse through the house.

With all six of us home this summer, our grocery bills have more than doubled their yield compared to the previous three seasons, and show no signs of stopping. While mild temperatures have limited the amount of beverages required for irrigation, the increased feed for the livestock has more than taken up any surplus.

Outside, in addition to the huge assortment of perennial summer toys and equipment that began to emerge along with the daffodils, this year's annuals include one new bike, several balls, a frisbee, and a new hammock. No matter how often we weed, they continue to mushroom across the lawn.

Yes, it's been a bountiful summer season, and with August just around the corner, I predict bumper crops of school supplies, doctor bills and new shoes. We are truly blessed.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan Bearman isn't tending her family garden plot, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.

I am a Bad Chicagoan — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

I've lived in Chicago or its immediate surrounds since I graduated from college, more than 20 years ago. Chicago is, by far, the best big city in the world (with no apologies to the Big Apple). We have a vibrant arts community, from richly endowed museums, to wonderful public art to a whole panoply of street artists. The city is clean, welcoming and accessible by public transportation. And, we're nice.

Chicago proffers a steady flow of activities, from pricey season tickets for the Lyric or the Cubs, to the graciously free beaches, parks and gardens of our unsullied, unparalleled lake front. The architecture alone stimulates peace, wonder and lively debate (hate the spaceship on top of Soldier Field; the Sears Tower will always be the Sears Tower; and there's still no consensus, at least in my family, as to whether Trump belongs here). We have celebrations every 10 minutes and the melodrama of Chicago politics provides daily (pardon the pun) entertainment.

Even though we live in Evanston, the first suburb north of Chicago, I consider us a part of the City of Big Shoulders, more like the sleeve than one of the collar counties. I admit I've lost some of my urban edge since drifting north. It takes me a while to pick up the rhythms of both foot and car traffic when I venture downtown, but the muscle memory kicks in pretty quickly. I love taking the Metra — it's fast and efficient, a sophisticated mode of transportation. I love taking the El — it's young and alive, a little gritty, a little sweaty, a little slower, but you get to see the city from the inside out. I love the museums and concerts, the restaurants and street scenes. And though I'm happy with our chosen community, I'm occasionally rueful that I was too practical (or too chicken) to raise my family right in the city.

Here comes the confession:

I find myself a little afraid of the city these days. It started when my twins were in kindergarten and a classmate of theirs was shot in a drive-by while visiting his grandmother on the south side. I had never been afraid of the city before, and I know that shootings happen everywhere, but the story of this little boy (who thankfully survived) really shook me up.

Then, last year, we were sitting on the lawn of the Museum of Science and Industry, waiting for the fabulous laser light show that celebrated the museum's 75th anniversary. It was a festive occasion, with hot dog and ice cream vendors hawking their wares as our family sprawled across a blanket, waiting for the skies to darken. At one point, I heard my husband say to some passing children: "Hey, kids be careful. Watch where you're stepping." It was a gentle admonition, said without rancor. He simply did not want them to step on him or one of us. Suddenly, their dad turned around and kicked my husband with the toe of his boot — hard! — in the arm. Had my husband's arm not been there, the boot would have landed right in his kidney. As it was, he sported a bruise the size of a small pancake for weeks. My youngest son was hysterical and begged to go home, but we stayed and enjoyed the show. The guy, whose dinner had obviously been 80 proof, did apologize at his wife's insistence.

It's these huge public gatherings that truly terrify me. One of Chicago's most venerated traditions is the Taste of Chicago, held annually the week prior to and through the Fourth of July weekend. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I hate The Taste. It's crowded, it's expensive and it's invariably too hot. Years ago, the last time I went, we were standing amid the crowd when there was a sudden surge, like the seiches that are sometimes found in Lake Michigan. People pressed in on me from all sides. I lost my husband's hand. I couldn't move. I could barely breathe. All I could think about was that there are a lot better ways to die than being crushed by a mob. I've never been back.

This year, The Taste ran from June 26 through July 5. On the morning of the 4th, my kids woke up and asked if we could go. I made up several lame excuses: it's too late to go now; the fireworks were yesterday; it looks like it might rain. The truth is, I really didn't want to go, and I really didn't want to have to worry about keeping track of four kids in that crowd. I feel like a wuss, like I'm depriving them of a vital Chicago experience, something that is their birthright. But I won and we didn't go. If that makes me a bad Chicagoan, so be it.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan isn't avoiding crowds (other than her crowded family), she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.

Saying Goodbye to Elementary School — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

On Friday, my youngest child completed fifth grade, which means it was our family's last day of elementary school after 12 long, mostly wonderful years.

This child has literally spent his entire life at this school, having been born same the year his twin siblings were in kindergarten. He has attended 12 years of school picnics, talent shows, and band concerts. He has met every teacher, joined every club, and climbed every inch of the school's two playgrounds. He's bored, well-prepared and more than ready to move on to the challenges of middle school.

But what about me?

I really don't think I'm ready to leave elementary school behind. No more crayons, no more playground bonding, no more room parenting. No more little kids with cute backpacks and silly winter hats. My house will now be completely taken over by smelly adolescents with attitude — some of them taller than me.

Elementary school has been a sweet time, a relatively leisurely time, a time when I had the opportunity to get to know my children's teachers, as well as their friends and their friends' parents. It's been a time when parental PDAs were not only acceptable, but welcome; when my kids waved goodbye from the bus windows or ran back to me for one more kiss and hug.

But all that's over. From now on, school is about moving up and out and away. It's about making new friends and trying new things. It's about moving from classroom to classroom with many different teachers and influences. I get that. I know the whole goal of parenting is to develop independent human beings.

I also know that the three years of middle school fly by, and that high school goes even faster. I know that their job between now and high school graduation is to pull away until they don't need me any more. Knowing it and accepting it are two different things.

I thought I would be weepier during this particular transition. After all, I sobbed for two days when my twins moved from preschool to elementary school.

Perhaps it's because, as the youngest of six, this particular child has the grace to recognize my angst as well as his own. He has always reached into adulthood with one hand while holding on white knuckled to his childhood with the other. He's wise enough to know that growing up isn't necessarily all it's cracked up to be; that the rewards and freedoms come with hard work and consequences. And he indulges me no end, holding my hand (even in front of his friends) and understanding that just because he'll always be my baby, doesn't mean that he still has to be a baby.

So, I was a little melancholy, but dry-eyed at the fifth grade recognition ceremony — until people started asking me if I was going to cry, which sent me over the edge. Good thing my son was there. "It's OK, mom," he reassured me, "you can still read stories to me." Maybe having only big kids won't be so bad after all.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan isn't sobbing over baby pictures and wishing her kids would stay little forever, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.

Set Summer Free — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

Summer's almost here. And even though the Chicago weather is playing hide and seek with the calendar, it's only a couple of weeks until we dip our toes into the first holiday of the season.

When I was a kid, summer meant one thing: freedom. Freedom from school and schedules, from musts and have tos and right nows. Summer meant playing outside until dark and being able to roam as far from home as we could get, as long as we could still hear our mom call us from the front porch. When I got a little older, summer meant the freedom of riding our bikes to the park for swimming lessons and staying there all day. My mom brought us a picnic lunch and stayed until dinner, when my dad came to play and swim with us until dark.

Summer meant swimming and sprinklers and hours and hours with nothing to do. It meant the freedom to get thoroughly and completely bored. So bored that you would invent things to do. So bored that you would read books without pictures. So bored you would even play with your brother.

But for this generation of children, the freedom of summer has been sold into bondage. The hectic schedule of the school year has already sent its bounty hunters ahead to lay claim to those formerly lazy days. Whole hours and days and weeks have been enslaved by day camps and sleep-away camps, art and music and dance classes, tutoring and swimming lessons. And while I'm sure all these opportunities do provide enrichment, I can't help but think they are also stealing something important from our children.

Shortly after I got married, my 12-year-old stepson spent a week or two with us in the summer. He brought some things to do, but eventually told me he was bored. I said to him what my mother had always said to my brother and me when in that situation: "Why don't you go outside and play?" He looked at me blankly and said: "What do you mean?" Let's see, I thought, "Go outside" — that's pretty clear; "and play" — that seemed pretty straightforward, too. I remember feeling profoundly sad that he had no idea how to entertain himself, even for a brief time, on a beautiful summer day.

By the time I started having my own children a year later, I learned that summer had turned into a world of preplanned, preprogrammed, prepaid, adult-led activities.

My mom didn't drive us all over town for play dates; we played with the kids who lived nearby. She didn't feel the need to register us for every sport and camp. We did one or two things with adults in charge, but mostly we played sandlot baseball and pickup games of Red Rover with the kids in the neighborhood. When we chose our own captains and teams, we learned leadership skills. When we agreed on the rules, we learned to the art of cooperation and team building. Believe me, I'm not romanticizing my youth — I was the last one chosen as often as not, and frequently felt bullied and left out. But I learned things from those experiences and feelings, too.

It's true that I remember reaching a state of profound boredom during the summer, but it didn't happen for weeks and weeks. In addition to stimulating our imaginations and making us responsible for entertaining ourselves, the onset of boredom had the added benefit of actually making us look forward to school. My kids often feel like school has barely ended before it starts up again.

I love summer. I like spending time with my kids. While they have had their fair share of summer camps and activities, I have refused to surrender every minute (and every dollar) of our summer to regularly-scheduled programs. The downside of this, of course, is that even though my kids have had time to play, most of their friends have not been around.

I harbor a secret hope that things may be a little simpler in this summer of recession. I say set summer free! Let's take this opportunity to reclaim some sweet summer independence so we can all get good and bored together. But check back with me in early August. My ideas of summer freedom may feel like a life sentence by then, and I'll probably be singing the jailhouse blues.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. Susan can be found blogging year round at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.

Birthday Parties Run Amok — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog post:

Birthday parties just aren't what they used to be. They are more — too much more.

When I was a kid, birthdays were fun. My mom made us whatever we wanted for dinner and on the closest weekend, family (cousins, aunts, grandparents) came for cake and ice cream. We only had birthday parties for what my mom deemed to be "special" birthdays: 5 — because you weren't a baby any more; 10 — because you were in double digits; and 13 — because you were finally a teenager. I also had a sleepover when I turned 16, but I was totally responsible for it.

I remember these parties vividly. For my fifth birthday, five little girls come to my house dressed up in their mama's hats and dresses and high heals. We played musical chairs in our dress-up clothes and had a tea party. My special gift was a Tammy doll cake. There was a real doll, and her dress was made of the cake and icing. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. My mom used Tammy because she thought that, at five, I was too young to play with a doll that had breasts (i.e., Barbie). It was a lovely, sweet party where the thrill of dressing up and putting on a little lipstick remains a tender memory for me more than 40 years later.

Nowadays, kids have birthday parties every year — often elaborate, expensive birthday parties. Parents are "encouraged" to invite everyone in the class so no one feels left out. While I can appreciate the underlying premise of this "fairness" policy, I found with twins that it got to be ridiculously cumbersome and expensive: one birthday, two children, two classes of 20+ kids. I refused to buy into it, but it did get hard to limit the invitation list.

This month, our local parenting magazine ran a special advertising section on party entertainment. (Full disclosure here: I was checking it out because my husband offers a party package through his pet store.) A full-page, tabloid-sized, four-color ad promoting a princess party caught my eye.

A local salon was offering princess party packages "just for preschool girls" (five and under). Ranging in price from $34.95 to $59.95 per girl, children come dressed in their own costumes and receive a "party up-do", shimmery make-up application, a 15-minute "runway dance", 20 minutes in a party room and a goodie bag with a tiara, glitter spray, lollipop and photo. The more expensive packages included a "mini-mani and mini-pedi" and a "strawberry paraffin hand treatment." Parents provide snacks and drinks.

Is it me, or is this just wrong? Maybe I'm a real Scrooge, but the cost alone gives me heart palpitations, particularly in this economy. For my daughter and five little friends, this party would have run $359.75 + treats and drinks.

While I get that a princess party is many a little girl's dream, the overt sexualization of very young girls that this party package implies makes my stomach more than a little queasy. I admit I don't understand the whole pageant community, and this seems like a direct extension of that mentality.

I don't mean to be a party pooper. There's nothing wrong with a little dress up and make believe. It just seems to me that this same idea could be accomplished in a much more age-appropriate manner, pretty inexpensively, with a little imagination and a reasonable tolerance for mess.

Besides, I didn't get my first pedicure until I was 40.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan isn't busy party planning, she can be found blogging at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.

Sliding Scale Standards — CMB Post

This post originally appeared on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

Though we have a big family, the six children tend to break down into three distinct subgroups: the big kids — my husband's son and daughter who are now adults; the twins — sometimes called the kids — now 17; and the little boys, 11 and 12 now, but who, because of the nature of family nomenclature, will still probably be called the little boys when they are 41 and 42 years old.

In 20 years of parenting I have learned one thing: never say never. Never say your child will never throw a public temper tantrum — because she will, and very soon. Never say your darling won't read comic books or Mad Magazine, because one day you will be thrilled to see that he is reading anything rather than turning on another screen. And never, ever say my kids won't watch _____________ (TV, cartoons, horror movies, music videos, Disney crap — pick whichever poison comes to mind when you fill in that particular blank).

The big kids were just 10 and 13 when we got married, and most of the movies and television we watched were throwbacks from my childhood. It was fun to watch the old stuff together: screwball comedies, really old Disney flicks, and black and white TV shows like the Munsters and I Love Lucy.

When the twins came along, I restricted their viewing to public television and a few well-chosen videos (Road Construction, Dead Ahead was a favorite). That was about it until they hit grammar school and found out from friends that cable offered a much wider variety of programming than their mother had led them to believe. Still, I set our boundaries and stuck to them: violence was my big bagaboo and I remember hearing my son say, "Sorry, I can't watch that — there are too many guns." I was so smug proud.

But things began to slide about the time the twins hit third grade. I had two toddlers, two school-aged kidlings and two high school-aged stepkids who all had lives and needs and trasportation requirements. I simply no longer had time to monitor every single minute of television that was watched in my house.

First, it was cartoons like Rugrats and Animaniacs that began to slip in. Then the occasional cop show showed up. PG-13 movies were introduced into family movie night when the big kids starting groaning at suggestions of yet another Disneyfest. And my toddlers came right along for the ride.

I rationalized as best I could: "Oh, that innuendo went right over their heads," or "We've talked about what language is appropriate to use and what language is not," and even "Hey, guys, cover your eyes during this next part, OK? It might be a little scary." You try keeping six kids between the ages of 2 and 21 happy with a single form of entertainment and then get back to me.

The little boys have both reaped the benefits and suffered the consequences of this more lax attitude. I try to tell myself that I'm older and wiser, and that I know most of these things really aren't very important in the long run. You know that old saw — little kids, little problems; big kids, big problems? Well, it's true. And if you have a big family, you better learn not to get your knickers in a knot over every little thing or burnout will set in well before your last kid reaches middle school.

But I wonder if I really am older and wiser, or just plain older and tired. Last weekend, my husband said he had rented a movie for the family. When we cranked up the DVD player and I saw that it was the 1995 classic The Usual Suspects (rated R, thank you very much), I ordered a pause to discuss the situation. "If I remember correctly, this film is wildly inappropriate for the 12-year-old," said I. "He'll be fine, and younger brother bailed and went to bed," said my DH. "It's very violent," I countered. "He'll be fine," DH repeated. "It's riddled with profanity," said I. "It's not like he hasn't heard the words before, right kid?"

"Yeah, I've heard them. But I would never use them, Mama," he said, all wide-eyed innocence. Yeah, right.

I gave up, or gave in, or something. I justified this decision by making sure we discussed the film and all its meanings and ramifications. It was a teachable moment, I reassured myself. Don't roll your eyes at me. Your time will come; your standards will slide right off the scale and into the sewer, just like mine did. But don't fret too much about it. There are bigger things to worry about right around the corner. Trust me.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan Bearman isn't busy lowering her standards, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.

Most Improved Mom — CMB Post

This post originally appeared on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

It's an act of hubris to brag about our children, but as moms, we're all guilty. After all, those accomplishments we love to enumerate — the straight As, the home runs, the chess standings — they really belong to our children. It's hard, though, to keep our pride from bubbling out of our hearts and through our lips, even when we are doing it out of love and not a vicarious sense of competition.

In Hollywood, the award season kicks off with the Golden Globes in January, but every mom knows that kid awards are in May. In this two-week period alone, I will attend at least five ceremonies for my twins, who are high school juniors. (Please note: the following list does not constitute bragging, as I'm trying to make a point here.) My daughter was inducted into the National Honor Society, will be recognized as an outstanding student by three of her teachers (Anatomy, Applied Science and English), and will receive a few other honors, as well. Her twin brother received a "most improved" award in history.

I'm proud of all my children, but these awards for these two children are particularly meaningful because their futures were so precarious when they were born 16 weeks prematurely. At that time, we were hoping they would breathe on their own, so scholastic achievements weren't even on our radar. As I have proudly touted their most recent accomplishments to friends, grandparents and other relatives, it's been hard not to notice the imbalance of accolades. I hear myself saying "she did this" and "she got that" and … she, she, she. Oh, yeah, and he got an award, too — most improved.

A friend recently asked how my son felt about all this attention being bestowed upon his sister. Frankly, it's hard to say, because this is a boy who doesn't register accomplishments (his or anyone else's). This phenomenon is actually part of his set of learning disabilities and reflects an inability to connect planning and effort to achievement, as well as difficulty reading social cues.

This is the second time my son has been recognized as "most improved". The first was after an extraordinarily difficult transition to high school. When you ask him how he feels about these awards, he says "I'm happy," and then wryly notes that it's not hard to be most improved when you start at the bottom — an interesting observation from someone who is supposedly "socially delayed". When you tell him you are proud of him, he says "Thank you." When you ask how he feels about his sister's awards, he says "I'm happy for her."

As his history teacher presented my son with his award, she made special note of his kindness, his upbeat attitude and his positive contribution to the atmosphere of the class. I wish I could give her an award for recognizing these as accomplishments.

"Most improved" is a stunning accomplishment, especially when you improve upon most improved. My goal over the next year is to follow in my son's footsteps to become eligible for the Most Improved Mom Award — a mom who devotes as much of her braggadocio to her children's behavior and character as she does to the more coveted awards and public recognitions. I will strive to instill in my son the same sense of pride I feel for the person he is. It's clear I have a long way to go, but with a little more effort and self awareness, I may have a fighting chance.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog Post. When Susan isn't boasting about her brilliant, beautiful, talented children, she can be found blogging at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.

The Nightmares are Back — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

I have a few neuroses — who doesn't — but I don't live in constant fear. On the rare occasion when my mind travels down "What If" way, I scare the crap out of myself and do a u-turn as quickly as possible. I'm always afraid if I go too far down that path, there will be no coming back. How's that for neurotic — I'm afraid of being afraid.

But the subconscious is like the highwayman of mental health — it creeps up on you in your dreams and steals your sanity. In times of stress (and with four kids and a dog in a floundering economy, there's not much stress-free time), I have nightmares. I know I'm not alone. According to one recent poll, nearly one in three women has frequent stress dreams.

Mine usually start with the basic college stress dream. You know the one. It's the day of the final exam and you haven't been to class since the first session; you get to the classroom and the venue has changed and you go from room to room searching for your professor as the exam time ticks away. It's been a long time since college, but I'm still taking exams in my dreams every three or four weeks.

Next come the dreams of never-ending frustration. The kitchen floor that keeps growing as you try to wash it; swimming across a pool that keeps getting longer and longer; the endless search for a public restroom when your screaming toddlers have to go potty RIGHT NOW. These dreams exhaust me, but I understand them. I recognize they are my body's way of telling me that I've got too much on my plate — that it's time to figure out what needs to be done and what can be let go.

But the nightmares are different. I should say nightmare — it's always the same — only the roles change. In my nightmare, one of my children has died. I am in the immediate aftermath and I have to figure out how to go on, how to keep living and be a mom to the children who survive. It's a different child every time, and the bulk of the dream is about the altered family dynamics that such a devastating loss brings and my utter failure in navigating it.

I have friends who would be appalled that I'm writing this nightmare out loud. "Puh, puh, puh, don't say such a thing." It's strange trying to express and dissect such a visceral experience, complete with the hyper-reality that the dream state induces. It's also strange that, while I'm always overwhelmed and fully present in the dream, I am also somehow always aware that it is a dream.

My intellectual self understands that these nightmares are also stress induced, exploring in my sleep the unknown future, dangers and ultimate loss that face my children in a way that my practical, daytime mind won't allow. My spiritual self grieves for those families who are living this nightmare in real life, and is grateful every day for our health and well being. But my neurotic self, the one I try to keep in check, is truly terrified by these nightmares and, frankly, a little pissed off that I have absolutely no control over them. They come when they come and there is nothing I can do about it.

Over spring break, three of my children and I are driving down to Florida to visit my parents and my wonderful, talented stepdaughter. My oldest son is flying out to Seattle to spend time with his wonderful, generous big brother — my stepson. I've been having the nightmare every night for the past two weeks. I know I'll have it every night until we're all back home again. If you have a cure, let me know. In the meantime, maybe I'll just stay up and blog all night.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan isn't fretting in her sleep about things she absolutely cannot control, she can be found daydreaming about Two Kinds of People and all things pet related The Animal Store Blog.

Photo Credit: The Unmade Bed by Richard Pluck.

Crushed by Parental Paperwork — CMB Post

Originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

Of the myriad skills necessary for effective parenting, I would have thought that years of working through school and in offices would have prepared me well to handle the paperwork. Wrong.

Four kids, four schools, six doctors, two dentists, several teams, too many extracurricular activities and one dog add up to a lot of paperwork. That doesn't even take into account my own personal papers. No matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to stay on top of the never-ending influx of health forms, permission slips, report cards, sign-up sheets, camp forms, registrations, family histories, and emergency contact sheets. And those are just the forms I have to complete and return.

Then there are the read-only materials, the read-and-file materials, the read-and-act-upon materials and the what-in-the-hell-am-I-supposed-to-do-with-this materials. You've got your newsletters, your flyers, your invitations, your reminder sheets and your save-the-dates. And don't forget or misplace the calendars and class lists and team rosters and schedules. Clearly, the promise of a paperless society is nothing but cruel joke.

On top of the sheer volume, there are the two additional complicating factors in the battle of parental paperwork. First, many of these materials arrive weeks or months before they are due, like the camp forms that come in November for activities that won't take place until the following July; or the forms to schedule a Bar Mitzvah that is still two years away. This early-entry paperwork is just a disaster waiting to happen. Forms are like socks — half of them are sucked directly into the black hole that hovers over our house.

The second factor that interferes with efficient paper handling is that many of these materials want me to return them with checks — you know, actual money — for fees, deposits and dues. I don't know about you, but our family does quite a bit of financial juggling, so I can't always afford to write a check for monies that aren't technically due for a month or more.

So, here is where my tale of woe leads me down a bumpy path directly to the the hall of shame. My daughter, one of the world's most organized individuals, is taking an advanced placement (AP) class in high school. We are new to the world of AP and its particular brand of red tape. In addition to taking the class as part of their regular course load, AP students take special exams that are given on the same date everywhere in the country. There are registration forms and fees associated with each AP class and exam.

About six weeks ago, we got a packet in the mail with all kinds of information about test dates and fees and schedules. The $86 test fee was due absolutely no later than Friday, March 20 — no exceptions. If you have been paying attention, you have probably already guessed that I missed the deadline. I could give you a million very good excuses, but the fact is, I screwed up. My girl has busted her butt all year in a college-level class, and I forgot to send in the stupid check. I couldn't sleep all weekend, waking up a hundred times a night with the same cold sweats and stomach churns that have prevented me from pursuing a master's degree. I can't take the pressure of the paperwork.

What to do? Stoop even lower, of course, and give my daughter some brilliant advice about how to wiggle out of the mess I made — I told her to lie. We woke up extra early Monday morning and headed to school, where I coached her to go in and tell the woman collecting the checks that her mother had been out of town for a week and had accidentally taken the form and check with her. It was a plan — not a good plan, I admit, but it might have worked, except the woman wasn't there.

So, I sent my girl back into school, telling her to put the envelope in the woman's mailbox with a note that said she would check in with her Monday morning. Remember, it was already Monday morning. The implication was that the envelope had been turned in on Friday after the woman in charge had already left for the day. I know, I know. I am a terrible, horrible mother.

The good news is that there were many other similar envelopes in the mailbox, and when my girl checked in with the AP woman (as she promised she would), she was assured that everything was fine.

Fine. Unless you count the fact that I totally flushed my integrity, credibility and any hope of ever claiming the moral high ground again with my daughter, then sure, everything is fine.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan isn't hanging her head in shame or digging out from under an avalanche of paperwork, she can be found writing pulp-free at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.

Crushed by Paperwork

There are two kinds of people in the world: those who face paperwork with calm equanimity and those who fold under the pressure.

For a discussion on how parenting is impacted by paperwork and how it brought me to my knees, check out my latest post on the Chicago Moms Blog. Feel free to share your own paperwork peccadillos by clicking here .

Kids are Gross — CMB Post

This was originally posted on the now defunct Chicago Moms Blog.

A good laugh is hard to come by these days, so I welcomed the one I ran into the other day, even though it was at someone else's expense. I was talking to an expectant first-time dad who was so excited about all the plans he and his wife have made for their new baby. His enthusiasm was infectious and I remembered how thrilling it was when we were planning to bring our own twins home from the hospital.

I listened, smiling, as he talked about having to put the crib together twice, their concerns that the baby already has more stuff than the two of them put together, and whether their first "baby" (a six-year-old Chocolate Lab) would welcome his new little sibling. It all sounded perfectly normal, until he told me about an agreement he and his wife had made. "I plan to help with everything," he said, "except poopy diapers. That's just too gross!"

I laughed — out loud and right in his face. "Kids are gross," I said. "Get over it." I will grant you that moms have a leg up on improving their GTF (Grossness Tolerance Factor), what with all the interesting changes we experience during pregnancy and the less-than-pleasant after effects of childbirth. What mom will ever forget the first time her milk lets down in public, soaking the entire front of her shirt? All of that is personal, however, and we develop a pretty high GTF for our own bodies. But babies and kids are a whole different story.

I so wanted to burst this new dad's bubble by telling him about the booger bubbles his new baby will blow out of his or her cute little nose, and how you have to learn to suck out the junk with those weird, bulbous nasal aspirators. Turns out babies can't use a tissue for years and, even then, you have to hold it while they blow, and then you get to dispose of the mess.

Or how about when that baby boy waits until he is de-diapered and then takes aim right in your eye — or worse, your mouth.

Or when your newly potty-trained princess swallows a bright green plastic button and you get to fish her deposits out of the bowl and sift through them for SIX days to be sure she has passed the button safely and that it is not obstructing her digestive tract.

Or when your little boys decide to visit the bathroom together and use their streams as dueling light sabers (really, they do things like this). You won't even recognize your own voice when you hear yourself yelling: "The next time someone pees on the wall, you will all become sitters! Do you understand me?".

Or when your little girl explores the recycling bin, slicing her palm with the lid of a tuna can and giving you a graphic lesson in anatomy. You can't faint. You can't run away. You are the grownup!.

Or when they say: "Here, hold this," and hand you their ABC gum (that's already-been-chewed, thank you very much).

And even though you have told your little darling a million times that his shirt is not a napkin, he insists on wiping his face on his sleeve or the front of his shirt. Or even better, your shirt.

Or how about that time when your twins got their first bout of the stomach flu when they were four and you were pregnant and you spent five straight hours cleaning up her puke, running to the bathroom to throw up yourself, running back to clean up his puke … you get the picture … until your husband finally came home and took over (bless his heart).

Or how about when your beautiful baby girl comes home at the ripe old age of eight with BO so bad that she smells like the boys' high-school locker room and you have to buy her deodorant and invest in Dr. Scholl's foot powder.

I won't even talk about the disgusting things children will put into their mouths … and noses … and ears … and hair. My friend, the soon-to-be dad, will just have to discover those joys on his own, along with lancing boils, freezing off warts and clipping toenails.

In the '90s, there was a comedy duo called "The Mommies" and one of their funniest bits was about how intimate you become with your baby. Just yesterday, I found myself both gagging and giggling as I looked at my 17-year-old's frighteningly large feet and remembered The Mommies' reflections about how much they used to love to kiss their babies' little tootsies.

Poopy diapers, while certainly not pleasant, are just not that bad on the GTF scale. The good news is that children grow out of them in a few short years. The bad news is that when you bring a new baby into the world, something really terrifying happens. You become the parent. It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it.

This is an original Chicago Moms Blog post. When Susan isn't busy cleaning up messes, she can be found writing at Two Kinds of People and The Animal Store Blog.