Erma Notes 2.108

I'm not sure which was more difficult for this quiet introvert: Transitioning from the solitary introspection of a seven-hour road trip to the boisterous celebration of the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop Tribe of Loud, Smart, Funny Women and Men (emphasis on the loud), or re-acclimating to the silence on the way home.

Speaking of quiet car rides . . . I was a little surprised to find that I hadn't worked my way through all the Billy Joel albums on my iPod by the time I got to Ohio. I was a little embarrassed to find I still hadn't made it through my play list by the time I returned home to Iowa.

And another thing about driving . . . One of the best but overlooked aspects of the workshop? The door-to-door shuttle service between the hotel and the classes. Back home I am the shuttle service. And, unlike my kids, my fellow shuttle-ers were always ready to talk!

Speaking of kids . . . When I returned to my hotel room each day, my bed was made-made (not just straightened) and all my crap was neatly arranged on the bathroom counter. I wondered if this is what my family feels like when they come home at the end of the day.

Speaking of being a mom . . . Shout out to the guy at the gas station in Indiana who called me “Miss” when trying to get my attention. I wasn't ignoring you. It just took me a while to realize you were talking to me.

Speaking of Indiana drivers . . . Does everyone there drive like they're qualifying for the Indy 500? I worried I might lose time by taking a two-lane “shortcut,” but pulled in behind a line of cars going darn near the same speed we were on the interstate! Not that I'm complaining!

Speaking of GPS shortcuts . . . This was the second time I relied solely on my car's navigation system. There's something reassuring about the confidence with which Sally (my GPS) gives directions. I may not know where we're going – heck, Sally may not know – but by god, we're going there with confidence!

Speaking of Sally's confidence . . . I'm good with her confidence, but does she have to sound so exasperated when she says “recalculating”?

Speaking of recalculating . . . I'm not willing to take all the blame for Sunday morning's little excursion through downtown Dayton in search of an on-ramp, Sally. “Keep left” is a bit wishy-washy, don't you think? It's either turn or don't turn. On the plus side, there's very little traffic in downtown Dayton on a Sunday morning.

Speaking of speaking . . . About the fourth time Sally exasperatedly told me she was “recalculating” I started wishing she had a little of the warmth and wisdom of the Erma Tribe. The new and improved Sally – nicknamed “Erma,” of course – would have laughed and joked when I missed that turn. “ErmaGPS” would have known instinctively that I was not ignoring her demands, but searching frantically for a Waffle House. “ErmaGPS” would have pointed out that I could never make it 65 miles until the next rest stop.

In other words . . . Sally's a great gal and all, but if she really wanted me to listen to her, she'd try to sound a bit more like Erma.

Or like Billy Joel.

New Car-fessions

I have a new car.

It's a black, sleek, shiny, stylish hatchback.

It also has four-doors, front-wheel drive, gets great gas mileage, and was reasonably priced.

It's sporty AND sensible.

Spor-sible.

There are those in my family who say pairing the terms “sporty” and “sensible” is an oxymoron, if not an outright contradiction. They think I'm delusional.

The Little Prince, who is 16 years old and male and therefore an expert on all things automotive, is not a fan. I have been running new car suggestions by him since I first started “theoretically” looking for a new car.

“If I were to get a new car, and I'm not saying I'm going to, but if I were, what about a Fiat? … Escalade? … Mini Cooper? … Renegade? … Escape? … Charger?”

His answer never varied in content, tone, or delivery. By now, I am so used to his monosyllabic, post pubescent baritone response that I could hear his voice in his texted reply to my text.

Me:“Signing the papers! Honda Civic Hatchback. It's sporty. And sensible!”

Little Prince: “No.”

But my Mom-enhanced voice recognition software picked that up as “Nnnnnnnnno,” revealing all the underlying apathy and disinterest reserved for any vehicle short of a V-8 or Miata.

The Little Princess, who is 19 and therefore an expert on all things, is not a fan. She still has not forgiven me for allowing her father to sell the ginormous, rattle-trap, rust-red, manual transmission, 1994 Dodge Ram 1500 pickup she learned to drive in. Nothing I picked out – short of a Ford Raptor – would have pleased her (and then, only after I gave it to her).

Me: “It's a Honda Civic Hatchback! It's sporty! And sensible!”

Little Princess: “It's the world's smallest car. There's no room for stuff.”

Pass that through any Mom-translation program and you get: “There's no room for MY stuff.”

The King, who has been my husband for 25 years and is therefore an expert on staying married, did not say anything.

He didn't have to. Thanks to our marriage-telepathy, I could tell that he was mentally calculating how long it would take me to break one of my New Car-mandments:

1. Thou Shall Not eat in the new car.
2. Thou Shall Not drink anything besides water in the new car – and then only from a container that can be securely resealed.
3. Thou Shall park in the furthest corner of the parking lot, away from all shopping carts and two-door vehicles.
4. Thou Shall Not drive on gravel roads.
5. Thou Shall Not allow gummy bears or crayons in the new car.

The longest I've followed these rules prior to this car? One week. The shortest? Thirty minutes. (The Vue never lost that new-fry smell.)

I've gotten in, and I can't get out.

I know it's only a matter of time before life – and my bad habits – cause me to slip up. Once you lose that first french fry between the seats, get that first door ding, or find a puddle of melted crayon and gummy bear in a door handle, your New Car (!) is just your (new) car.

But until that happens, I am going to enjoy the heck out of it. In fact, if you need me, you will most likely find me out in the garage, sitting in my spor-sensible car.

Because part of that sporty look comes from a lower-than-I'm-used-to seat-height, and I'm not as spor-flexible as I used to be.

What are your "new car-mandments"? Could I market Car-mandments 1-3 as "The New Car Diet?"

A Mom For All Seasons

Just when I am wallowing in a good, deep, pit of despair because my baby – the boy child, the 16-year-old going on 60-year-old – doesn't need me anymore, life puts a little hurdle out there that proves Moms can be pretty useful. Even if the boy child doesn't want to admit it.

Ever since his sister left for college (thoughtlessly leaving him as the sole recipient of his parent's attention) The Little Prince has done everything he can to assert his independence. Everything he can, that is, while still living under our roof and enjoying free groceries, laundry, and maid service. As soon as he turned 16 he got a job, so he now supports his musical and automotive ambitions, as well as a steady diet of fast-food and jumbo convenience store sodas. Despite his relative economic autonomy, the occasional gas-money donation is still appreciated, and I have found that I seldom (although not never) get change back when I ask him to run an errand for me. This child-labor service charge is a small price to pay for convenience, I suppose.

Between work and well-timed outings with his friends, his schedule precludes dinner with the 'rents most nights (possibly because his mother insists on using lame, outdated slang like “'rents”). He typically shuns homemade leftovers (a trait inherited from his father), preferring microwaved delicacies such as pizza rolls and frozen chicken wings. Likewise breakfast (Pop Tarts) is spent in silent contemplation (a trait inherited from his mother), scuttling back to his room like a hermit to his hermitage as soon as the toaster pops.

I don't blog much about The Little Prince, precisely because he is so self-sufficient and easily embarrassed. I fear any public recognition (actually, I know from experience that any public recognition) will result in an immediate cessation of his already limited acknowledgment of my existence. Let me tell you, you have never been shunned until you have been shunned by a teenage boy.

But I have learned to live with it. Just like I have learned to not jump out of my skin when he slips silently into my office/hermitage and stands there – silently – nodding and occasionally making eye, until I summon all my Super Mom abilities and read his mind.

“Going out with your buddies?” I ask/say/hypothesize.

“Yup,” he says before silently slipping away. My petition to "have fun, be good, love you" chases him down the hallway.

So it was early Saturday morning, when he materialized at my side as I was finishing my first cup of coffee. He stood quietly, nodding with a bit more agitation than usual.

“Heading to work?” I asked.

“Need a coat,” he said, grimacing.

Now, I could have reminded him that I have nagged him for at least two years about getting a winter coat. I could have reminded him that last year I took him shopping and practically forced him to buy a coat before relenting when I realized it would just hang, unused, in the closet. I could have reminded him that he has lived in Iowa for 16 winters and he knows that it gets cold and he knows that his job requires him to spend at least a little bit of time outdoors. But as the temperature hovered at a balmy 2 degrees (expected to fall) and he needed to get to work, I kept all this to myself.

Instead I left my coffee to cool while I helped him search through closets and totes and drawers for a coat, gloves and boots. Then I realized he had grown at least a foot taller since he had last worn a proper winter coat, gloves or boots (since, apparently, high school students are too cool these things) and he had to borrow said items from his father (who was outside and wearing them at the time, because old folks value warmth over coolness).

You may wonder why he didn't ask his father if he could borrow a coat in the first place, instead of making his mother feel like she had neglected him by not forcing him to get a winter coat. You could also ask yourself why (a month ago) he told his mother – at 6 a.m., during her first cup of coffee – that his arm hurt and he thought he might have broken it. And why he then allowed her to sit nervously in the emergency room with him and allowed her to take him out for breakfast when it turned out it wasn't broken.

You may wonder that, but I would prefer that you wonder that in silence. While you're at it, perhaps you could nod your head and wait – silently – for me to acknowledge your presence.

Because the important thing here is that my little boy still needs his mom (whether he will admit it or not).

And a coat.

Have Yourself An Ugly Little Christmas Sweater

The Halloween pumpkins are moldering on the front stoop, and the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers have been left over for their last meal, ushering in the most angst-iful time of the year:

Ugly Christmas Sweater Season.

While I do loves me some Ugly Christmas Sweaters, I do hates me the potential for offending someone by complimenting them on their Ugly Christmas Sweater – which they do not consider to be an Ugly Christmas Sweater. As the mother of two teens, I am empathetic to having clothes judged so harshly. 

For example, when I asked The Little Princess what makes an Ugly Christmas Sweater ugly, she said “Anything that comes from Goodwill and looks like it was made by a Gramma.” When I asked The Little Prince the same question, he hesitated, quickly scanned what I was wearing and shrugged.

His response made me a little teary eyed, because that was the most he talked to me last week. And because I was wearing a normal, ordinary, not ugly, black sweatshirt, proudly emblazoned with “IOWA” in gold lettering.

Ugly? Or Taste Challenged?

That's the problem with Ugly Christmas Sweaters – there is no clear-cut description of what constitutes ugliness in a sweater, Christmas or otherwise. This new trend of marketing ugly as ugly has only made the situation worse. Just in case you've been living under a rock (or you shop at much nicer stores than I do) you can now buy Ugly Christmas Sweaters, Sweatshirts, T-shirts, Socks, Hats, Pants, Dresses, Pajamas and Suits. Some of these items try just a little too hard (like the suits), blowing right past Ugly Christmas Attire to Hideous Christmas Attire.

In my humble opinion, the beauty of an ugly sweater comes from the fact that it is not trying to be ugly. Are they tacky? Maybe. Tasteless? Probably. Ugly? Well . . . . It seems to me the ugliest of the Ugly Christmas Sweaters are the Ambiguously Ugly Christmas Sweaters. And this is where I struggle to know what to say, and whether or not to say it.

Trying too hard.

Should I say “I like your sweater,” and run the risk of looking like I don't recognize an ugly sweater when I see one? Or should I say “I like your ugly sweater,” and run the risk of offending the wearer, who may or may not think their sweater is ugly?

Which brings me back to my original question: What makes an Ugly Christmas Sweater Ugly?

Is it the embellishments? Does the addition of pom-poms, bells (which should be outlawed), bows, glitter, rhinestones, or puffy paint make the sweater ugly? Or is it the amount of embellishment? Personally I think lights or music (not just bells) should result in disqualification.

Is it the color? There are certain shades of pink and aqua which have taken up a firm residence in Christmas-color-land and which need to be sent back to the 1950s, from whence they escaped. Or is it the combination of colors? Red is OK, red and white are OK, but red, white and green start edging towards ugly.

Is it the pattern? There's nothing inherently ugly about snowflakes, reindeer and evergreens individually, but put them all together and the potential for ugly grows. Is it the image itself? Are reindeer, cats, dogs, penguins and elves OK? What about reindeer, cats, dogs penguins and elves wearing Santa hats? Are small images OK, and BIG images ugly? Or is it the other way around?

Ugly Christmas Sweater Season would be much less stressful if you were required to wear a button that proclaimed “Yes, I think this Christmas (fill in the blank) is ugly.”

Preferably a LARGE button, in off-pink and off-aqua, with flashing lights, music, bells and pom-poms.

And a Santa hat.

NOT an Ugly Christmas Sweater.

Greetings From The Great Beyond

If you are reading this without an Ouiji board or a crystal ball, color me surprised.

Apparently, without my knowledge or consent, I have expired and passed to the other side. At least that is my conclusion after trying to communicate with my son – the boy child formerly known as The Little Prince, when I was not so annoyed with him.

I have become accustomed to talking at the boy, but lately I've noticed my words seem to bounce right off him and fall to the ground at his feet without so much as ruffling the bushy mass of hair hanging over his ears.

At first I assumed that the poor thing had had been struck deaf – perhaps as a result of playing the drums, or from listening to heavy metal music. But he seems perfectly capable of hearing the TV, his friends' cars arriving curb-side, and the ding of the microwave.

I accepted the increasing one-sidedness of our talks as typical teenage boy behavior. After one recent exchange – which I took to be a semi-active discussion, but turned out to be a monologue – he replied with his usual noncommittal shrug and vague grunt.

“*Shrug* Eh.”

I interpreted this as “Yes, Mom. I understand what you're saying, agree with your conclusion and will endeavor to act in accordance with your wishes.” Especially after I point blank asked him “Do you understand? Can you do that?”

Instead, what he really meant was “*Shrug* Eh.”

Or perhaps, “    .”

Maybe even, “     !”

But more likely, “      “

There is a chance I've brought on this escalation of indifference myself. Frustrated by his ever-shrinking verbal exchange rate, I told him I was going to set a daily word goal for him. I was hoping to squeeze 20 words per day out of him.

He was thinking of a smaller number.

Like zero.

Of course, if he is purposely rationing his responses, that means that he can hear me – even if he chooses not to listen.

Which is good.

Because I really hope hears me when I tell him I hope that someday (in the far, distant future) he has a child just like him.

(Dirt Road) Party Like It's 1984

I've come to the conclusion that 50 is the new 18.

As the wave of my high school classmates turning 50 crests, I've (re)discovered that we are, indeed old enough to know better, but young enough not to care. Not only are we old enough to know better, our kids are old enough that they don't need babysitters and can serve as our designated drivers. Heck, they're old enough to know better, too.

July has been particularly 50-candles intense (I'm not sure what happened 50-years and 9-months ago, but my money is on extended power outages, or a lame TV line up). With each get-together, we recognize the gravity of reaching this milestone (and the toll gravity has taken) even as we celebrate our good fortune in achieving it (remembering fondly our classmates who did not).

We also wax a bit nostalgic for our semi-wild, perhaps misspent youth. There is a good chance that we recall those days being wilder and more fun than they actually were. Still, the memories of that freedom, daring and excitement, and the sense of endless possibilities warm our hearts. More than one story has ended with a collective sigh, and a “If my kids do that, I'll kill them,” or “My parents would have killed me if they knew!”

Recently we gathered in the beer tent at the county fair to celebrate yet another addition to the Fabulous 50s club. I don't think the fair had a beer tent when we were 18 – and even if it did, we wouldn't have been old enough to enter it (as the drinking age was 19). Instead, we had to go to the barns or the campgrounds at the edge of the fairgrounds to sneak a drink.

More often than that, though, we headed out for a dirt road party (DRP). The memories of those illegal, ill-advised, quasi-impromptu events prompted one of my classmates to suggest we plan a DRP as part of our next class reunion. We all thought about it a moment, laughed, and then gave a collective sigh.

There would have to be some changes, we agreed, for example...

Parking

In the Good Old Days both sides of the narrow gravel road would be lined with cars and trucks. Usually, they were perched precariously on the edge of a deep, weed-filled ditch, making getting in or out of a vehicle challenging (and that was before we started partying).

These Days our minivans and Mom-U-Vs could present a tipping hazard if we parked too close to the edge of the road.

Amenities

In the Good Old Days when nature called, our sprightly, bendy-legs allowed us to cop a squat in the corn field. The balance-challenged among us would use a car bumper for support.

These Days? Ain't gonna happen, no how, no way. I get skeeved out using a port-o-potty, let alone baring it all to the great outdoors.

Timing

In the Good Old Days parties didn't start until dusk, at the earliest. On an Iowa summer night, that meant most parties didn't start until 9:30 p.m. or so. In the winter, however....

These Days most of us are yawning by 9:30 p.m. or so, and we're sound asleep by 11. While we're at it, our night vision isn't what it used to be, either.

Refreshments

In the Good Old Days we drank beer – usually cheap and warm – and lots of it. Kegs were always a popular choice and occasionally lasted for more than one party (see “cheap” and “warm).

These Days the deposit on a keg and tap is steep. Besides, we may not have the same capacity for consumption we once did. Or maybe, just maybe, with age has come the wisdom not to drink as much.

Location

In the Good Old Days, true DRPs alternated between three or four spots, one of the most popular being “Pete's Ditch.” Given the relative frequency of these events, the grid-like layout of country roads, and the party-radar inherent in teens (along with the trail of red tail lights and plume of gravel dust) we were able to navigate to these remote locations with ease.

These Days, a quick and random survey revealed that no one could remember the directions to Pete's Ditch. We may have to print out maps, or at the very least make sure everyone has GPS on their phones.

Looking over this list of new requirements for a dirt road party, it would seem the perfect party location These Days would be somewhere with plenty of well-lit, flat space for parking, somewhere easy to find, somewhere with flush toilets and cushy places to nap, and somewhere with plenty of cold beer on tap.

In other words, a hotel reception hall. But that doesn't sound like nearly as much fun.

Not that I ever went to a dirt road party, of course.

My parents would have killed me.

Carpe Di-Cave

Early summer descended on Eastern Iowa packing all the heat and humidity usually reserved for much later in the season. In this weather, the corn shoots skyward, and the weak are culled from the herd until only the hardiest Iowa natives are left to complain about the weather.

The Princess and Little Prince had retreated to the cool solitude of their bedrooms, perfectly content to relax and stare at their smart phones in air-conditioned comfort. (“We needs the charger. Must recharge the precious.”) But underneath it all, I could tell they were longing for some quality, enforced family fun time.

It was time for a Mom-tervention.

It was time to pry them out of their man-made, air-conditioned, soft and cushy caves

and take them to some nature-made, naturally cooled, drippy and muddy real caves at Maquoketa Caves State Park. The King declined the opportunity, citing work deadlines (and lack of air-conditioning).

I had been to the caves as a kid – we made frequent trips to the area to visit relatives – but The Princess and The Little Prince had not. This trip was a chance for me to share old memories (which they loved – not) and create new memories (which I loved – totally).

Part of the reward for not selling off your children when they were pre-teens, is having them develop into people you actually enjoy spending time with. While The Princess and The Little Prince can, individually, be mutes, when they are thrown together in a car they become Laurel and Hardy. Their schtick began before we even left the house:

The King (from his air conditioned throne): Be sure to wear sunscreen.

Princess: Did Sacagawea wear sunscreen? Did Herbert Hoover?

Prince: And he became president!

Princess: And had a sport named after him! (http://www.hooverassociation.org/newsevents/hooverball/hooverball_history.php)

For more than an hour, I listed to their constant back and forth, covering everything from family trips (“Hey, remember that time you told The Little Prince it was time to go, and we searched the house for him for like, 30 minutes, because he thought you really meant it was time to go and he was waiting in the car? Good times.”) to my driving ability (“Are we lost yet? Are you sure we're not lost yet?”).

Gramma Anna at the caves, 1936

For the record, we weren't lost (yet), although I never did find the little wooded, copse my Grampa liked to point out as the spot where my Gramma Anna once hiked her skirts (literally) to answer nature's call. That historic location seemed to move each time we traveled those roads, but Grampa's delight in telling the story – and Gramma's adamant denial – never did. There's a slight chance hyperbole runs in my family.

Eventually we did make it to the park. I didn't remember it being quite so popular, but that day it was overrun with 20-something year-old hikers and rock climbers (“I think they're high on more than nature.”) and families with little children.

At times I watched wistfully as the parents held their child's grubby little hands, or boosted them up onto some of the small rock formations, arms outstretched to assist if needed, but giving them the chance to explore their independence.

Meanwhile I panted, trying to keep up with my little angels, letting them lead the way over rocky trails and trees, and cringing as they insisted on climbing to the highest points they possibly could. Every so often The Little Prince would scout out a trail, only to 

tell his sister it looked “a little sketchy.” They would silently lock eyes for a moment, then The Princess would smile and shout “Parkour!” and off they would scramble over mossy boulders, muddy logs, and loose rocks. This is why we say that when The Princess becomes the voice of reason, you know you're in trouble.

Still, there were times when the littlest hikers out parkoured us. While The Royal Procession picked our way cautiously across the creek (again), tottering on the slippery rocks, one intrepid 8-year-old sloshed right past us through the ankle-deep water. (In our defense, it was muddy, it looked much deeper, and it was cold.)

Fat Man's Lament

In between the daredevil feats of climbing, tentative spelunking, and creek fording failures, The Princess and Little Prince turned their comedy routine to a variety of topics:

The beauty of the park – “You know you're from Iowa when you learn to pronounce methamphetamine, but not aesthetic.”

The natural features of the park – “Fat Man's Lament? I thought they said Bat Man's Lament!”

Philosophy – “We have to cross the river again?” Me: “It's a creek.” “It has potential!”

In the end, the joke was on me:

“Why didn't you tell us to wear old shoes?” “Why didn't we bring flashlights?”

Me: “Because I didn't think I'd be able to get you out of the car.” Honest.

(Sharing an incredulous look.) “Why not? This is the best place ever!”

Parkour!

Graduation Tassel Tissue Tussle

It's official. The Princess is a high school graduate.

Believe it or not, and most of you will not, I didn't cry.

That is not to say that at various times during her party, baccalaureate, and the graduation ceremony my eyes did not fill with tears, I didn't bite my lips, my throat didn't constrict, I didn't have to gulp for air, or that I didn't clench and unclench my fists and wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs.

I did.

I am sure my eyes were red by the end of commencement. But no tears slid down my cheeks.

I did not need a tissue. Which is good, because I forgot them in the car.

Someone – several someones – asked me how I felt after her graduation party. I told them the truth:

It was all a blur.

The Princess with all her level-headed wisdom – Where did she get that? When did she get that? – decided she wanted a small, low-key event at home. Somehow we managed to keep the fuss and stress to a minimum, which is to say no one was killed, seriously injured or driven insane. Not that I didn't give it my best shot.

Still, it was a blur of planning, shopping, sorting, cleaning, organizing, and ultimately hiding, storing, covering, and strategic decorating. The guests arrived, we mingled, we laughed, we ate cake and more cake. And more cake. The Princess was beautiful and charming and smiled and smiled and smiled. The Little Prince helped set up and stuck around even after we told him he didn't have to. When did he get so mature?

And then it was over.

A blur.

Baccalaureate came and went, a lovely ceremony filled with wisdom and humor and encouragement. And cookies. And the blinking, sniffling, chest tightening of not crying.

A blur.

The graduation ceremony itself, while not what anyone would call brief – especially when crowded into a noisy, hot gymnasium – rushed by. The graduates processed in, there were speeches, words of advice, songs and a slide show that brought me to the edge of tears. Then the graduates received their diplomas, moved their tassels and marched out of the gym for hugs, handshakes, congratulations, and pictures, pictures and more pictures.

A blur.

And somewhere along the way I realized it had all been a blur.

Not just the party, baccalaureate and commencement, but the last 18 years.

Bringing home our Little 5-pound Princess from the hospital. Helping her hold her baby brother. Holding her hand as she started preschool. Walking her up the hill to the bus stop and watching her climb the big stairs onto the bus for her first day of kindergarten. Watching nervously out the window later that week after she announced she could walk to the bus stop by herself.

Grade school, middle school, high school. Dance recitals, school programs, band and chorus concerts, sports, cheer leading, homecomings and proms.

College visits. College applications. College acceptance letters.

College orientation.

A blur.

And this fall she will start college, far enough away that I can't visit every day (well, I could, but...) yet close enough that she can come home when she wants to (I hope she wants to).

In between now and then, two and a half long, languid summer months that will seem to drag on forever.

Until they are gone.

In a blur.

Not That I Worry, Mind You

So.

To cap off Spring Break 2016, The Princess and some friends decided to spend the day in Chicago.

Now mind you, this would be the same group of girls who, a couple of weeks ago, were having trouble deciding whose car would make it to Des Moines (2 hours away) for the Girl's State Basketball Tournament, and who would most likely be able to stay awake to drive home.

Not that I worried at all about three high school girls (granted they're all 18... just barely) driving the nearly three-and-a-half hours to Chicago's Navy Pier (which, by the way is located in downtown Chicago) and Shedd Aquarium, or driving the nearly three-and-a-half hours back home late at night (when most people like to sleep).

Now mind you, earlier in the week, when I suggested we go to Chicago to the aquarium, the children rolled their eyes so hard I was afraid they would sustain brain damage.

Not that I worried. At all.

Now mind you, this would be the same Princess who whines if you do not respond instantly to her calls or texts, but who, after setting out for downtown Chicago doesn't see the need to call or text her mother.

Not that I worried. Because obviously I knew that:

A. They were having too much fun to call;

B. There are no cell towers in the Greater Chicago Metropolitan Area;

C. All three girls' cell phone batteries died on the three-plus hour drive there;

D. Their cell phones didn't work at the bottom of the Chicago River, where their bodies were no doubt sinking after the kidnappers tossed them off one of the bridges. Although I will admit, cell reception is probably crap at the bottom of the river.

Now mind you, being a typical Mom I did text her late in the afternoon just to:

A. Embarrass her.

B. Make sure they made it safely to wherever they wound up after telling me they were going to Chicago;

C. Check cell reception at the bottom of the Chicago River;

D. Let the kidnappers know that I was on to them;

Not that I worried. Because in response to my text asking “How's it going?” she did send a return text saying “Good.” Which is exactly the reply you would expect:

A. When a group of teenage girls is having fun;

B. When that's all the time you have time to type as you're sinking to the bottom of the Chicago River;

C. When kidnappers let their victims send a brief, non-committal message to assure their worried parents that they are still alive;

D. When you're sitting in the Customs Office at the Canadian border because you got lost on your way to Chicago from Eastern Iowa.

Now mind you, I could have called one of the other girls' parents, but:

A. I like to keep my own particular brand of crazy hidden as much as possible, and there was a slim chance that I was over reacting.

B. Nope, that's pretty much it, although...

C. They are 18 and, unlike me, actually know how to use the navigational systems on their phones.

Not that I worried and stayed up half the night waiting for them to come home, because:

A. I decided long ago that the key to surviving teenagers is to sleep as much as possible when you have the chance, because once the call comes from the police department/ hospital/ Navy Seals searching the bottom of the Chicago River/ customs officers at the Canadian border, there will be no more sleep;

B. I could fall asleep standing in line with kidnappers at a crowded customs office on the Canadian border;

C. I slept fitfully for half the night, until I heard a ghostly voice whisper “Mom, I'm home,” then I slept fitfully for the other half of the night wondering if I actually heard something or if it was just an example of that weird “we're so close/beyond the veil” phenomenon that would end up with me being portrayed by a tired-looking actress in a dramatization on some cable TV show;

D. All of the above PLUS the cat woke me up at 6:30 on a Saturday morning, again, so that I could watch him eat after checking to make sure that The Princess, was indeed, peacefully sleeping in her bed.

Now mind you, it is 9 p.m. on a Saturday night and The Little Prince isn't home yet.

Not that I'm worried.

Yo No Hablo Teenage Boy-O

When the children were little I wished they came with instructions.

I realize that was a very silly wish. They don't listen to instructions, and I never read them.

They are both teenagers now and I know what I really need is some sort of Rosetta Stone for teen speak. Or teen non-speak, as the case may be.

The Princess is getting easier to understand. I'm not sure whether that is because she is quickly approaching the end of her teenage years, or because I have some personal experience with teenage girl speak. She may not want to believe it, but I once was a teenage girl myself. It's like they say: if you learn a language as a child, you never completely forget it. Teenage girl and adult girl also have some common linguistic components.

I remember, or have learned, that a girl-child can change the meaning of the word “Mother” simply by changing which syllable is emphasized (“MO-ther” vs. “moth-ER”). Likewise, the volume, tone and spoken length of any individual sound (“Mmmmmmmmother” vs. “Motherrrrrrr” for example) can be altered to adjust the meaning.

Teenage girl non-verbal communication is just as, if not more, complicated. The simple eye roll can have many and varied meanings, from “I can't believe you're such a dork,” to “of course I love you.” Sometimes it can have more than one meaning simultaneously.

When it comes to The Little Prince, however, I am completely at a linguistic loss. Yo no hablo boy-o.

The Little Prince has become a surly foreign exchange student skulking about our house, leaving his room only to procure food (to take back to his room) or to scowl at the printer. He speaks an undocumented dialect of an unrecorded language that, for all of its complexity apparently consists of only three phrases: “Uh-huh" (affirmative?), "Nuh-uh" (negative?), and "Dunno" (everything else). His eye rolls, shoulder shrugs and grunts are in a dialect that is completely different than his sister's.

Last night, when I returned from a four-day absence, I stood, smiling, in his doorway waiting for a “Hi, Mom! Welcome back.” What I got was an impatient “Yeah?”

I hugged him anyway.

It's hard to believe that this towering stranger, with facial hair and deepening voice was once my cuddly, little boy. OK, so he was never that cuddly, but he was the little boy I held tight in my mother-arms. The little boy who exactly matched and filled the little-boy shaped space that had been formed in my mother-heart.

Now my head rests against his shoulder on the rare occasion when I am able to ambush him from behind to wrap him up in a tackle/hug. More often than not he turns around and heads the other way when he sees me coming. Much like dogs sense fear, teenage boys sense incoming Mom hugs. Although, sometimes I like to think that his evasive maneuvers are purposefully a step slow, or that he waits an extra beat before attempting an escape, allowing me time to sigh contentedly as that little-boy shaped space fills in once again.

This morning he stopped by my desk as he headed out the door to school. For a moment he just stood there looking at me expectantly.

“Do you need something, honey? ” I asked, my Mom-radar pinging away.

“My laundry basket is overflowing,” he said.

“Well, I'd be happy to teach you...” I started, my temper flaring.

Then I saw the smirk on his face, and I understood him perfectly. No translation was needed.

I love you too, Little Prince.

Shorts Shopping Short Shrift

After fourteen years on this earth, The Little Prince has decided to wear shorts.

When he was a baby I could dress him in whatever I wanted, but as soon as he was able to stomp his little foot and open the dresser drawer by himself, he declared a moratorium on shorts. In the grand scheme of things this non-shorts stance was not a problem. As long as he wore something on the bottom part of his torso I was happy.

In the mom scheme of things this non-shorts stance was a problem. You see, I am the therMOMeter. If I am cold, the children should put on sweatshirts. If I am hot, they should wear shorts.

They, however, have a different view of things. I carry a sweatshirt with me on even the hottest, most humid days Iowa can conjure up in July and August. They will consent to putting a sweatshirt in the car when we head out in the middle of a January blizzard.

So when The Little Prince announced he wanted to wear shorts, I nearly tore the door off the hinges in my haste to get him to the mall before he changed his mind. We returned victorious after a no-frills, fast break offense shopping trip: one store, two shoppers, three pairs of shorts.

I was not quite as excited a week later when he announced that he needed more shorts because two of the three pair (already de-tagged and washed) didn't fit.

I swear he tried them all on at the store, but I was so thrilled he was even considering shorts that I might have been hallucinating. There is also a chance that he was tired of trying on clothes and, having found one pair in a size that fit, assumed that any pair in that size would fit. A seasoned veteran knows that even two identical items of clothing – the same size, brand, style, and color – will not necessarily both fit. Only the clothing manufacturers that control that particular ring of hell could tell you why.

Shopping Trip #2: We found ourselves back at the same store, looking for the same shorts, different size. The level of enthusiasm was not quite as high this time.

“The shorts that didn't fit, I'm assuming they were too big?” I asked as we wandered around looking for the racks and racks of shorts that were there just a week earlier.

“Eh.”

“So, what was wrong with them?”

“There's too much fabric,” he said.

“So, they're too big,” I spoke slowly and clearly, because obviously he did not understand me the first time.

He shrugged.

I decided to try a new approach.

“When you put them on, can you hold the waistband out away from yourself like this?” I demonstrated pulling on my own shorts. “And is there enough room to fit another person in there?”

“Mo-om,” he said, rolling his eyes the way his sister taught him.

Despite his utter lack of help, I finally found a variety of sizes for him to try on.

“Those have too much fabric,” he said, pointing at the wide legs on one pair. Ah ha! Too much fabric! Now we were getting somewhere. Maybe.

“Well, they are cargo pants... with cargo pockets... just like the ones you have on,” I said, gritting my teeth.

He shrugged.

I put that pair back.

“And those are too short,” he said, pointing at another pair.

“You haven't tried them on. How can you tell they're too short?” I asked.

“The tag says 'above the knee',” he said.

“But they're....” I compared them to the pair he had on, which were exactly the same length.

He shrugged. Back on the rack they went.

That left two pair for him to try on. They both fit nicely, I thought. But he looked miserable.

“Do you think they fit?” I asked.

“I guess.”

“Do you like them?”

“Eh.”

“Will you wear them?”

“No.”

“Then don't get them!” I growled, admitting defeat and wondering how much alcohol I could buy with the money we weren't spending on shorts.

“We could move to Canada,” he suggested, a smile brightening his face. “Then I wouldn't have to worry about shorts!” I'm not sure that reasoning is sound, but I seriously considered it for a moment.

We returned empty handed from that trip, but I had a plan: next time we would take The Princess with us. For some unknown, sibling-only reasoning, he will take fashion advice from her (probably because she lovingly threatens to “end him” if she doesn't like what he's wearing).

Shopping Trip #3: I turned the two of them loose in Young Men's and followed at a discreet distance. That is, until I heard peals of laughter. They were looking at everything except what they were supposed to be looking for, and The Princess had picked out two t-shirts – from the Young Men's sale rack – that she assured me she could not live without. When I reminded them of their assigned task, she tossed one pair of shorts at him and took off for the Junior Girl's section.

After much searching and bullying on my part, The Prince selected cargo shorts in dark grey, light black, and charcoal. Identical to the pair he had on.

As I waited outside the dressing room I realized that, this being August in Iowa, shorts-wearing weather will be drawing to a close soon and we'll have to head back out to buy long pants.

Or I could move him to Mexico. Then he wouldn't have to worry about long pants.

Sharing 5 Seconds with The Princess

The Queen Mother did many, many wonderful things for me, but she never took me to a rock concert.

Plays, musicals, speech contests... heck, we even saw dancer Bobby Burgess (of Lawrence Welk fame) at the Muscatine County Fair... but never a rock concert.

In her defense, she did buy me tickets to see Richard Marx at the fair, and she didn't quibble when I wanted to see Billy Idol in concert (I may have led her to believe he was a modern-day Pat Boone).

I thought of all this while I was sitting next to The Princess at the 5 Seconds of Summer concert last weekend in Tinley Park, Illinois.

This was our Second-Annual Boy Band Concert Excursion, having successfully navigated St. Louis to see One Direction last summer. Throw in rapper Huey Mack (an introduction to the Iowa City bar-band scene) and I'd say we've hit the trifecta or scored a hat trick or, well… let's just say she's widened my range of musical influences.

Some people who are not as hip as me (and obviously I'm pretty damn hip), have asked me what the difference is between One Direction and 5SOS (pronounced “five-sauce” by the cool kids). Originally I thought the only difference was that 5SOS had four members, while 1D had five. But now that Zayn has left 1D (drama!), you can't judge a band by the numbers.

At the concert I decided the real difference is in how those band members fit the time-honored, boy band line-up stereotypes. From the Beatles and the Monkees to NSYNC and Backstreet Boys, they've all had one “bad boy,” one “smart boy,” one “cute boy,” one “fun boy,” and one “sensitive boy” (as needed).

1D have (or had) one of each.

5SOS has 2.5 bad boys.

Of course The Princess' favorite 5SOS member is the lead singer – the .5 bad boy. At the concert he was wearing a grey t-shirt (not “bad boy”) in contrast to his pierced lip (“bad boy”). The other “bad boys” are the drummer (he's the drummer, so, duh, and he was wearing his hair in a “mun” or man-bun), and the guitarist (eyebrow piercing and Harley Davidson t-shirt). The bass guitarist, he of the baby face and prep-logo t-shirt, I figure is about as clean cut as possible these days.

When I ran my bad boy ratio theory by The Princess she looked at me like I was totally not cool, and explained that 5SOS plays punk/pop, while 1D plays pop/pop. That may be why I like 5SOS both more than and at the same time less than 1D. I like the edgy sound to the 5SOS songs (although they all sounded like one long teen-age girl's scream until their cover of Green Day's “American Idiot”). But the mom in me likes 1D's lyrics (“You don't know you're beautiful/That's what makes you beautiful), better than 5SOS's (“You look so perfect standing there/In my American Apparel underwear”).

When it comes right down to it, it's not about parents enjoying their children's music (although I like it all well enough). It's about parents enjoying their children's happiness. I'm certainly not a perfect mom – when I offered to spend an equivalent seven-hours travel-time in the car with The Prince he looked horrified – but I'm trying. And of course I'm not alone.

The mom next to me at the concert said Led Zeplin was more to her liking, but she was at 5SOS to make her 14-year-old daughter happy. They had gone to 1D last summer, too. As the speakers blared Europe's “The Final Countdown” in preparation for 5SOS's big opening all four of us sang along.

“This is what we went to back in the day,” laughed the almost-as-cool-as-me mom.

Despite the age differences and the relative hip/unhipness of parents, most of us stood and kind of swayed along to all the songs – except for the parents who had their camera phones trained on the stage (presumably at their kids' request). And when 5SOS played their latest song, "She's Kinda Hot"  – which they had just “dropped” (see? I even picked up the cool lingo) a couple weeks earlier – we all knew the words and sang along.

Just like everyone sang along when 5SOS covered The Ramone's “What I Like About You” to end the show. Green Day and The Ramones? Those bad boys are growing on me.

The Princess and I had such a good time enjoying the mix of old and new music that I offered to take her with me to see Billy Joel at Wrigley Field. It was kind of hard to read her expression, what with all the lasers and strobe lights, but I'm pretty sure she looked excited.

Especially when I said we could spend the day shopping along Chicago's Magnificent Mile instead of going to the Art Institute.

It's all about compromise and sharing what you love.

With the ones you love.

Driver's (dr)Ed

The Little Prince has turned 14, so the kingdom is all in an uproar as we wrestle with the most important of questions:

Who is going to teach him how to drive?

In theory, none of us can officially teach him how to drive, because the state has mandated that only licensed professionals (who have paid the state for their license) can teach driving.

In reality, no one wants their kid to be the one who hops in the driver's ed car and doesn't know where the key goes.

In practicality, this is kind of like cleaning your house before the cleaning service comes. Except in this case the state says it is illegal for you to clean your own house. (Now there's a law I could get behind.)

I'm not saying that parents should be solely responsible for teaching their kids to drive. I know – and regularly rant – about all the morons out there with a driver's license who: A. Shouldn't have a license; B. Shouldn't be allowed to drive; 3. Shouldn't be allowed to teach anyone else how to drive; and D. Should stay out of my way.

And I'm not saying that I'm a perfect driver, because while I'm closer than most, none of us are perfect.

And that's the cause of the civil disturbance in the castle. Each of the licensed drivers in our household has their own set of … disqualifiers.

So I asked The Little Prince who he wanted to teach him to drive.

The Princess answered for him (as is the right of the older sister): “Not Dad, because he yells.”

“I DON'T YELL!” The King yelled from the other room. “I INSTRUCT.”

“LOUDLY,” The Princess added. “It made me nervous.”

I do not speak loudly or sharply. I use my calm, “inside” voice, so as not to unnerve the driver. I've watched the wildlife videos. I know what happens when you startle the animals. Nothing good can come from startling a twitchy teenage driver.

I do, however, press both feet firmly against an imaginary brake pedal as well as stiff-arming the dashboard and/or ceiling to brace for potential impact. Apparently this is not considered reassuring or calming behavior.

“And you run red lights,” The Prince said looking pointedly at me.

In my defense, I really, really thought I saw the light turn green. Imagine my surprise when I pulled into the intersection and noticed no one else was moving. But hey! There was no cross traffic, and we'd been sitting there For. Ev. Er. And the light was going to turn green... eventually.

Speaking of which, it totally does NOT count as running a red light if it was yellow when you entered the intersection. Or when you intended to enter the intersection. Or when you didn't realize there was a stop light there.

So now we've narrowed the potential teacher list down to The Princess. Both she and The Prince (in a rare instance of agreement) think she is the most qualified. I have to admit that despite having just over two years of driving experience herself – or maybe because of it – she probably is the most law-abiding, technically accurate driver in the family.

Which also makes her the most annoying driver.

Like when she comes to a complete stop at a stop sign for the recommended three seconds.

Three. Whole. Seconds.

One Miss-ahhhh-sipp-i.

Two Miss-ahhhh-sipp-i.

Three Miss-ahhain't nobody got time for thi-sipp-i!

So in the end, The Little Prince will probably learn to drive the way he learned to play drums and guitar, and to skateboard: the internet and video games.

He's already aced Grand Theft Auto.

How much different can real driving be?

Frock You

By the time you read this, WBHS Homecoming 2014 will be just a memory.

By the time I recover from dress shopping for WBHS Homecoming 2014 it will be time for WBHS Homecoming 2015.

And The Princess will be shopping without me. It's safer for everyone that way.

Teenage girls are proficient pack shoppers – provided it is within a pack of their peers. Introduce an adult figure and the thrill of the hunt and ultimately the bagging of big game suffers. Ironic, considering it is usually the adult who controls the funds.

I remember going to the mall with my friends. No one else will be as brutally honest about the clothes you try on – certainly not someone whose commission depends upon the purchase. (“Yes. That does make your butt look like you could show a double feature on it.”) Your mother just doesn't share your sense of style, finely honed as it was/is by Seventeen or Pintrest. And only another teen could hit the food court with equal gusto. (“Fro-yo and a diet soda will totally not make your butt any bigger.”)

Unfortunately the pack-hunt mentality broke down this time. Probably because The Princess does not like to shop. (I know! Right? I think she was switched at birth.) Believe me, there is nothing more un-fun than high-pressure shopping (absolutely, positively, gotta have it) with someone who doesn't like to shop. And this was a high-pressure situation. There was just a week before the big dance, and every weeknight was filled with Homecoming Week activities.

To keep the mood light, I decided to treat this as a learning opportunity and a chance for mother-daughter bonding, rather than a buy-or-die situation. What I learned is that The Princess and I have totally different approaches to shopping, and that shopping for a Homecoming dress has changed a lot since back in the day.

How things have changed #1

Back in the day we shopped for a “homecoming outfit;” typically a wool-plaid or corduroy skirt and a sweater with bat-wings or a cowl neck. I'm not sayin' they were good fashion choices, but they were practical – warm, full coverage, and you could wear them again.  (There is photographic evidence... which will not be shared.)

And the whole thing cost less than a car payment.

The current Eastern Iowa girls' Homecoming attire trend  is a fancy party dress: the shorter, the tighter, the sparklier, the better. And only good for one wearing. You don't even want to think about the per-hour cost.

How things have changed #2

These days the pack hunters don't have to actually hunt as a pack. Thanks to cell phones, Twit-a-gram and the such, they can spread out and hit many more stores in the same amount of time.

“Why don't we check out X store,” I'd suggest. The Princess' thumbs would fly across the screen of her phone and she'd report haughtily “Randi was just there. They don't have anything.”

Once potential dresses were located, The Princess' modus operandi was simple: Grab as many as you can – without looking at the size – and sort them out in the dressing room. But it took her Fore. Ev. Er. to try them on. At first I thought she was having trouble with the zippers. Then I realized that she had to photograph and Snap-Twit pics of each dress to her pals for an instant opinion.

Did Mom get to see any of them?

No.

Not until the very end, when it was crunch time and the stores were ready to close... when I was seriously considering buying the outrageously expensive (but gorgeous) dress, just to end the pain and misery. (Mine. Not hers.)

One thing hasn't changed: The Mom Kiss of Death.

At one store which had a plethora of fancy dresses (it looked like the sequin factory had exploded) I watched a Happy Mother-Daughter Combo enter. Obviously they had just started their shopping trip as they were still smiling, walking side-by-side and talking to each other. They stopped to browse at the front and center display (designed to capture your attention and build expectations, only to brutally shoot them down later). Daughter seemed taken by one particularly fluffy frock, going so far as to touch the ruffles and check the size before moving on.

Mom then approached the dress, took a surreptitious look at the (reasonable) price tag and said “This one's cute.”

You could hear a collective intake of breath as all the other Moms in the store turned as one, a look of shock and horror on our faces. We mouthed a silent, low motion warning: “Nooooooooooooooooo.”

Time stood still. Daughter turned around gave the dress one more look, wrinkled her nose and said “Eh” before stalking off.

Number one rule of the hunt for Moms: Never appear too interested in the quarry.

Number one rule of the hunt for Daughters: Enforce Mom's rule Number One.

Need I point out that the dress The Princess finally bought (rather, I bought) was the same one we saw at the first store, four hours, countless stores and two cities before it was actually purchased?

And it looked beautiful on her.

I Am Not An Animal... I Am A Teacher!

Since I started teaching for reals again, several people have asked me how my kids like having me at their school.

We've been lucky, I guess. Even when I was substitute teaching I rarely had my own kids in class. Sooner or later I will have The Prince for a short, junior high exploratory class. And The Princess has threatened to take my baking class next semester. (Really? You never want to be in the kitchen with me at home! Feel safer with witnesses around, do you?)

But that's not my point.

My point is, no one has asked how I like having my kids at my school.

Answer: I'm not sure.

On the one hand, it's no big deal. The Prince totally ignores me. He would walk down a different hall to avoid being anywhere near me if he could, but he can't, so I take every opportunity to wave at him and embarrass him. Nah, actually I grew tired of that after 10 or 20 times, so I don't even look for him anymore.

And when The Princess forgets to have a permission slip signed, needs money for yet another spirit t-shirt or doesn't bring her lunch, she can just pop down to my room. And when I forget my computer, she's willing to run home to get it and take an “excused tardy” for the team.

On the other hand, The Prince totally ignores me and The Princess can pop in to my room whenever she needs something. And she feels free to give me fashion advice – loudly – whenever she sees me in the hall.

Having taught before and having suffered through the perpetual ignorance of being a substitute (“No, really, our teacher always lets us go to lunch 20 minutes early”), I thought it would be great to know who's who at the zoo. I looked forward to having FOPPs (Friends of The Prince and Princess) in class.

And for the most part, it has been fun. There's less of the ol' switcheroo while I'm taking attendance. I do wield a little group-Mom power when dealing with scofflaws in the hallway, as in “Does your Mom know you talk like that, and would you like me to tell her what you said when I see her at the next PTO meeting?”

But there are times when it's hard for all of us to remember that I am Mrs. Salemink, and not Mrs. Gabby's Mom. Or that there are times when I am Mrs. Gabby's Mom the Teacher, and not just Mrs. Gabby's Mom the Mom.

My first time around as a teacher – when my kids were The Princess-ling and Prince-let – there were a couple of students who were a real pain in my… side. But a wise, veteran educator taught me this lesson:

Every student is someone's child.

You can take this two ways.

One: We only have to put up with the little monsters for an hour or two each weekday. Their parents have them All. The. Time.

Or Two: They may be a pain in the ass at school, but someone, somewhere, loves them unconditionally (I hope). They are the center of someone's universe (besides their own). They are the sunshine of someone's life. They embody someone's hopes and dreams for the future.

As my own children grew and I gained more exposure to the great unwashed, overly body-sprayed, hormonally-charged cauldron of angst and uncertainty that is junior high and high school, I realized that pre-teens and teens are human too (despite evidence to the contrary). They carry around the same steamer trunk filled with insecurities and the same mis-matched emotional baggage we all have. They gently cradle the same ticking time bomb of crisis potential that we all hold.

They just do it with more drama. And volume. And in groups. Cloaked in a cloud of body-spray.

Unfortunately I am a slow learner and I have to remind myself precisely seventy gazillion times a day not to take it personally. They are not deliberately trying to drive me crazy. They are just teens being teens.

But if I could, I would like to teach them this lesson:

Every teacher is someone's parent (or favorite aunt/uncle/cousin or child).

You only have to put up with us for an hour or two each weekday. Our families have to put up with us All. The. Time.

We have children/family/pets of our own who are the center of our universe, and we do our best to provide gravity and stability to their universe. They might not admit it, but they love us (or at least like us a little bit... sometimes). We bask in their sunshine and worry about their future.

We carry around the same steamer trunk filled with insecurities and the same mis-matched emotional baggage that you do, but ours have broken handles and are held shut with duck tape. We gently cradle the same ticking time bomb of crisis potential as you do, but we've learned how to set the snooze alarm on ours.

And one more thing:

I may be a mom but I'm not your mom, so pick up after yourself!