Glitter Will Earn You a Pat Down

I have some helpful travel insights to share:

Glitter will earn you a patdown.
Apparently the cozy sweater I changed into for the flight home was littered with glitter. Perhaps you’re imagine some shiny bedazzled duds? Nope. Subtle. So subtle I didn't notice till I got the no-go from the scan machine and quick pat-down from a super nice security officer woman who noticed the glitter right off. Later while lunching in the terminal, I noticed a woman wearing a long-sleeved shirt made of sequins. I wondered whether her screening demanded a call to airport security. 

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If you want your kids to answer your call…

Order something from Amazon to arrive while you're away. When traveling without my kids, I normally call before their bedtime but the conversation is always a little disappointing. I can't tell which boy is talking and, typically, neither one is all that into chatting (typically I'm trying to connect right when shit is hitting the fan at home). I just end up feeling sad. Last night, we couldn't get the timing right so I phoned this morning, at 6:45 am. The kids were thrilled to hear from me—and I quickly learned why: a package arrived, from Amazon, and they wanted to know if they could open it.

Noooooooo,

I thought and started to panic that I'd clicked too fast and kid-gifts were coming here, instead of going to my secret storage, at Ri's. I quickly logged in and realized that the package was actually the LifeFactory sip top for Ri. I'd also meant to sent this to her house but it was A-OK to open... phew. The boys didn't care who the package was for—they just wanted to open it. And I let them. Via Facetime. I was a hero. 

So, to recap—and to rephrase: 1) during this glitzy holiday season, pack the glitter; dress plain if you're riding on a plane and 2) go ahead and send the right package to the wrong address; it might have a unexpected silver lining benefit. 

Breaking Ball Jars Vs. BPA

Newsflash—You shouldn't give this to your kid:

The glass. (Seriously? C'mon now.)

YOU go ahead and drink your wine out of a Ball jar (wine enthusiast friends: you might feel a little better to know what's in there is Three Buck Chuck). And you go ahead and use that photo-ready, budget-friendly juice jar to pack your yogurt parfait or that perfect portion of oats to make at work (both brilliant ideas of friends). Or screw on a Cuppow! and call it a trendy vessel for your green smoothie or iced latte. Bake preciously presented sweets in your Ball jars. But don't hand them to your 3 or 5-year-old who suffers restless leg-and-arm-and-hell-it's-the-whole-body syndrome. 

The first time I become aware of the dangers of Ball jars was via email—a note from Julian's teacher informing me that the 4 oz. glass jar in which I'd sent grapes, possibly even halved so he wouldn't choke (the ridiculous irony - he's FIVE), had broken. Jules was devastated because he thought I'd be mad. She'd sent the note so I'd make sure he knew I wasn't upset with him (man, I'd better lighten up if this is what he thinks). Really, what I think she'd really meant to say was this: "What the f*ck is wrong with you, sending glass jars in backpacks with a kindergartener?" But she's a super-nice person so she sent what she sent. With a smiley face—to make me feel better. Thing is, the dangers of glass shards hadn't even occurred to me. I've produced two magazine features on how BPA kills (or something like that) and, thus, have a complicated relationship with plastic. I shared this story with a (kidless but apparently far more sensible) colleague who nodded knowingly and, a few days, later handed me some stainless-steel canisters. (Thanks again, B!)

You'd think I would have learned from this lesson. But no. I've continued to give my children beverages in Ball jars, "tightly supervised," of course. So when Kai carried his water cup (glass Ball jar) with him from the table to the bathroom to brush his teeth last night, I thought nothing of it. When he set it on the back of the toilet so he could stand on the seat to look in the mirror while he brushed, I thought "gross." And when got into a tiff with Jules over who got to squeeze the toothpaste first and swept the glass to the floor with a flailing limb, I was all "oh SHIT" (silently and for that I give myself much credit) and whisked them both out of the room so I could clean up the scattered, shattered glass. I did a thorough job, I thought, with wet paper towels and all. I meant to go back to double vacuum after bedtime. I forgot.

Tonight, Kai, refusing to be corralled for bed, ran into the bathroom and wedged himself between the toilet and the wall (again... gross!)—then pulled out a bloody foot. Slashed, with a shard. We bandaged him up and he seems to be just fine. I'm a tad traumatized. Guilt-ridden.

So if you see my kids in the next few weeks, or months, or years, out, sitting at a fancy table sipping from stainless-steel water bottles, eating their halved grapes, you'll know what's going on: I'm overcompensating. 

My Favorite Halloween

It started as I would expect Halloween eve to start: I encouraged bites of burritoes and broccoli while Jon rushed around setting up the candy station for the trick or trickers and looking for the various glow devices grandparents had gifted for the occasion. When we finally located the luminescent accessories in a random drawer with dish towels, placed there "so I wouldn't lose them," we cut our losses and hit the road.

Jules was dressed in the awesome werewolf costume my mom designed for him but refused face paint. "I look cuter this way—not scary—so I'll get more candy." Kai had already dissed his werewolf on his way out the door this morning.

*** 

"I want to be Wolverine," Kai had pouted, tossing the furry hat to the floor.

"Werewolves have big claws too," I reasoned.

"NO!"

Knowing how important it is for three-year-olds to be dressed like all of the other superhero three-year-olds at school, I quickly located the Batman costume. In the laundry room. Soiled with something that I hope to be chocolate (good chance: it was on the chest). Batman's cape/mask was missing but I managed to find some Spiderman headwear. Kai was thrilled. Success.

It was windy and rainy. I missed our old hood: Ri stopping by to see the boys, the sidewalks, the streetlights, the Jastatts. But the boys' excitement was contagious. They wanted candy—loads and loads of it. I'd expected this. What I didn't expect was everything else. 

Jules would charge up to each new door and shout: "Trick or Treat for Unicef!" and push the tiny cardboard collection box out for quarters, often before taking a piece of candy.

And Kai... Kai was just taking in the night. I'm pretty sure that strolling the (dark, dark) streets with Kai, aged 3 1/2, will remain in my top ten cherished-moments memories of our "young family" days.

About halfway through our trick-or-tricking, we caught up with some friends. Jules would run with the pack up to a door and I'd hang back with Kai, who continued to mosey along at his own pace. As the other kids were already racing up to the next house, he'd climb the stairs of the one everyone else had just left, carefully keeping his balance as he clutched his plastic pumpkin in one hand and glow sword with the other. 

When the door swung open, he'd shout "trick or treat!" and leisurely select a piece of candy. Often he would drop his glow-sword and his bucket to grasp the new treat with both hands and make a very theatrical (but sincere) show of smelling it. "It's peach," he told one neighbor, of the lollipop he'd plucked from her bowl. At another house, he told a Skittles-proffering woman that he "LOVED SKITTLES" and he'd already gotten some... and started digging around to find it as evidence. "But I like to have two." At the next home, he insisted on showing the man giving him a Reese's Cup a box of candy he'd received it because "the superhero on the box turns into a rock." At every stop, he made sure to wish everyone a "Happy Halloween," sometimes following that up with a "and have a good night." He took plenty of time to admire the Halloween decorations. Each and every one. 

And as we rounded the corner for home, Kai slipped his tiny hand into mine and whispered, "those last candies - there's two in there - I saw the picture on the box. One for you and one for me." My heart exploded. 

Back at the ranch (converted into a contemporary home with no categorical style), 5-year-old Jules engaged in the expected candy counting. Moving at a productive pace, he'd managed to accumulate more than twice the loot of his younger brother but was acting relatively generous about it all. On a quick FaceTime with my parents he even promised save some candy to share with them when we visit at Thanksgiving. But Jules' tear-jerker moment came later, when I was hounding him to brush his teeth "after all that candy." (Cliche parent, I have become.)

The kid was sitting at the table shoving coins and dollars from his little wallet into the Unicef box. Jon joined us at the table and Jules asked him, and then me, for more dollars. Carefully folding a five-dollar bill into the slot, Julian explained: 

"We need to get lots of money so we can help people. Look at the things we can get for them with this money..."

He pointed to the illustrations on back of the box.

"You can get fruit bars."

(Protein bars.)

"Or soccer balls. And they die early. So you can survive them. if you get them shots. But I want to get all the way to the water. They have to walk REALLY far to get water."

His eyes were wide. His face was flushed. "They have to walk as far as it is to get to my school," he said. "And when they get there it is MUD. They drink mud. I want to get them clean water." 

I get teary—again—writing this. That kid is getting an extra piece of candy tomorrow. 

It's Not Always About Proximity

The memories are vivid yet totally random. Aunt Cora leading us through the dusty trails behind the Bessemer quarries. We were looking for fossils and spotted a "bear" - a big black garbage bag. A visit to their old Toronto house, the one with the awesome pool patio. Parts of this memory are so clear I can almost feel the cool linoleum against my feet in the book-packed basement that was my bedroom during that stay. Pretty sure it was the visit launched "The Mickler News," the short-lived family newsletter, copied for distribution by my dad at the steel mill.

I remember the trip to Houston to see the Marcums when I was in, I think, 8th grade. The air pressure on the airplane messed with my ears so badly that I couldn't hear right for two days. I read a book at the Astros game that Uncle Steve had so sweetly planned for us. I hated baseball. It was during my total-asshole period. And another trip to Houston, many years later, for Liz's high school graduation. The girl cousins went shopping. The boy cousins got shirts that said "security" and wore them for the party. There was plenty of pool time. We mostly all drank too much. I'd gotten the flight on Priceline at the very last minute. Fuck the budget. Family trumped finances. It was so worth it.

Still today, I can hear Aunt Mini rapping brilliant nonsense on a kid microphone in my mom and dad's basement after Angelo's high-school graduation in 1996. Hanging with Uncle John and Aunt Mini at the Johnson Club after Teta's funeral more than a decade ago. Mini was wearing my grandmother's fur coat (the one no one could bear to donate after she died) and a Rastafarian wig hat with dreads. Costumes, on this side of this fam, are a theme.

UB is always in costume—so I'm not sure why anyone was really surprised when a werewolf turned at Liz's wedding this past weekend, mid-reception. There are so many UB memories, new and old. In addition to costumes, most involve aggressive driving, chocolate, wine, dapper attire, gourmet food, relaxing jazz, runs and coffee. (In no particular order). Many involve surprise appearances. All involve multimedia recording devices. He's the family paparazzo. And the bon vivant. He's also the one with the crazy eyes—and the coffees—pictured up above with Aunt Mini.

Except for my Uncle John/Aunt Janet/Cousin Sam, the members of my mom's immediate family have always been at least a six-hours drive away. Yet my connections with this crew are incredibly close. Is it effort? (Probably not - I'm not that good at keeping up, honestly. UB gets the award for effort. Sister Kate comes in a close second). Must something else, like, we all got big chunks of the same DNA. Or something.  I wonder. For a bunch of people who grew up on all different corners of the country, we seem to share a lot in common: there are a bunch of talented musicians (I am not one of them) and another group of people who work in helping fields (nurses, therapists, etc.). There's sizeable group of  loud, like-to-dance types (I fit in there). Overall, we're an emotional bunch. Maybe that's it. I just don't know. But we really, really like each other—or so it seems to me.

Maybe we're just lucky.

An Even-Better MVP

MVP doesn't mean Most Valuable Player. Not anymore. Not in my new world. 

These days, MVP stands for Minimum Viable Product, a simple solution that can be deployed quickly. It's not perfect. It is attainable. It's what you can produce right now to fill a need, to solve a problem. Feedback welcome. 

This aiming for what's attainable is a new approach for me. Oh, I've tried it before. In fact, I'm a big fan of

Anne Lamott's school of shitty first drafts. In theory. I've never been one to stop myself from over-editing. Overanalyzing. Over-thinking. To the point of paralysis. Because I have a problem with perfectionism. (Which, by the way, never leads to doing anything perfectly.) 

Anyway, lately, I'm realizing perfect isn't the point—and reaching for it doesn't pay off. I'm learning this at work but I'm applying it at home. When I'm packing J's lunch, I ask myself a very corporate sort of question: 

What's the low-hanging fruit here?

And I'll tell you: it's the fresh already chopped pineapple that I picked up at the EatingWell farmer's market (free giveaway from the test kitchen), the leftover lasagna that simply needs reheated. It's a pumpkin chocolate chip cookie that I made from a tube of Cookie Love batter. 

It's good enough. Because, in the end, nobody cares about who played things best. Just get in the game. Focus on your best assets. Keep evolving the rest. Am I right? 

Homework is Superfun

"Did you like homework when you were a little girl, Mama?"

I love the way he says girl—his R's are still the little-kid kind, articulated in a way that's not quite right but entirely age-appropriate, according to my sis, the speech-language pathologist.

Under my watch (read: restoring him to a seated position every time he cartwheels off the chair) he's completing his first homework assignment, one that prompts him to write in little squares things about himself: what he's good at (digging rocks), what are his hobbies (puzzles, museums and hiking), what kind of ice cream is his favorite (maple and vanilla) and what places he's visited (Pennsylvania, North Carolina and Cape Cod). His responses to this assignment seem to lend evidence to my theory that this  little guy is going to dig school.

What sort of makes sense. I did. And so did his dad.

"Yes, Jules, I liked homework. I still like homework. Learning things is super fun, don't you think?"

"Yes!"

What I didn't always like was sitting in a chair, still. What I didn't like was being quiet. Memorizing and regurgitating facts whose importance I couldn't really place in the real world. Focusing on information that felt static. Having to try to concentrate in a silent space. I still struggle with these things. And I think someone else might too.

I've heard amazing things about our community school—and I hope they're all true. I think it's important to know things, a lot of things. But I think it's even more important to be curious enough to explore the space all around the stuff that's known and imagine how you might fill in what's missing, to seek out the synergies that allow for evolution—and to know when it's time to shut the books and play music in your underpants.