Children really do watch what you do. For instance, perhaps you are always a wee bit befuddled and try to accomplish several things simultaneously and therefore never actually finish anything, but instead have many things halfway done. So, you just don't have much room left in your brain because you are never really in your brain in the moment. And so you make lists to try and stay on track. Lots and lots and lots of lists on scraps of paper everywhere. To-do lists. Grocery shopping lists. Dinner idea lists. Books to read lists. Things to look-up lists.

And then it should come as no surprise when your son presents to you, as though you are a twosome scheduled in a business meeting, his notebook filled with his agenda for the next week: the errands we have to run per my declarations, the play dates we have scheduled, the visitors we have coming ...

Okay, well after posting my little temper tantrum yesterday, I power shopped and power wrapped and got everything done. And made cookies to boot.

Duke opened the door later that night to my beyond wonderful friends singing me Christmas carols and bearing gifts to thank-me for what they consider my kindness towards them. I was blown away. 100%. With everything they do for me, with all the unconditional love and support they send my way, to even fathom that they thought I was worthy of such a beautiful display when I could never thank them enough for all they do just blows my mind.

And then today I was at Mort's school and to see all those smiling, delighted little faces and hear a million high sweet voices singing Christmas carols...it's like my It's a Wonderful Life moment. Who am I to be so bah-humbug when I am so unbelievably blessed to be surround by such beauty and love?

I have never before been this behind on Christmas. I still have presents to think up in addition to actually purchasing them. I haven't wrapped anything. I have no meal plans. No cookies. I don't know what I'm doing.

Luckily someone gifted Mort that Christmas countdown ornament so every two minutes or so he informs me of how much further I've fallen behind.

Someday I'm going to be old enough to go to an island for Christmas and not deal with any of this.

Well, we'll see how this all turns out. The student teacher for Mort's classroom will soon be leaving. As such, his permanent teacher has arranged a surprise party for her. His teacher has stressed over and over that this is a secret and please remind your children to keep this a secret, etc etc.

Mort doesn't really do secrets. If you tell him something is a secret, it's a surefire way to make him blurt it out. So I've been dropping off supplies and gifts without his knowledge.

However, he did discover my volunteer time this week would be different due to the party. "But why?" he kept pressing. So I told him.

Immediately he worried, "But what if Ms.--- asks where you are?" In hindsight, I should have just instructed him to say he didn't know. It's believable and not a total lie. Instead I said, "Uh, just say I'm sick." Which is a lie and I instantly felt bad for instructing him to lie.

No worries though because Mort wanted to expand on that lie like nobodies' business. "I'll tell her you've been having headaches off and on and your stomach hurts!" he exclaimed.

"I doubt she'll even ask, sweetie, but if she does you can just say I'm sick."

"I'll tell her you just really wanted to sleep in today!"

"Honey, you can just say I'm sick, but really, I don't think you'll have to say anything."

I have a feeling that when I show-up, there will be surprises all around. His teacher will be surprised when I come in at all because he will have told her that I was sick and/or sleeping it off and his student teacher will know all about her surprise party because Mort will have told her he can't wait for her surprise party the minute he walked into the classroom.

So, I work with children on a regular basis. And the reoccurring theme is, "My mom and dad don't live together." Hey, mine don't either, so no biggie. Except that they did when I was in first grade and I think Mort is one of the very few kids in his class that lives in a two parent family.

Anyway, the bigger fish to fry on this topic was that I was helping the kids write their autobiographies and they would draw pictures of the two, sometimes three houses that they split their times amongst: Mommy's, Daddy's, and Grandma's. Mommy and Grandma usually were depicted as having fairly small houses, while Daddy had a very large house. Whether this is because it was true or merely a child's perception, I don't know.

The other thematic common was that, "I like my dad better. Mommy is mean." Daddy in these books was depicted as playing frisbee and video games and visiting the playground with the kids. Mommy wasn't usually depicted at all.

Considering that Mommy is the custodial parent in these situations, I couldn't help but wonder at the child's perception of "mean." Because my guess is that Daddy sees the kids on weekend, maybe even more, but isn't responsible for the day-to-day raising of the child and so therefore has the luxury of playing with them to their child's hearts' content. Which is wonderful for the child and I applaud the dads who are doing this and making an effort to be a dad even though they may not live with their child full-time. I think it's rare in today's world , so rock on.

And I know that someday the kids will realize that their mom wasn't mean, but that she was probably working full-time and then juggling the day-to-day parenting responsibilities on her own. She's the one who has to enforce bedtime rules, help with homework, make sure you are eating well, and watching age-appropriate, limited amounts of TV. She has to make sure you have clean clothes, have brushed your teeth, played outside, cleaned your room, are using your manners, and while she is doing this and working outside the home, she has to do all the work inside the home as well, the cooking, the cleaning, the grocery shopping, the bill-paying, the keeping up with obligations to extended family members...

And she probably has to do all of this while being told that she's mean and daddy is fun.

I know that just by the nature of our personalities and my being the primary caregiver for Mort, Duke is much more fun then I and devotes a lot more time to playing with Mort than coaxing him to eat his vegetables. And that's okay, because we're a team. But for a single mom, I hope the time of their children thinking that they're mean, rather than a superwoman comes sooner rather than later.

Well, I hate to be a quitter(actually, that's not true. I have no problem quitting things at the drop of a hat), but I may have to give up one of my volunteer positions at Mort's school. I love being in his classroom and helping the kids. That feels purposeful and good and I hope to do it for as long as his teachers welcome parent helpers.

I do not love the second volunteer position as book-putter-awayer. It was one thing in kindergarten to do that job: go to the teachers' classes, collect their books, re card and reshelve them alone int he book room for maybe an hour. But in first grade I'm spending anywhere from two to four hours doing this. At that point, I feel like I'm an aide and it should be paid work. Which it isn't. And in kindergarten, I have to say the teachers were so sweet and thanked me so profusely that it made me feel like I was truly doing something to help the kindergarten as a whole. And while there a re some first grade teachers who are just about as nice and grateful as anyone could be that warm my heart, there are an almost equal amount who scowl and frown and act as though I'm putting them out when I show up to collect their bins. It's just too much, I think. Ugh. How do you quit a volunteer position?

Funny Mort-isms I don't want to forget:

Duke was doing his P90X ab-ripper exercises when Mort walked in. Duke happened to be in the middle of a break before starting the next set.

"What are you doing?" asked Mort.

"Ab exercises," replied Duke.

"What do you call that one?" Mort asked. "Sit?"

Duke returned from a business trip last night looking very professional and businessy. After launching himself at him, Mort stepped back to study Duke's outfit. "You look all ...like a 'sir', " Mort remarked.

"That's because I am. When I'm in the office, everyone there calls me 'sir'," Duke told him.

"Why?" Mort asked "Because they don't know your name?"

I think the part we like best is that he isn't a kid making language faux pas anymore. He is funny. He makes actual snarky well-timed remarks. Love it.

My aching shoulder and back (in the future I will not have a weight lifting day at the gym, cart around big crates of books at Mort's school, and pull weeds and cut back plants for the fall all on the same day and all without having remembered to do even one set of my 120 repetitions of physical therapy prescribed back exercises that keep my back from waking me up in the middle of the night)woke me at midnight. I watched Fashion Police and then the season finale of Project Runway. Except I had the television set to "sleep" and it turned off right before they announced who won. I'm thinking Mondo. He was the only one with real talent and vision this season.

I went back to bed around 3. Mort came in our room at 5, completely disorientated and not quite awake but insisting it was time to get up(too much trick or treating?). So I laid in bed with him until he fell back asleep. 5:30 a.m. And then of course, i got up. Because I couldn't go back to sleep.

At least it's a lay around kind of day today: grocery shopping, finding an easy costume for Mort's party at school today because Mort informed me last night that he broke mine last year's, hence why I couldn't find it. Helping 22 first graders get into their costumes. And helping to keep 22 first graders under control when they're overflowing with excitement and too much sugar. Perhaps my lack of sleep will give everything an air of surrealism....

Knowing I have complained and dreaded soccer season in years past, I would to take this opportunity to say what a pleasure this season has been. Mort tried really hard (no using his "magic powers" to move the ball, no cartwheels on the field, no climbing on the soccer net--- just good old fashioned running and kicking), no rabid parents screeching at their children and mine, (okay, maybe I yelled alot but it was all POSITIVE yelling), no coaches trying their best to reduce children to tears ("Sweep the leg, Johnny!") and we were fortunate enough to have coaches who actually coached and patiently explained positions and plays to the team. In addition to having such positive, kind coaches, we were also part of a team filled with really nice hard-working kids who had positive attitudes and supported each other whole-heartily.

I'll miss watching the team play soccer and I am thankful for such a heartening experience. Mort has already announced he wants to play again in the spring.

I gots to rant. You don't gotta read.

I was dropping off Mort at school and walking back to my car when one of the women who works at the school gave me a big smile and said to another school employee with a sigh, "Wouldn't you love to have the day off? I'd love to have the day off from work and throw on a hoodie and a pair of sweats," all the while smiling at me in my hoodie and sweats.

And to her I have several points I'd like to make:

1) I was wearing gym clothes because I was going to the gym, not because I have "off from work." I do not wear gym clothes in real life as I do not deem them acceptable. Gym clothes are for the gym. Period. That is not to say that I won't throw on a hoodie, but it will not be in conjunction with any other clothes that could be worn to the gym.

2) I did not have "off work" because I am a lazy-ass, bon-bon popping, soap opera watching stay-at-home mom that you see driving her kid to and fro school every day. I have a paying job from which I telecommute and by the way, I don't wear sweatpants for that either.

3) Even if I didn't have a paying job, my job as a stay-at-home mom is a JOB. It is work. It is every bit as valid and infinitely more important than sitting in an office all day and collecting doctor's excuses or whatever it is that you do. I am raising my child to be the best, happiest version of himself he can be. And if you think for a second that isn't work, than you must not have children or else you aren't staying at home to raise them. And by the way, I don't wear sweatpants for my job as a mother, either.

P.S. Yes, I recognize that I'm bringing a bit of my own insecurities and defensiveness to a seemingly innocent remark...or WAS IT?

Next up on the rant list is also directed at a woman who works at Mort's school. Mort used to come home from school with his entire lunch box full. He was going 8 hours having eaten NOTHING. That, to me, is pretty horrifying. This year, however, we have had a break through. And Mort now comes home with an empty lunch box, save for the crusts of his sandwich, which we as a family, have decided is perfectly acceptable. He eats all his packed veggies, all his packed fruit and all the parts of his sandwich that aren't touched by crusts. And yet this woman has taken it upon herself to start chiding Mort for not "doing a good job" eating his sandwich.

To which I would like to say, "Step off, yo." If you have a serious concern with what my child is eating, please schedule a meeting with his father and I and do not berate him for eating what we have decided will best work for him to provide him with a balanced lunch while he is at school. He is 6 and he just hears your criticism, not realizing you clearly have your own food demons. His crusts will not help the starving children in Africa or whatever your rationale may be.

Perhaps you could spend your lunch duty policing the kids who are buying their "lunches" and scooping up three desserts and nothing else. Or perhaps you could worry about the parents who are bringing large Cokes and a bag of fast food into school for lunch for their 6 year olds?

And now I feel better. Thank-you for your time.

We got a new front door. Not because we wanted to, but because we're grown-ups. And sometimes after living for five years with a door that is peeling (okay, more like vomiting)paint and literally rotting around the edges and sagging in its frame, it's time to take a tremendous amount of money that could have been used on something fun like a vacation or groceries or puppies or new socks for Mort who seems to make holes in socks just by looking at them and agree that the door has to be replaced.

And see kids, those are the things that you think you can't wait for when you're all yelling about how you can't wait to be a grown-up and eat ice cream for breakfast every day. It comes down to buying new doors, learning to reset your car's computer every season because you drive such a specialized car that it needs to know that the weather has changed and therefore the tire pressure will be a little different and when you call the people at the dealership and ask them to do it, they insist it's easy and you can put on your big girl panties and do it yourself. Which is absolutely true, but that's not the point. The point is that I don't want to do those things.

Nor do I want to have to hunt around for the fancy pants impossible to find oil that my high performance car eats like I'm driving on the Autobahn and have to learn to check a dipstick and put in more oil, when in reality I'm just a mom driving her kid to school in a teeny station wagon and going to the gym. Can't relate? Oh, it will happen to you, too.

Just like 107 years ago when I went to the Homecoming Dance my senior year, I wore an extremely daring off the shoulder dress that reached the middle of my calves. And flat shoes. But it was off the shoulder, people. Scandalous. And then this weekend I saw oodles of kids going to their Homecoming Dance, and even though I could swear some of them are in Mort's 1st grade class, the girls were wearing dresses that made me oh so glad I have a boy.

Except someone's mom bought those dresses for them, so I guess their moms were okay with their daughters looking like that. And by that, I mean whores. Do I have to spell out everything? I have a rule of thumb(terrible expression if you know its origins, but you probably don't and I don't feel like going into it right now) and it's pretty simple: if your underwear shows when you bend over, it's not a dress. It's a shirt. And you need to wear pants with it. Apparently high school girls do not share this rule. Also, if you have to wear double stick tape so that your still undeveloped cleavage isn't on display but you aren't on MTV, you shouldn't be wearing it. Again, I am obviously an old fogie in this department as well.

Also, I like freedom of speech very very much, but if you're going to hold up horrible signs while people bury their children, shouldn't you as a grieving parent have a right to freely shoot those people with rubber bullets at the very least? Or taser them? How about BB guns and attack dogs? Vats of boiling oil?

I have to go clean the woodwork and help Mort make a boat for Columbus Day now.

Well, in the obscene amount of time that has passed since I last wrote, quite a bit has happened. I found my new favorite nail polish. I did all the weeding and cutting back of our outdoor area. I installed a new door knob in the mud room. I reached my weight loss goal of the ten pounds needed to fit into my clothes, only to discover that going to the gym means that my clothes I've been longing to wear again are now all too big because despite being back at the same weight I've been since 1998, I guess I am now more compact. So I look like I'm an Olsen twin. Not because I look child-like, homeless and simian, just because I look like my clothes are too big in an unflattering way.

And best of all, I watched my sister bring her son into the world. And I'm not going to get all double rainbow on you and weep about how magical it was. Except of course I AM going to do that because it was beyond amazing. And she was amazing and her son is amazing. And I could stare at his little face with its ever-changing expressions all day and smell his little baby scent and feel his little heartbeat. He is better than any double rainbow. No matter how many drugs you've taken.

August 16

Our day started yesterday with a lovely way to round up supplies. We went into town, where one store sold produce, another sold charcoal and lighter fluid, and still another was the friendly neighborhood butcher. I am going to suspect I am bearing witness as to why the food smells and tastes so much better in Italy. Well, the whole grow local/shop local thing and the lack of genetically modified food.

Ever since Duke and I have been traveling to Sabaudia(doesn't that make us sound worldly, like we're there all the time instead of having gone three times over seven years? Well, except for Duke who has been there five times. I think.), we have been wanting to walk the beach to what we always refer to as the castle, but it turns out was really just a watchtower commissioned by the pope in the 1600s. We generally get so far before we get tired and quit.

Today, however, Nick informed us it the walk was a mere 5k. We can do that! Duke runs more than that on a daily basis! And I...uh... go the gym and lift weights! Okay! So, we set off on our walk.

I noticed that 1) I easily have the most covered ass on the beach. And I thought I had brought a very daring swimsuit for me. Let's just say it showed a lot more of my behind than granny panties. But All the other women of every single age were showcasing either their entire heiney or the vast majority or it from the 80 somethings to the 7 year olds. wow. And that's not even taking into account all the tops that are M.I.A. Or the fact that all the men are wearing speedos. Except Duke. And Nick.

Oh and 2) Everyone is so tan that THEY ARE PURPLE. It's pretty impressive. I didn't even know people could be that tan. I certainly never achieved that color when I was slathered in baby oil and lying on a roof. The tanners get very defensive when they are questioned and will quickly spout off facts as to how vitamin D is a necessity and rickets is making a comeback. Just for the record, not one of these purple folk need worry about vitamin D deficiency.

Also worth noting is the amount of compliments I have received for my desperate-to-not-achieve tan that I developed this summer despite wearing a hat, SPF 100 (my SPF 100 got huge laughs from the Italian crowd by the way) applied every 1/2 hour, and sitting in the shade. The Italians and Australians react with big smiles and admiring, "OH! You're so tan!" Americans react with exaggerated frowns of faux concern, horror and reproaching tones of "Ohhhh. Geez. You're so tan."

So, we made it to the watchtower ruins and they are pretty cool. Certainly not something we have littering any beaches in Maryland or Jersey. And speaking of Jersey: If the Italian-Americans who were up in arms about the Jersey Shore and their portrayal of Italians, they can put their fears to rest. Proper Italians are so far removed from Italian-Americans and certainly any member of the Jersey Shore cast(or The Real Housewives of New Jersey for that matter) that they may as well be an entirely different species. They just are. Sorry.

So, along the way to the ruins, Duke and Nick stopped to get an almond flavored Italian ice from the vendor who PUSHES A GIANT CART OF ICE BLOCKS up and down the sand all day long, scraping off the ice for the syrupy treat with a machete.

And then let's just say that only two of us made the return walk back to the beach towels. We walked from 1:30 until 4:30.One of us took the bus. (It was Nick). Post beach time but pre-barbeque time, we walked back to the beach and had mojitos and watched the sun set. In the eternal words of Ice-Cube, "Today was a good day."

Aug 15 Part II

I slept until noon. I could have slept longer, but Duke woke me up because the sun is poring over everything and the day is gorgeous and we have to buy supplies for tonight's barbecue before we lay ourselves down on the beach.

Last night we went to San Felice Circeo with DJ Nicky Nick and had appertivos and met-up with his sister Natalia and two of her Australian pals. And quite selfishly, I was glad that they were Australian because Nick and Natalia both speak perfect English in the way that many Europeans do, and I speak nothing but English in the way that many self-centered, ill-educated Americans do. So English speaking Australians were a lovely addition. And I do so admire and love how fluidly everyone is able to switch from language to language (I once got to witness a conversation between Nick and a French friend in which they used Italian, German, French, and English all effortlessly jumbled up in the same several sentences. Wouldn't that be an amazing thing to be able to do? )

There was shoe shopping amongst the females and easily the most stunning girl I have ever seen in real life at dinner. She made the Victoria Secret models look like The Real Housewives of NJ. It was like staring at living art--I couldn't look away. Natalia and Barbara were speaking in Italian and then explained that they had been questioning the same thing I wondered: Why was a girl that looked like that having dinner with a guy who was so drippy? Was he a cousin? A gay friend? But then they started holding hands and we all just had to shake our heads and surmise that he was either in possession of the most amazing personality in the world and/or she had no idea what she looked like.

I also noticed a new bra with which to wear strapless dresses and backless shirts: that would be any old bra. No need to use backless, strapless, taped-up contraptions. You just wear your bra and whatever shirt you want can go on top of it. My female peeps didn't seems to bat an eye at this, so I just had to be bitchy and puritanical to myself. And try to take pictures because I knew my fellow Americans would be as dismayed as I. Because they make racerback and strapless and backless bras. Yes, they do.

I was unfortunately still a zombie from the jet-lag, but we did get to see a Ricky Martin/Enrique Iglesias type singer do the single worst renditions of American songs in the square. Even his bandmates seemed disgusted. The crowd seemed to be laughing heartily, and yet, the show must go on as he wiggled and gyrated his way through Sting's "Fragile", Joan Osbourn's "What if God was One of Us?" and Pink Floyd's "The Wall." I have pictures, so I know that I wasn't just having jet-lagged hallucinations.

I know that in recounting my Italian journey, I haven't even yet made it successfully through the jet lag portion of the trip, but there's so much going on real time, that I haven't been able to travel back and recreate.

Mort has started first grade. If you do not have a school-age child, this will not seem monumental. But it really really is.I thought once I had accepted and adapted to kindergarten, I would be okay. But the beginning of first grade brought an equal amount of tears (from me, not him--he was excited to begin anew) and an equal feeling of loss and worry and fear and sorrow. He is doing what he should be doing:creating his own life, beginning the process of moving away from me. I suffer the emotions of every mother in that I want him back so that I can better appreciate and savor those moments of him learning to lift his head and discovering his feet and the sound of his baby laughter at a dozing, sun-soaked Stella.

I read somewhere that the first 20 years of your life are the longest. And I can still recall the agonizing slowness with which those years did seem to trickle. Each month was an eternity, always waiting and waiting for that next milestone. But as a parent, these past six years have literally passed(cliche alert) in the blink of an eye;overnight I awoke and no longer was I pregnant, but instead I had a first grader.

He loves school. He loves his teacher. He starts every day with a smile and ends every day with a smile. But my heart hurts with every lunch I pack. Last year he automatically held my hand as we crossed the parking lot and hugged me and kissed me and waved until I couldn't see him anymore. This year he runs through the doors with barely a good-bye and certainly does not have time to spare a backward glance for me, not knowing or caring that I watch until I know he is safe. And I do know intellectually that this means we are doing a good job, Duke and I. That Mort is secure and content. But finally I understand that quote that having children is to have your heart forever walking around outside of your body.

August 15 A.M.

I'm sitting on the roof deck looking at the mountain view profile of the witch Circe. Everyone is sleeping, as I should be, but maybe eight hours was enough? I'm a little wacky with the jet lag, but I did get to eat some of the mozzarella di bufalo yesterday. That is some seriously good sh*&. It rained off and on (?????) I didn't even know it could do that in the summer in Italy, but we sat on the beach anyway because Sabaudia is just that beautiful. I can see the sun trying to bust through the overcast clouds; hopefully it will be successful.

There are a stack of Italian magazines inside on the table: one is a Vanity Fair with a pretty blond (she's a television hostess? I don't think that translates into American?) on the cover, one is a tabloid with Italian soccer star Francesco Totti and the same pretty blond strolling hand-in-hand on the beach. They own the beach house next door and last night I could see the soccer guy sitting on the curb watching his son ride his bike. In front of his Ferrari. Duke is very very very excited about the Ferrari. I don't know who they are, seeing as how I'm American and all, but because there is paparazzi on the beach who follow them around and magazine covers with their smiling faces, I've decided they are the Italian Posh and Becks (Victoria and David Beckham). Although I will not voice that opinion aloud for fear that the Italians will kick me out of the country and never let me return.

I think I need to go back to bed.

August 14

I closed my eyes on the plane at 5:30p.m. (Chicago time; 6:30 East Coast style; 12:30 Roma flava) and didn't open them again until 9:00 p.m.(I couldn't even begin to translate that time for you) It was at that point that my i-pod slipped from my grasp and bounced off my eye mask, giant neck pillow, blanket and possibly even my don't-leave-home-without-'em fuzzy socks. I took off my handful of cocktail rings to blindly slide my hand between the seat and the armrest of the plane in search of said i-pod, thus losing all the rings that were piled upon my lap. I had neither contacts nor glasses on, so I truly couldn't see. All of my scrabbling awoke Duke, who was kind enough to use the flashlight app on his i-phone while I poked around under the seat and tried not to hit the feet of the man snoring behind me. I-pod was found. One ring was found. One ring was missing.

Back to sleep (I know,I know who would have thought a wee bit of an obsessive such as I could sleep when one of my rings was MIA?) and awoke again at 8:30 am Rome time, just as the breakfast cart was making its way down the aisle. I gulped down weak coffee and OJ. I had slept through dinner and my ever-loving Duke had saved me his brownie for several hours before giving in and eating it himself. Why he felt he should share this with me was anyone's guess.

As we were waiting to deboard the plane, Duke tore my airline seat apart with the zeal of one who was looking for that seat cushion floatation device. And damned if he didn't find my other ring. Yes he did. And that's why he rocks.

Our wonderfulest, beautiful Italian friend was waiting patiently for us at the airport, dressed appropriately for the 90 degree weather in long pants, a long sleeve shirt and a scarf. Should anyone need proof as to our Italian pal's level of awesomeness: he was fine to sit in the airport cafeteria while we shoveled in proper Italian espresso(oh my good Lord it tasted goooood) and pastries. He refrained from having any as, "It tastes like shit, man. It's airport food." But I know that I would be reluctant to hang out at all in an airport waiting for people to eat that grossy food in that grossy atmosphere. But he did it for us. That's what you call a good friend.

August 13

*In case you missed my previous musings on the subject, I am headed to Italy for the third time. In my previous visits, I've seen the must-see and off-the-beaten-path sights, hit the major cities, did the museums, etc, etc, etc and even ate at the places recommended in The Lonely Planet. This trip was all about just enjoying Italy and NOT feeling compelled to make the trip enlightening or educational in any way. The plan for this trip was just to be.

First leg of Italian journey has begun. My bag only weighed 32 pounds. Must be a record for me as I usually either pay a fine for going over or am forced at the last minute to try and frantically cram shoes and books into Duke's bag. Wicked tired. Was awake from 2-4 in the morning and up at 6:30. Hopefully this will translate into sleeping soundly throughout the transatlantic portion of the flight. Mort told me that he bets God and Jesus can run as fast as the speed of light. I'm trying to recall how to say "please", "thank-you" and "you're welcome." Going to read Sookie Stackhouse. No real Italians on this flight. You can always tell because their clothes just fit a bit differently than ours. In a better way.

Okay, lady. I've flown with a kid too. It is what it is. What I don't do is proactively go over all the terrible things that could possibly ever happen on a plane with my child. I'm not talking about explaining what to do in an emergency in response to a kid's query while the flight attendant reviews the emergency procedures. I'm talking about a mom who is just causally running through things that might happen: the plane might catch on fire and they (the kid and mom) would be engulfed in flames; the plane might run out of gas and crash to the ground; the plane might lose an engine and fall from the sky. And then ending that bit of cheeriness is the mom's admonishment, "Miranda! Put your shoes back on. The floor is all dirty." Maybe the nice cleansing plane fire will take care of all that dirt.

I'm a grown-up and that mom has me scared out of my mind. I'd better ask her what I should do if everyone is sleeping and there's lighting and I look out the window and see a demon ripping apart the airplane and no one will believe me. (Old Twilight Zone episode.)

Surprisingly, Miranda is now freaking out as the plane taxis down the runway. And she has spilled her juice. And her mom has made the announcement that if Miranda closes the window shade, mom is "going to throw up all over the place." This may be a very long flight.

I thought it was currently 1:30, but now I've just discovered Chicago is an hour behind the east coast and it's really only 12:30. How did I not know that? Do other people know these things? Of course they do. But do they know when it's appropriate to use an apostrophe with an "s?" No, no they do not.

And also, I know that the body of water near Chicago isn't an ocean, unlike that dumb-ass Miranda in the seat behind me who keeps yelling, "Look at the ocean!" It's a freaking lake, kid. Why don't you look at a damn map? See how I'm so much smarter than a 4 year old?

I am truly shattered with jet lag. Twenty hours of travel. I keep misspelling my own name. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I will think.

Wheeee! I just found out that I am going to be thanked by name in a book I co-edited. And the author is even a little bit famous in certain circles (but not as an author). That's all I'm saying on the subject, but this is the first time that has ever happened to me and I'm all giddy! Mort is super impressed. He said, "Mommy, you're going to be famous!" I had to let him down easy with a "Yes, I suspect I am." No, I actually replied, that I wasn't, but that I was very excited to have been mentioned since editing is typically very behind the scenes and only a being a wack-o OCD person and a paycheck really make it all worthwhile. "You're still famous to me," Mort replied solemnly.

And plus I just got up and went to the gym, coffee mug and straw in hand before my body was even aware of what I was doing. All of the sudden I looked around and was like,Wait, how did I get here and why am I doing seated leg presses? So I also have a bit of that already got my exercise for the day accomplished high going on.

What is this strange emotion? Could I possibly be... happy?!?

So, my darling Duke has come up with an idea for a small offshoot of this blog involving our travels to Italy this summer.

The first time we (well, I, Duke was a repeat visitor) went to Italy we went whole hog. I cross-referenced every bit of architecture, sculpture, cathedrals, and work of art I could find between my college art history book and the travel guides. We threw coins in the Trevi Fountain; we took the train from Rome to Florence to Venice. We saw the pope's summer home; the Pantheon; the Piazza della Rotonda; the Vatican; the Sistine Chapel; St. Peter's Basilica; the aqueducts;the fields of sunflowers; the Duomo; the Uffizi; we climber the 414 steps to see the view from the top of the Campanile;we lit candles in the cathedrals and watched rats swimming in the canals; we saw the Bridge of Sighs; the Appian Way. We received four parking tickets in six days and swam in the Mediterranean Sea.We ate at restaurants that were recommended in the fancy part of the travel guides. We went to an Italian birthday party and delighted everyone with the singing candle we had brought from Target.It was the best darn vacation anyone could ever have.

(On a side note, I learned that American fashion does not translate to Italian fashion because those women are clearly another species. People took one look at my jean shorts and Diesel slides and immediately addressed me in English. I gaped in admiration as I watched gorgeous creature after gorgeous creature walk by on an average morning, teetering in stilettos on the cobblestones, pushing baby carriages, all while wearing outfits I would only wear to a wedding. And they looked as casual and comfortable as if they were wearing flip-flops and cut-offs and an Old Navy tank top. )

The next time we went to Italy, I felt a small personal triumph when someone spoke to me in Italian. By wearing full-length white pants in 102 degree heat and every piece of jewelry I owned, I managed to pass for a native for one brief, glorious moment. We chilled in Rome and went to the beach. However, we then flew to Paris and did all the sights there. All of them. Paris is darn big. And cold. And not the friendliest. And we witnessed the biggest scam of all time: a steak house that only Parisians knew about. (We were with a Parisian.) We waited in line for an hour watching car after car pull-up to drop-off insanely chic people who all seemed fine to glamour around waiting in this absurd line. And when we sat down to eat, there was no menu. The server brought us each a steak and some french fries. Duke and I were positive our friends were pulling one over on us. But they asked eagerly, "It is fantastic, no?" It was steak. With french fries. That was all. I was eavesdropping my head off, but I didn't hear any language other than French. I even went to the restroom to try and see if this was some kind of tourist joke, but as I passed table after table of well-preserved older women dripping in diamonds and cooing to small dogs in expensive bags, I had to accept that for some reason, this was The Hot Spot in Paris. Go figure.

Anyway, so we are returning to Italy this summer and we are doing nothing. I am going to blog about a typical Italian experience through the eyes of an American. Like the coffee table books that were popular in the 80s "A Day in The Life of America, Ireland, etc" Except I'll be in one region and I'll be blogging more than coffee-table book making. We are staying with Italians who will be on that month-long vacation that all of Europe seems to enjoy in August and we are just living Italian life. We aren't eating at chic places or seeing any sights. We are just going to the grocery store and using a garden hose to rinse off sand from the beach. We will drink espresso in the obscene heat and marvel at how much better an actor Keanu Reeves is when he has an Italian voice-over. We will get to be frustrated by shopkeepers who won't make sandwiches because they don't feel like slicing the bread. It will be lovely. And much different from our previous experiences. I mean, that's the idea now. But if I happen to open an art history book between now and then...

My garden is a teensy bit overgrown. I just don't have the gumption to garden when it's 90 degrees before 8 a.m. and our days have been a whirlwind of camps and swimming and trips to the beach and to visit dear friends and baby showers and bowling and skee ball and trips to the aquarium and theater and library and the making of zucchini bread and repeated showings of Eclipse and suddenly I'm staring down more peppers than I thought a plant could produce and I still don't know how to can them. I've found a website that advises storing things in vinegar for well-intentioned but ultimately half-assed gardeners such as moi. So much to do. Each day rushes into the next before.

Anyway, I didn't want to get into that so much as I wanted to note that my garden is not unlike a tropical jungle swimming with giant plants and requiring one to don hip waders and mosquito netting to repair the plants that keep being knocked to the ground during storms. During one such tentative outing, I was wrestling with one my tomato plants (and for the amount of space they take up, these dang Brandywine tomatoes better be beyond compare for flavor) and trying to get it to agree to not lay on the ground where it will rot, I cam across my old nemesis. I have a lot of nemeses in the garden world, it would seem. Just when one has been duly subdued, another rises to challenge my dictatorship. And since I've been fighting off the mammals for the past couple seasons, I suppose it's only fair that the insect world resume its quest for domination. First we had the great potato bug plague of 2010 and now, now the tomato horn worm has made a reappearance.

Oh the irony. Oh the humanity. Because I took a chance on the rave reviews of the heirloom brandywine tomato plant, I was forced to pull my borage, as the tomato plant went all jack-in-the-beanstalk on me. It needed more room and so I pulled the one thing that has stood between my garden's tomatoes and the hornworm who wants to destroy them. And so the hornworm obviously took this removal of the borage as a vacancy sign and set-up shop.

In case you are new here let's just say in previous pre-borage years I have railed about how I loathe those puffy, squiggly overgrown bits 'o grossness. But I am also scared of them. And so I have waited for the wasps to come and save me by laying their eggs in the worms, thus causing them to die while I stand around with my martini and laugh. But this year, I am fueled by rage.This year, I have come to the realization that they cannot fly into my hair and become entangled (childhood trauma involving a fly apparently) because they cannot fly. And so I have been pulling those mo-fos off my plants and either popping them into a nice bucket of soapy water to drown a hopefully slow painful death or storing them in containers to give to my friend's chickens where she has assured me she is videotaping the torment of the worm as it is ripped to shreds by beaks and claws. It is on.

I'm going to go ahead and hazard a guess as to why today's youngsters seem to have a certain sense of entitlement: because we applaud their every move.

Once upon a time, I moved on to each grade from kindergarten up until my junior year of high school without any graduation ceremony. No one gave me a kindergarten diploma or gave me a plaque for being able to zip-up my pants. It was expected that I would show-up to school, do my best (or enough to get by) and move on. It was what was done. Sometimes I did well and was proud of myself. Sometimes I did poorly and was told to study harder. No one raced into school to chastise the teacher for grading me too harshly. It was my responsibility to pass or fail on my own merit.

When I played the equivalent of little league and then high school sports, I didn't end each season with a giant trophy and a signed certificate lauding my ability to have a positive attitude or cheer the loudest. Because only the player (note the lack of plural--that's right boys and girls, once upon a time ONE person was deemed to be the best) who truly out-performed everyone else was crowned MVP. And quite frankly, it never bothered me that that person was never me. Because I was not the best. And it never occurred to me to be upset about it. It was okay that others were better. I just enjoyed playing for the sake of playing.

And so with this attitude I went to Mort's recent camp Awards Ceremony with puzzled trepidation. Mort had gone to a three day bug camp, spending two hours there each day--save of course for the last day in which a half-hour of the camp was devoted to praising our children for existing. What exactly was being awarded? Showing up? Having parents who put on your sunscreen? I deserved an award because it took me longer to drive him to and fro than it did for him to participate. So, yes, I thought the whole thing was a bunch of hooey. And I'm sad to report that I was in the vast minority. My friend and I were the only two parents who arrived sans cameras and/or video cameras. Out of probably thirty or so moms. We rolled our eyes and muttered under our breath as little Susie and Johnny(not their real names. Kids today are never named Susie or Johnny because then they wouldn't stand out. Kids' names are so over the top that a girl named Sue would be a freak show.) were loaded down with certificates and ribbons and walked across the room to shake hands with the director of the program and their individual counselor. And the parents were eating it up.

I can only imagine the families sitting around 15 years from now, watching these videos and the children asking what they were being awarded for. I'd love to hear their parents' answers: "Why, for showing up, of course!"

People. You are not doing your children any favors. You cannot make them the best at everything by saying so or fighting their battles or insisting that everyone is special in the same way in every aspect. It's like the movie The Incredibles: "We're going to make everyone special so that no one is." At some point, your child is going to live on their own. You may be able to bully your child's teachers and coaches and even professors into awarding their averageness for much of their life. But at some point, they are going to be passed over for a promotion or they are going to want to date someone who doesn't return their affection.They are going to bid on a house that is beyond their means or want a raise and not get one. They may fall prey to any of the absolutely normal crappy things that happen to humans because of the whole we're human deal. You will be unable to prevent their illness or car accident or disappointment at not winning the lottery. And if you haven't taught them how to persevere, they will be screwed. It will happen. And you can't threaten to sue someone because they don't want to date or hire your 24 year old or cast them in a movie or publish their book or make them president of the world. Although I'm pretty sure at least one parent has tried.

Of course no one wants to see their child suffer or fail or falter. But how will they ever know what it is like to achieve something or succeed or even feel truly happy if they are never allowed to experience the opposite? How will they grow? How will they learn empathy or sympathy or strength of character? What do parents hope to achieve by making certain there are no bumps in the road?

What exactly are we trying to protect our children from? It is okay to do something for the sake of doing it. It is okay to enjoy something even if you aren't The Best at it. It's okay to work hard. Let's not set-up our children to be the ones who get eaten by zombies. Thank-you.

New horror in the hood: My potatoes are swamped with potato bugs. Why do all garden pests have to be so dang gross? Why must they all be so seemingly ripe and squishy and on the verge of oozing/ splitting through their gross bug skin? And I know Mort would be quick to point out that bugs don't have skin, but I don't care. Gross by any other name is what I'd say to that. And supposedly, save for a flame thrower, the best way to be rid of these little beasts is to hand pick them off and then squish them. That is not going to happen. (On a side note, I have a friend who has chickens and she said even the chickens won't touch them. that is how nasty these things are.) The World Wide Web claims that dusting them with wheat bran will cause them to explode when they eat it and then swell. I know it sounds like an Internet hoax, but I'm desperate. I have also been advised to litter the garden with ladybugs because they will eat them. I don't know what would keep the ladybugs from flying away and I can't imagine a ladybug taking down one of these suckers, but it's worth a try.

I can't even weed int hat area because they make me sick. How can I be an organic gardener and be so squeamish with the pests that go hand-in-hand with it?

In other garden news, I noticed the remains of a rabbit scattered amongst the corn. Either a very large cat jumped the fence with said rabbit , or perhaps a hawk? Owl? We have a lot of all of those. But dead bunny parts is not nearly as bad as bugs.

Also, I seem to have developed laryngitis. Day three. And I awoke at 4am. Good times.

I'm a wee bit obsessed with this Sookie Sackhouse series. Much more involved and out there than even True Blood. I'm averaging two books a day. Soon I will have devoured them all and will be forced to wait for the author to write more. Which, she at least is willing to do. (Yes, Stephenie Meyer, I'm looking at you.)

Although quite frankly, I re-read Eclipse to be on track for the movie's release, and I kind of hated Bella. I think it's because the actor who plays her has the contractual obligation to promote the movie and so I keep having the misfortune of seeing her twitching around with her extreme social disorder. She acts like an ass. C'mon now toots; you are an actor. At least act like giving interviews and waving to fans doesn't make you want to rip off your skin in horror. As far as jobs go, yours doesn't come across as one that would make the top 1000 of Worst Jobs in the World. Suck it up. You are getting paid for this, y'know. You aren't on Oprah out of the kindness of your stingy heart. Get a grip.

I had to get rid of the borage. It did its job well in that I haven't seen any tomato horn worms since I began planting it with the tomatoes, but this year it got a wee bit too big for its britches and it's not like I can eat it. Actually, maybe I can but I don't know how. It's listed as a herb, but it's very spiky. Hmm. Anyway, it was growing all over the place and crowding out the tomatoes and strawberries and cilantro and a pepper plant I couldn't identify because I couldn't see it. So, now I've dismissed the garden bodyguard. I feel like the tomato hornworms are Victoria from Twilight, just circling and waiting until there is a break int he defense so that they can strike.

I do realize that if you aren't a Twihard, that analogy will make little to no sense.

And speaking of Twilight...I have a bit of a bone to pick with Stephenie Meyer. I've been reading the Sookie Stackhouse series and although Stephanie claims all her ideas came to her in a dream, it's amazing how many of her ideas were written in books published four years prior to Twilight. Quite frankly, I can't believe Charlaine Harris hasn't sued. For instance, human female Sookie can read people's minds. Except for her boyfriend, Vampire Bill. Well, hey now, in Stephanie's dream, the vampire Edward can read minds, all except for his human girlfriend Bella's.

Additionally, Sookie is the object of desire and protection of both a werewolf and a vampire. Hey, now, so is Bella! The werewolves in Harris's tales run hotter in temperature than a human and throw off tons 'o heat. Um, yeah, Stephenie's dream had that too. Harris' vamps have a glowy sheen to their skin that identifies them as Not Human. And we've all seen how the skin of Meyer's vamps sparkle. And yes, there's more "coincidences," but I have a cold and I'm only 1/2 a cup of coffee into my day, so you'll have to read the books and figure out the rip-offs on your own.

Quite frankly, I like both series of books in different ways for different reasons, but give credit where credit is due. At the very least, Stepheine Meyer should be saying she was "inspired" by Charlaine Harris's series. Because she claim she's never read a vampire book until the cows come home, but unless she can touch a book and absorb its words without opening it, she read the Sookie Stackhouse series.

So by the grace of Mort's grandparents(thanks Mom!!!), Duke and I were able to see not one, but two movies in the theater this weekend. May not sound like a wild weekend to you, but wait until you have kids and then you will recognize the exquisite thrill of going to see a movie that does not contain talking animals and/or fart jokes.

Prior to one of the movies, there was a trailer of some sort for a movie(?) video journey (?) just plain 'ol bad idea. A seemingly teenager (I've reached a point where a certain demographic has become the "I dunno, I think s/he's somewhere between 15 and 25?" age group.) has over 800 friends on facebook. Which, yes, I recognize is not a lot anymore. I think most of my somewhere between 15-25 year old cousins have at least double that amount. But this girl is making going to film herself flying around the country meeting these people to see if they can be friends in real life. Some immediate questions that arise may be: What the hell kind of allowance does this kid have that she can afford all these plane tickets? Why in the world would you waste money and time meeting people you don't know when you could spend that money and time visiting the people you know and love? Or perhaps the one that dominates my thoughts: So, is she hoping to get killed on film? Because I can't imagine this is going to end well.

First of all, I don't think it's very smart to be friends with people online that you don't know in real life. If you wouldn't go up to the creepiest person you can conjure up, yes, you know, the one who looks like a stereotypical serial killer, and invite them to spend the night in your home (just the two of you!), then don't allow people you don't know to have access to you online. Be paranoid. It's much, much smarter. Have the rule that if it's not someone you would be happy to see and interact with in real life, it's not someone you need to be friends with online. And even amongst those people, be very judicious in what kind of information you're allowing them to have access to. Just because you both know how to use a computer doesn't mean you are friends.

Which I gather is the whole point of her "movie." She's ambushing these virtual friends/strangers and seeing if they can be friends in real life. I can only hope that this will be a huge cautionary tale to all the 15-25 year olds out there and not a story of insrpiration. ("Dude! We should totally do that this summer!") And I also hope that off camera this girl is traveling with some armed guards. And men with white jackets and big nets. Because this sounds like a truly terrible idea. And if it weren't so worrisome, I would be very eager to throw around words like "heartbreaking" and "pathetic" and "Where the f*%# are this girl's parents?"

The other day Mort and I were eating lunch in a restaurant. I idly watched an elderly couple exiting, the shuffling husband opening the door for his wife before offering her the crook of his elbow, into which she slipped her knobby hand , looking for all the world to see like a dainty bride on her wedding day. They very slowly made their way to their waiting car in the parking lot, where the husband opened his wife's car door on the passenger side, ensuring she was settled before gently closing it and getting himself in the driver's side.

It was such a lovely scene because they weren't yet so incapacitated by their body's betrayals that they had to lean on each other for support, nor were they loudly making an obnoxious show with their actions, hoping those around them would notice their display of love. Instead it was quiet and real and small, obviously everyday practices of kindness toward one another. Sure, it was possible that they had only recently found one another in their 80s and so still were in the first heady rush of love. But it seemed more likely that they had been together for well over half their lifetimes, that they had defied all the odds and still held fast to their love for one another, that even though to the world at large his wife may appear interchangeable with any elderly woman with cotton floss hair, to him she would always be the beauty he had married.

Perhaps it is a bit of sad commentary on our society that I was so moved by a couple's kindness toward one another, but it was a beautiful sight to see. We should all be so lucky to be so loved and cherished. I only wish I had seen their quiet acts of affection toward one another prior to their leaving. I would have liked to have anonymously paid their lunch bill to celebrate them for holding true where so many fail.

So, I have successfully made my own strawberry jam. And it's really, really good. I need to think of a vehicle worthy of it. Peanut butter would only dilute it. Bread seems too mushy. Maybe an outstanding cracker. Or Duke suggested ice cream... And now that I have the canning supplies and have tackled that project, I can't help but turn an inquisitive eye toward my garden. At some point we begin to burst at the seams with tomatoes and peppers. This year may be more plentiful then years past as I was concerned a late frost had killed off many plants and so I replanted my favorites...and everything is flourishing. We easily go through a jar of jalapenos a week...maybe I can can them and have our own supply on hand? And we certainly love salsa and I just came across a seemingly easy recipe in my canning booklet...slap a bonnet on my head and call me Ma Ingalls!

I'm thinking of starting a facebook group entitled : I remember when someone saying "You're so tan!" was a compliment, not an admonishment and/or I swear I wore SPF 70, a hat, some heavy duty-European sunblock that isn't even available in the States, and sat in the shade.

So, yes, a week later and I'm peeling. Big time. Like a snake shedding its skin. I would have said that was impossible considering all the precautions I took and the small fact that I didn't get burned, but I would do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant getting to have the vacation from which I've returned. Relax-o-rama and drinks served in coconuts.

And hey, what's a little more sun damage on someone who is already suffering the cosmetic decline of one who spent her youth frying in the sun? In for a penny, in for a pound. But truly, the irony of it all doesn't escape me as I know I ranted on this f

orum last year. Had I only

known the secret to a deep, dark, raging tan was sunblock reapplied every two hours, a hat and staying in the shade, just think of all the time I could have saved laying out...