This isn't what slumber parties should be like...

The beauty of telling stories to your loved ones is they find hilarity in them. The drawback is you are often reminded of things you didn't enjoy when it was live and unfolding the first time. Recently I was reminded of some serious foolery and previous sharing. So once again, let's tell the story. I  mean, why not start today off with some snickering?

 

Long before meeting JohnnyMac, I was a girl about town. More Charlotte York than Samantha Jones, mind you, but I fully embraced the freedom, experiences, and sometimes antics and anecdotes singlehood provided.

I would not change my life one bit, because each of these roads led me to to where I am now, which is exactly where I want to be.

But, let's be candid. While all of my experiences have intertwined in different ways to make this caravan of my life a great one, all roads are not created equal. Some roads were the autobahn, some were slick two lane highways, and a few, well, a few were bumpy dirt roads strewn with handfuls of empty beer bottles. And some roads were laden with rather funny stories. And those stories should be shared. This is one of those stories.

And my memory was prompted as my Mom and I were watching something this weekend and during an odd scene involving an odd character, she leaned over to me and whispered, "chicken lady..."

Let's get down to the grit. Oh, it is not exactly brief. Get your coffee.

Back in grad school, and out on the town one night, I met a guy and we began to fraternize fairly frequently. He was already a decade out of college and working downtown. One evening, after watching one of his baseball games, I make the mistake of not going home to read Criminal Procedure, and instead I join him and his team for consumption of cocktails.

We were far from the sleeping over stage but after many o' beverage, I was in no way going to drive home. He asks me to sleep over, you know, really for my safety than to try to mack on me. Mmm hmm. I ride with him, and his friend follows in my car. Such gentlemen. My car safely parked, we bid his friend adieu.

We enter this absolutely stunning house. Even in the pitch black I can tell it is massive. We go upstairs and in the midst of playing all kinds of 7th grade style grab-ass, I hear the following in a weird and whispery tone:

Darren....... would you like some chicken?

It is PITCH BLACK and I literally jump out of my skin. What is that? He flips on a light and look there, a woman is sitting on a kitchen chair. He says, "Hi Mom."

My mind is lightening quick with questions. Things like, why is your Mom at your house, in the middle of the night, sitting in the dark, offering savory snacks like its all perfectly normal.

I could not adequately voice the severity of my discomfort.  He declines the chicken. And she immediately asks Who is your friend? Not quite Joan Crawford-ish but not June Cleaver, either. Giving him a severe pummeling seemed like a fantastic idea at the moment. He grabs my hand, two bottles of water and leads us away from the situation. His first statement is something only Matlock could have deduced: He lives with his parents. He was 32. Really? I figured it out. Sign me up for 21 Jump Street.

Now we are downstairs in his man-den. A man-den which includes the entire basement of his parents house, also known as his living quarters. Fooseball. Pool table. Donkey Kong. Living at home had its perks for this cat. He tries to explain his situation and yet nothing comforts me from the previous scenario involving a creepy person lurking in the dark with a plate of barbeque fowl. So I smile brightly, like, OF COURSE! This is FANTASTIC!!

And then I see behind his pool table what appears to be a collection of Playboys. And by "collection" I mean WOW, there are hundreds and hundreds of Playboys. Playboys from back in the day when Hef wanted to name it Stag Party. He immediately told me they belonged to a friend. A friend with a big affinity for the visuals, I see. The mags were not a deterrent because any naughty intent on his part was washed out with cold water when his Mom appeared.

He then asks if I want to watch a movie. I am still buzzed, can not count the minutes fast enough until I escape, but I need more time before I can drive. So he then tells me we can watch his favorite movie. What might be his favorite movie? Godfather? No. Tommy Boy? Not quite. Good Will Hunting? Oh no. This:

Are you KIDDING ME!?!?!?! I don't even have that movie. Wait, what is that sound? Oh..that? It is your stock falling.

I fall asleep in a big chair before he wakes me up and asks if I want to sleep in his bed to be more comfortable. Sure.

It is a water bed. Because the hits just KEEP ON COMING. Water bed? 1997? Those two words and that date do NOT go hand in hand.

I decide to sleep all bundled up. As he attempts to kiss my forehead goodnight, his shoulder hits the nightstand sending a 32 ounce cup of water onto me and the pillow and sheets.

He says we can change the sheets.

Except he has no more clean sheets.

Because while having your own Donkey Kong machine MIGHT seem like the best value-add of living at home, I would rank it BEHIND another bonus called clean laundry.

But no. He chose Donkey Kong. And the late night chicken platter option. I ask if I can sleep on the couch in his man- den. He only says, "I wouldn't". OH, yum. Free DNA samples.

No buzz in the world could last thing long but now I am exhausted. I hoped that sleep would bring me a better perspective.

I wake up a few hours later. Blanketed up, rather burrito style on the Partridge Family-esque water bed. Gray light creeping through the windows. And daylight has the skill of making this place look even worse. Dim lighting is a sloppy bachelor's friend. Daylight is not.

But perhaps what is most startling is the fact there was a face about 4 inches from my face. And it wasn't his.

His Mother had come down to check on me. And to ask me if I wanted breakfast. And if I slept alright because she noticed the sheets bundled up on the floor. And was there something wrong with those sheets to cause them to be on the floor? And to imply she hoped I was dressed under my burrito blanket. I am sure the next question was going to be whether I preferred my carcass being dumped in the river or in the woods but I had no time for that.

She left and I was gathering my wits and my belongings, he woke up. I told him in a wee bit of a hiss/terse fashion You're mother was just down here asking me a dozen questions.

His answer?

I know. I pretended to be asleep.

WTF!?!?!?!

He got up to walk me out. No thank you. He tried to kiss me goodbye. No thank you. He told me he would call me later. No thank you. He asked if I still wanted to go to the Counting Crows concert. YES. DAMMIT, I really wanted to go to that concert but No, no, no and no thank you.

Because the only thing better than a 32 year old bachelor who conveniently forgets he lives at his parents house, has a Mom who sits up and waits for him to return home in a lurky fashion, has a stash of about 3000 Playboys but of course only for "a friend". The same man to whom it never occurs it might be wise to say the Lord of the Dance DVD also belongs to "a friend" and has not a clean sheet to be found, is all of those same exact qualities in a 32 year old who pretends to be asleep while his overnight guest gets interrogated by his Mommy.

See, I told you some of the roads might have been dirty and bumpy, but they were not without their share of comic value.

When you were King...

There is a time in our lives, a slipping point, where we travel an arc from belief to disbelief. Or more specifically from when we go from believing in magic to the complete acceptance that it can't or doesn't exist. We want cold, clear facts. We want to solve mysteries. We want to see behind the smoke and mirrors. We can't predict when it happens, whether we are 7, 17 or 40 but it seems to impact almost everyone.

Years ago, I attended a global meeting of my then company. We had a special speaker from Nike, Inc. come in. He was young, spirited, dynamic. At one point early on, he asked this room of thousands of people, "Raise your hand if you are creative." A paltry number of people raised their hands. He asked the question again, louder, with more emphasis. The same response. He knew his audience. This was a top shelf company and the group in the room were some of our biggest performers. He explained that when he asked a room of 2nd graders the same question, almost every single child would raise their hand. He then discussed how we as adults limit ourselves as we limit our thinking, especially as it pertains to our own capabilities.

A few minutes later, he held up a large, bright blue glass bottle. He said, "In this, I have magic. Who wants some?" Not a single person moved. He said again, "IN THIS I have MAGIC. Come to the front of the stage if you want some." Still no one  rose. He went on for the next hour talking about magic, creativity, motivation and why these are critical values at Nike. At the end of the presentation, he presented the blue bottle again, and this time hundreds of people went to the front of that stage to absorb his magic, his electricity, his own powerful belief that yes, anything is possible.

MiniMac is quite particular about his clothing. He likes tiny versions of basically the same clothes my husband wears: collared shirts, golf shorts, flip flops, tiny aviator sunglasses. But did you see the movie Big Daddy? There is a portion of the movie where the young boy decides he wants to dress himself and go by the name Frankenstein. Once in awhile, MiniMac makes a costume change and appears ready to go as is, to which JMac and I simply reply, "You look good, Frankenstein." The first time was as a 2.5 year old he wanted to wear his University of Georgia football helmet into the grocery store. Another time was when he asked to wear his Toy Story pjs and Buzz Lightyear slipper boots to the movies. Several weeks ago, he dressed for school and then came to the kitchen ready to go.

I told him I liked his cape. He advised me it was so he could fly on the playground. "And the antlers?" I asked. He told me the antlers were like Rudolph's, who can also fly. One way or another, this kid was flying today. And it was an amazing rewind to that day, in that meeting, where we talked about the power of creativity and how we as adults limit ourselves by limiting that creativity. I am not suggesting we sit in board meetings with antlers or capes. But it reminded of the time in our lives when we thought anything was possible.

And when we were kids no one would even dream of telling us we couldn't do it all. 

As I watched my son traipse into school that day, cape and anters on, and yes, walking through sunbeams, he believed anything was possible. Like I used to believe as well, just as you did. When you believed you could fly with one magical cape. Or you could grow up to be a super hero. Or that Santa Clause would come to your birthday party if only you asked him. This was the time you believed you would see a unicorn, catch a dragon, leap tall buildings in a single bound. This was also the time when kisses healed boo boos and all you needed to overcome fear was a hand to hold.

When we picked him up at school later that day, he still had the cape on. Later that night, we read a book full of castles and dragons. MiniMac told me he caught a dragon once too. I asked when and he said, "You know, when I was King..."

Right.

Its full acceptance of creativity and perhaps the best demonstration of Descartes philosophy: I think, therefore I am. 

I talked to a friend the other day who is going through some life-altering challenges right now. He is brave and smart and amazing. But he definitely is underneath it right now. And I asked him if he remembered the time when he knew he was a phenomenal kick-ass producer of great results. He asked half-mockingly, 'Right, when was that again?'

You know, when you were King.

How to hit on women

Yesterday, I was penning some thoughts on recently turning 41 and not only what still lies ahead but the simple reality I could be at the half way point of my life. I had a great window of time to think about the highlights of my life and some important lessons learned. Oh, the fact you get to turn another year older is a gift not everyone receives.

Last night when walking down the street in NYC, we passed in front of two gentlemen. I received the following compliment from one of them:

I would tear your middle-aged *ss UP. Ugggh.

I actually do not know how you hit on women but I do have some thoughts on how you do NOT hit on women. And ironically, as I was reminiscing on past and present I can assure you, I have never heard such a statement. Clearly, there are many, many unsavory aspects of this comment.

First, thank you for noticing me. OOOPS, I spoke to soon. Don't stand on the sidewalk and haggle women. This has nothing to do with being in NYC. This type of shenanigan occurs in every city. PS: No great relationship started with a catcall on a sidewalk except maybe a Richard Gere movie from the 80s, something currently in production with Channing Tatum, or a porn movie.

Second, the expression I would tear your *ss up sounds a little scary, Hannibal Lecter. You sound creepy. There is more than one reason no wedding vows include I promise to tear your *ss up. If you like this type of behavior Christian Grey, keep it to yourself or your actual playmate. This statement reminded me of Mike Tyson's first fight when he was released from prison. Not the image any woman correlates to love or cartoon bluebirds.

Third, please don't grunt and lick your lips when you make comments to women. Women are not like a shelf of barbequed ribs. Yikes. And really, you are giving us far too much power over you. And your ding-dong. Simmer down.

Finally, really? You had to date stamp me? Middle-aged? I just turned 41! Oh wait, I am actually middle-aged. Good for you for gauging my age range. I am actually quite fine with being 41. I am hopeful more great things lie ahead. Here is a tip, most women are age-anxious. Don't guess age like a carnival barker and shout it out with glee like Rudolph. Women don't like this. But if you MUST do this, most women will prefer you round down.

My more poetic thoughts on age and aging will return after this brief interruption on this important PSA.

Have a gorgeous weekend. And behave.

I am getting ready to jump out of the cake...

I am getting ready to jump out of the cake, I say. Not just any cake. My cake. This Thursday marks my 41st birthday. I will be in NYC all week and then back to NYC next week so I am happy to say I will be home with my hot husband and uber-awesome 5 year old on the actual day.

This is a previously written birthday post and of all the blog posts I have written, it remains one of my favorite. Bear with me, long-time blogging friends, I realize you have seen it prior. I am happy to say my readership is at an all-time high and I welcome all the readers who do not also pen blogs. I  am happy to share this with you, too.

I am looking forward to a fabulous week.  Looking forward to a new birthday post at the end of the week. And I hope this year holds something amazing in store.

________

Let's pop the cork on this thing. Now, take a deep breath, and help me blow out all these candles.

Deep in the matriarchal DNA of my family resides the long linear polymer for I LOVE BIRTHDAYS. I want all of you to join me for a cocktail as I reflect on a very full and fun life.

In this retrospect, I thought of sage advice and prolific words of wisdom I might share if I had the chance to write a letter to JennyMac at say, age 8. Like to hear it? Here it go....

Dear 8 year old JennyMac:

Happy early birthday. You turn 9 in just a few days. You LOVE parties and always will so enjoy your day.

You little girl, are brave, trusting, and good. Smart as a whip and certainly not afraid to clarify that for others who do not seem to grasp it. You are also sassy and have quite a mouth on you. A natural proclivity toward sarcasm is typically not developed so young. Use it wisely. And by wisely, I mean don't use it on your teachers. As more specifically, don't call Mr. M an "arsehole" to his face. He is your Leadership teacher. This is not good leadership. And you are a kid. Not nice. Oh, and you certainly get in trouble at home so side-step that temptation.

Charm is of utmost importance and the sooner you employ it, the better. It is NOT charming to tell your mom, whilst she is spanking you, that you "can't feel a thing." Wise up. This will induce more spanking. Don't be smug.

You love sports and are quite good. You will love soccer, skiing, tennis, and volleyball for life. Give up piano lessons. Early. Your older brother has the musical talent of ten people. There is none left for you.

Oh, you are a tiny thing. Guess what, you will not grow and look like a real girl until 7th grade. Because of this, when you decide in 5th grade to cut off all your long hair for a Dorothy Hamill hair cut, I will be the first to tell you DON'T DO THIS. People will ask your parents about their "son" on more than one occasion. You will not like it. Pay attention to my words and don't cut your hair, or at least find someone who doesn't cut it like you are about to join the Army.

Your Father tells you at a young age you better find a career that pays you to run your mouth the way you do. You pick Lawyer. From the age of five you aspire to be two things: a Solid Gold Dancer or an attorney. Solid Gold goes off the air but watch it and learn all their skills. Law school is the answer. Although in any given opportunity, you will emulate the deft moves of a Solid Gold Dancer for  a long time. I mean years forever.

And don't tell lies. Like when you borrowed your Mom's bronzer, turned your face orange because you used too much, got it ALL over the impeccable white counters and floor, and then when questioned, you feigned bewilderment and innocence. Well sugar, the writing is all over your tangerine skin. Lucky for you, you learn quickly and just take your licks.

You will get tall, but you will be a size zero until about 13. Don't fret. You will never be a size zero again. And your boobs don't actually feel like participating in the "growth" process so they wait. For about 2 or 3 years. And when they come, its a weak showing. You twist and turn on this. Worry not. Why? Magic words: padded push-up. Plus, Victoria's Secret will solve this problem for you later in life with the first Miracle Bra. Even better ones come. Oh, and the braless, flat girls abound after the 90's.

Skip school a few days in November of 1984. You are only in 7th grade so just hold the thermometer near the light bulb for a few seconds. During November of this year "pants-ing" people becomes all the rage amongst the boys at school. You are not developed yet. You will get pants-ed. You will be called Peach Fuzz. You will react in a way the fuels fire. Not wise. You will need to work on this. Try laughing and telling them you lead the frontier for the Brazilian wax. Instead you will cry. Peach Fuzz sticks with you for about a year. You will laugh about this only DECADES later. Do yourself a favor, and just feign sickness. When you finally do get boobs, these same boys will not be singing Peach Fuzz.

You are going to have a great life. You are so lucky, and so loved. You adore clothes from a wee age when you refused to wear panties and socks that don't match. Nordstrom was the first word you could spell. You will make some wildly poor outfit choices in the 80's but everyone does.

You will wear a velour mid-length snap front bathrobe to school and because it is fabulous and purple, you will tell people it is a coat. Ummmm, one day you and your BFF TazBud will get in a fight and she will out you. Save it for the shower, sweetie.

Also, you will put blond hair color on one side of your hair. Right at the roots. Let's not. It will turn your hair orange and you will be stuck growing this out for over one year. This will be in ALL of your cheerleading pics. Your mom will hang these in the living room for ALL to see. If you don't take my advice, enjoy getting hazed. For years.

Oh, and stay out of Mom's jewelry box. Especially without permission. Yes, you like the jewels but you take her black pearls without express consent and then wear them in your class pictures. Ummm. Really? You have them ON in the picture. What more proof does she need? Perhaps you should have got your tiny arse beat because you will also one day take a ring of hers without asking and lose the stone. Turns out her father gave her the ring as a graduation gift. This will break your mom's heart and you will not know that for years to come. And you can NEVER replace something of such sentimental value. Just be respectful and ask first.

But older brother's room is a free for all. He has sh*t hidden everywhere: love notes, Copenhagen, contraband cigs, a one-hitter. You will have such great ammo against him. Start looking now.

You have some of the greatest friends of your life growing up. You will still be friends with many of them to this day.

Oh, your high school boyfriend was actually not the one who informed your Mom about who bought you alcohol in order to gain her good graces. You and all of your friends have big fun calling him Eddie Haskell for about the next decade but he is innocent. She is reading your journals. But, you are so clever that you often write your shenanigans in code. Brilliant move. She doesn't know HALF of what you are up to.

And believe me, you and your gal pals are innocent little lambs compared to teens today.

Oh, but when you get asked by one coach if you were drinking during a high school party thereby violating Athletic Code, DENY DENY DENY. She is a cow and will mishandle it. You and your two close friends will be suspended from the team (only for a bit though). Instead, smile at her as say " I would never." And wine coolers shouldn't really qualify as "drinking."

Oh, and when you pitch a full throttle fit when you are forced to watch 90210 because it's your little brother's birthday and he gets to pick, the least you could do is later admit to him you became obsessed with the show and watched it religiously.

While you think it is AMAZING that your first college boyfriend helps you make a beer bong (with a shut off valve...genius) it is HIGHLY UNWISE to bring this home on your first college break to show all of your friends also home on break. Breath-takingly more foolish is that you actually show your Step-Dad. Ummm, they are paying for education not beer-induced sex fest. DO NOT SHOW YOUR PARENTS A BEER BONG. Especially YOUR beer bong with YOUR nickname on it. And then you tell SD who helped you craft it. When that boy comes to visit, your SD calls him a troll. To his face. Your SD does NOT want to think about a boy funneling beer in your mouth at the speed of light for obvious reasons.

And being in a sorority is a great idea. You will love it. Although, those girls can drink. Wine coolers have not prepared you. Oh, and watch those 3 am calzones. Yes, I know you are hungry. Try eating during the day time. You will spend an entire summer working that off your arse.

And "credit card" is not magical slang for "free money" or "something somehow unattached to actual debt". When you Father tells you to pay attention to your credit, that's not French for "MAD SPENDING SPREE". You are smarter than this. Stop acting like you forgot all mathematical and economic concepts because its your first credit card.

Your first really serious college boyfriend is going to break your tiny heart. And he is cheating on you, sweetpea. Don't change a thing, because you learn more from this particular relationship than you can imagine. Its determinism, and it will change you 100% for the better. Pack your tissues though ladybug, its going to be a tough one.

You follow him across the country because you are so wise and grown up. The positive to this is, it is the best mistake you have ever made for the wrong reasons. PS: When your parents are paying for everything, they do, in fact, get a vote.

You will LOVE the University. Thankfully, you will actually like the "school" piece of it too. And you learn quickly skipping class is not wise. You will learn this the day your Western Civ mid term is rescheduled and you were not in class to hear this. Or the next session when they remind people. Oh, you are one smooth talker and overcome this dilemma but just go to class in the first place.

You will come out of your college experience a different and better person (and you think you are pretty fly at the time, trust me). And you will date stellar men from that point on.

Law school is a wise choice. It will benefit you indefinitely. You will have a hemorrhage over your first law school writing grade. That's what you get for being a smarty pants and not studying. Don't be a jackarse. Everyone here is smart. Oh, but you ace the Wills and Trusts exam that you almost have breakdown over fear of failing. Stop carrying on at your apartment on the phone to Mom. You miss your flight and have one hell of a time waiting at the airport for hours because it is winter and there are all kinds of weather issues. Oh, but you do meet a cute boy so all is not lost. And he likes to buy cocktails but easy does it. Don't get off the plane shatfaced to meet your family.

And going to the Grenada every Thursday night for "80's Night & Dollar Pitchers" when you are supposed to be studying Tort Law is a good idea. You will remember those nights much, much longer than you will remember Palsgraf v. Long Island Rail Road.

And when you graduate, you will have achieved your first life goal. And you will meet some of the best friends you will ever hope to have during this time. Well done.

You will have a great career free of blemish. Don't go to work for Big K though. You will get in an argument with him over open toe shoes at the office. In 2001. He is a clown. And you don't work in a manufacturing plant. His wife actually refers to him as fat bastard. Just decline that offer. And save yourself a headache of trying to educate someone that you don't need to wear clogs and bonnets.

You will paint the town. You will fraternize. And you make good decisions. It is BIG fun.

But that guy that says you "suck" because you don't like his friend, and you answer "hardly" and laugh in his face, that's just fine. But then he calls your friend a " ____ stupid ____" because she won't give him her number. You debate throwing your drink in his face for saying that even though that seems, well, a bit of an over-reaction. Well, THROW IT HONEY. He is begging to be b*tch-slapped via vodka tonic. Believe it. And then you and your friend can reminisce about how good it felt to do it.

At your wedding shower, your favorite and beloved Aunt will say "you sure kissed a lot of frogs before finding your prince." But, you will LOVE kissing these frogs. Kiss away.

And you marry someone strong, and smart, and loving. Having a baby will change both of your lives. And when you are raising a son, you will realize the importance of teaching leadership and being a good parent. And you realize how hard it is sometimes and you regret, oh, about 1,000 things you did/said to your parents.

Oh, and then you will remember that one time you went to your BFF's nieces first bday, and all the kids at one point seemed to be screaming. And you said, "For the love of God, I need a drink. How can you bear the racket." And your BFF, MarciaGarcia, says, "Oh, eventually you just drowned it out." And you say, with what for !&%# sake, a hammer? You will finally know what she means.

And the first time your tiny child says "I love you" without you saying it first, you will melt.

And you will achieve another life goal of writing a book, don't be discouraged that after a few agents give you the nod the only real creatures interested are the spiders crawling on the dusty manuscript in the garage, well, we don' t know what's to come of that yet. You just wrote it a year ago. BUT, you want to start blogging three years before you do. Do it sooner. There is an INCREDIBLY witty, fun, sassy, and smart group of people you will meet in BloggyWorld, doing the same thing, and you will become addicted. Soar baby, soar.

Happy Birthday, and yes, you can have your cake and eat it too.

Love, JennyMac at age 38 (soon to be 41.)

You are going to put that thing in where????

A good friend just shared she is pregnant. Good for her! The fact you will stroll around for almost one year creating a life, well, it is rather phenomenal. Pregnancy was a completely new experience for me when we found out about MiniMac. He is the first grandchild on both sides of the family so we were never even too exposed to babies. We read some books, we had an amazing OB-Gyn and Midwife. And we learned as we went. What I certainly did not know was the litany of tests, procedures, pokes and prods you would enjoy your first trimester. This is where I had no instinct and let me share one story.

Shortly after confirming my pregnancy, I needed to have a sonogram. During this first exam, the nurse advised the baby was too small to do a topical sonogram so they would have to go, well, inside. I asked her what that meant. She kind of cocked her head at me, as if to ask, really? I only meant, what would an internal sonogram entail. Remember, people, I was VERY new at this. She said I would have all my questions answered soon. In comes Mrs. Yolanda C-G. I could instantly tell she was going to be a great Baby Sensei.  Now, I can still fully confirm she was amazing and among the best medical support any first time parents could ask for (Bravo Kaiser Permanente and your fabulous trained midwives!)

So in she comes with her bright smile and personable nature. My husband instantly liked her too as she was articulate but had a sassy personality. And she had great rapport with us from this day forward. She asked me if I had a birthing plan. Birthing plan? Umm, I plan to not wear maternity clothes? I plan not to gorge myself on pizza/hotdogs/and chili and claim its "food cravings"? I plan to make my own baby food? I plan to run a 10K the following month? What is this birthing plan? So I replied, "Yes, my plan is to build the baby, and then I plan for you to take the baby out." She laughed.

Then she wheeled over a small machine but picked up some kind of implement that looked like strikingly similar to my hand blender. She informed me this would be utilized to perform the internal sonogram. I saw that it was larger than a coke can, and I cleared my throat before I told her, in a stammering and completely uncool way, "Ummm, I am not sure...." Long pause. She and JMac waited for me to continue. She politely asked, "You are not sure about?" My equally stammering reply, "Umm, I don't think I can manage that, I mean, my body hasn't really changed yet. And while I fully understand ultimately a baby will be coming through this sector, frankly that seems...well....very large."

She looks at me. She tilts her head and then looks at JohnnyMac. She moves the entire machines towards me  and leans in to whisper, "This is the handle." She then removes the devices to show a teeny tiny probe about the size of a pencil.  "This," she references the probe, "is the actual instrument we use to do the internal portion of the sonogram."

I simply say, "OH. That seems better." And the she completely laughs out loud before asking JohnnyMac "Is she always like this?"

JMac replies, "Everyday."

"You two are going to be my favorites, I can tell."

Thankfully she saw the humor in my naivete. And this is precisely why I did not need to have a birthing plan.

Take A Bite Of: Butterscotch Pudding with Sea Salt Caramel

Because you truly can't eat just popsicles and ice cream during the long, hot summer ahead, you will need something light and delicious that is easy to make and OH SO incredible.

I had dinner with friends last week in NYC and we went to a fabulous little restaurant called JoJo. It is part of Jean Georges Vongerichten's culinary suite. We had this dessert that was pure bliss: handcrafted butterscotch pudding with a layer of caramel and topped with lightly sweetened whipped cream.

So yes, I had to come home and recreate it.

Super easy and since I have loved butterscotch pudding since I was a kid, why not introduce MiniMac to it too. And once you learn how easy homemade pudding is, you will say bye-bye to boxed brands forever.  I modified my version a bit by using Almond Milk.  From my kitchen to yours, enjoy every bite.

Butterscotch Pudding with Sea Salt Caramel

Ingredients:
4 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 cup packed dark brown sugar
3/4 teaspoon coarse sea salt
3 tablespoons cornstarch
2 cups milk ( I used Almond but you could use whole or 2%)
2 large eggs
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

Directions
1. In a medium sized pan, melt the butter. Add the dark brown sugar and salt, then stir until the sugar is well-moistened. Remove from heat.
2. In a small bowl, whisk together cornstarch and 1/4 cup  of the milk until smooth. Make sure there are no clumps, even small, of the cornstarch.  Whisk in eggs, one at a time.
3. Gradually pour the remaining milk into the melted brown sugar, whisking constantly, then add the cornstarch mixture.
4. Return pan to the heat and bring the mixture to a boil, whisking frequently. Once it begins to bubble, reduce the heat to a low simmer and continue to cook for one minute, whisking constantly until the pudding thickens.
5. Remove from heat and add vanilla. If the pudding separates a bit or looks curdles, continue whisking until smooth.
6. Pour into 4-6 serving glasses or custard cups and chill thoroughly for several hours before serving. Or, dig that spoon in and taste warm, flavorful butterscotch pudding (I have to be honest, I could not wait.)

Make the Sea Salt Caramel: I use the sea salt caramel from my Sea Salt Caramel Brownie recipe. Cool completely and add a layer over the pudding. Top with sweetened whipped cream. Enjoy!

The last day of your life...

I  spoke with a good friend today. Five of his family members have been in Europe on vacation. On Monday, they were traveling together by car. His cousin and her husband of two months were part of the group. I am sure the morning started with love, great coffee, laughter and excitement about the day ahead. While on the road, their car unexpectedly swerved. And one wheel hit wet grass. The car swerved again, with more intent and out of control. It hit trees before careening down a ravine. And now three of those family members have died and the other two are in the hospital.  And not one of them knew at 9 am that morning, today is the last day of your life.

When my friend said he has had a tragic week so far, my heart went out to him. And it made me think.

We already know that life can change. It can change in a moment; the fraction of the time it takes you to answer a question, make a grocery list, pour your coffee, check your blackberry. We fully understand it and because of that understanding we also know we should openly love, follow through, and be present.  But more importantly, we should live each day as if it is our last.

And we don't.

Because if we did, we would think about how that last day of our life we are busy building was going to turn out. Perhaps we would rethink certain things we would do and say or certainly rethink things we might NOT do and say. For me, I don't live every day like it was my last. If I did, every day would incorporate me dancing. With some 80s remixes. And hot pants. And a fan.

And I would love fully, try always, judge little and complain never. We would all temper anger, release grievances, get over our own pettiness and overcome our fears. We would also laugh more, be kinder, increase our patience, buy a boat, eat doughnuts, have sex on the kitchen table and decide, yes I can complete a triathalon (or a French cooking class, or Italian lessons.)  And you would call your sister you haven't spoken to in months because of your fight over vacation plans. Or you might tell someone else in your family to literally go ----- themselves because you have simply had enough of their suffocating personality.

And you would live fully. And you would love freely.

Because we know that anyday could be our last, the most important thing is what is the story you want to tell about the last day of your life.

Months ago, a friend of mine posted this on Facebook about the morning she spent with her kids:

TODAY WE:

*Gave Appreciation Notes to Cashiers, Stock People, Drive-thru attendants and other hardworking individuals
*Gave an unsuspecting Teller flowers at the bank (this made EVERYONE there smile)
*Brought doughnuts and thank you cards to the local Police and Fire Departments
*Wished strangers Happy Easter
*Helped an Elderly Lady put her groceries in her car and pushed her cart in
*Taped exact money to several vending machines
*Gave fruit to co-workers
*Let another driver merge
*Gave Candy to Car detailers
*Left uplifting notes in ladies restrooms
*Complimented Strangers
*Left money under lunch bowl
*Gave a very kind partially deaf cashier a love note and $ ( she was sooo surprised )
*Left goodies bags with crayons, note cards, and small toys in them for children in the ER waiting area at our local hospital
*Left a thank you note and apple for the mailman
*Paid for a random ladies coffee at Starbucks
*Left several Gift cards with kind notes in between books at Barnes and Noble.
*Held doors for strangers
*Delivered food to the local SPCA and visited with the animals
*Left thank you notes with the SPCA volunteers
*Gave trail mix and cheer to Homeless people in Town's Square
*Gave scratch off lottery tickets to strangers

And because she is lovely inside and out, I wasn't a bit suprised. It is a reminder that we all have time to do great things. It is all about choices. And it is reminder to me that I want to incorporate more love and giving into every day of my life. And if it were my last day, loving and giving is exactly the type of story I would want to tell.

So if today were my last day, my story would start like this:

Woke up to the smiling face of my son and the quasi-smiling but quite sleepy yet dashing handsome face of  my husband.
Enjoyed tea my husband made for me and fresh mango.
Kissed my son 100 times and sang Jane Says by Jane's Addiction with him. Loudly. Perhaps too loudly for aforementioned sleepy husband.
Did a favor for a friend.
Sent a sympathy card to another friend dealing with loss this week.
Sent cards to Mom, Dad and Aunt and Uncle in the mail.
Prepared for big presentation and appreciated support from two colleagues I respect.
Had adults only time with husband.
Made plans with a good friend.
Had short but meaningful conversations with two other good friends.
Made plans for Father's Day with my Father in Law.
Gave a Starbucks card to the driver of my airport parking shuttle.
Helped an older couple at aiport.
Gave a Vosges chocolate bar (the BEST) to a woman at my hotel who was vey helpful last week.

And the day isn't even half over. Imagine the possiblities.
It's your story. Go write it.

On the subject of bravery

A few days ago, I picked MiniMac up from school with a soundtrack of a thunderstorm in the background. He told me it had rained on them on the playground earlier and he could now hear the noise outside. As we were making our way out of the school,  I asked, "You know what that is, right?"

He answered, "Its not God watering His flower garden, Mom. Rain is actually caused by cloud formation and moisture in those clouds."

For the record, I have NEVER told him rain is God watering His flower garden. Thunder is God playing drums, yes, but never a mention of rain and a correlation to a flower garden.

When we got outside and heard the thunder, he informed me the thunder and lightening no longer bother him. "I am very brave, Mom." I concurrred.

Later that night, as electricity flickered in our house, a thunderstorm blew in. From his room, MiniMac called up to us. "I don't really care for the thunder!" he said earnestly.

"I think it will pass, baby." I replied.
"Really, Mom, it is VERY loud and bright down here!"
"If you close your eyes, you won't see it," John tells him.
"I can STILL HEAR IT Daddy!"
Good retort my little man.

"Mom, I am getting scared down here! Can one of you please come down!" A statement, not a question.
I respond, "One of us will certainly come down but you told me you were very brave today."

As our tiny son's voice starts quivering, he replies, "I was only brave then because I was wearing my Superman shirt."

John went down and laid in bed with MiniMac until he fell asleep, but it made me think about his statement. Imagine if bravery were as simple as merely putting on a Superman shirt. I don't know if it would work at our age, but not only is it worth an effort, it is representative of the sheer power of belief.

10 Comments for the parents who like to "coach" from the sidelines...

MiniMac has joined his first official team. We are about 4 weeks into his first football season. Not to worry, it is only flag football at this point but yes, I must clarify since this is SEC country after all. A few thoughts on team sports: Not everyone is going to be #1 and I think schools are doing kids a significant disservice by neutralizing the fact that yes, some kids are going to be better at certain things. Instead, the idea is that ALL kids are #1. Wrong.  The rest of their lives from academia to job promotion simply are not structured that way. Nor should they be. You should learn at a certain age the harder you work, the better you will be. But MiniMac is barely 5 right now. And it is not about winning at age 5. For now, our only request is that he pay attention and listen to the coach. Those two requests are handled well most of the time because he is pretty thrilled about playing football. Despite the fact I had to explain to him several time why this league is NOT tackling (even though, he clearly pointed out, that everyone on the University of Georgia and Atlanta Falcons teams tackle).  It has been rather fantastic to watch him listen and process, and grow increasingly more interested in the sport. And he is pretty fast. But I have also recently been reminded the key to the speed is stay in your lane. There has been more than one unintentional crash because little kids run like bumblebees; sometimes in crazy nonsensical patterns.

I would like to say we were prepared for the other parents. Not the normal ones, the crazy ones. I would like to say the litany of articles and media coverage about parents going over the top would have served as adequate notification that I would be dismayed when it came to real life antics. But MiniMac is our only child, and well, we are still JV on certain things. So based on my own actual sequeway into team sports, I would like to share  

10 Comments for the parents who like to "coach" from the sidelines:

1. Check the age of your child before you unleash him for his first team. I feel confident you know this age because it was a requirement to put your child on an age specific team. Therefore you know your son is between 4 and 6. Have you met a child between this age before? Of course because you HAVE a child this age. Is this not the same child who changes subjects 20 times in 5 minutes? Is this not the same child who will ask you in the middle of reading a story 'when are we going back to DisneyWorld?' or 'Will you make pancakes tomorrow' other assorted questions that have nothing to do with the story. The answer is yes. Oh believe me, I know more like repeating myself 8 times to a 5 year old than I like being stuck in an elevator but it comes with the territory.  It is not in your child's wheelhouse to focus on this game with the precision of a NASA engineer. It is not combine day for the NFL. Act appropriate about your child's bandwidth.

2. Hey Dad who constantly yells at your son to "RUN FASTER" and "YOU CAN NOT RUN IF YOU DO NOT PUMP YOUR ARMS" . I am not sure your son knows how to react when the coach is telling them one thing on the field and you are shouting with all your might on the sidelines. I know most parents shout commentary from the sidelines. We do too. Our comments are more along the lines of "Nice hustle" and "Way to run the ball."  Even when we see the need to say "focus" we don't yell it repeatedly.  And certainly not to the extent my voice continues to go up in octaves.  You know how I know you are overzealous? Because your face is turning bright red and sweat is spewing out of you and it is not from the sweet Georgia sun, honey. You also like to repeat these statements about every 20 seconds. Maybe you should take your child out in the backyard and have a race. I guarantee he will beat your arse from one side of fence to the other. Then perhaps he can yell at you every 20 seconds for an entire hour. PS: You sound like a donkey braying into a microphone.
PS: I get that some of you have realized your sons are not taking to the sport quickly. I am sure that is frustrating to watch someone do something they do not immediately excel in similar to what it would be like to watch you do a push up, learn to use an iPhone or well, parent your child.

3. Hey Dad who I have nicknamed "Coach Critic", I appreciate you want to stand on the sidelines and complain about how you "don't agree with what the coach is doing." You don't agree with what the coach is doing? He is teaching 4-6 year olds the basics of football. Do you want that job? Right. Some minutes it would be easier to ask a cat to sit for the bar exam. And guess what? It is not a hard task to ask the kids to run through cones. These are children that can operate an iPad with swift and deft ability. You don't like it because your son isn't really listening to the coach and therefore is hopping over the cones like Peter Cottontail. Calmly, ask your son to listen, you do it all the time at home.

4. Hey Dads who love to stand on the sidelines playing catch and talking about the "old days". Do you know what is odd? Is that you are throwing the ball as hard as you possibly can at one another.  I am surprised you have not yet donned your jersey from high school. Youth Sports is not a euphemism for "Relive your partial glory days". My favorite day is when the Coach, who actually played ball at a big school, asked one of you to toss a ball onto the field and you treated that request like it was the "Test Your Strength and Win the Million Dollar Prize"  throw. A throw the coach easily caught and then said, "Thanks for trying to show off." Note he did not say "Thanks for showing off" but rather "Thanks for trying to show off." Translation: You throw like a dandelion. I won't even say you throw like a girl because I am a girl, I have a Father who coached football growing up and well, I can throw a better spiral than you but you don't see my on the sidelines doing high knees and yelling HUT HUT for the fun of it.

5. Hey Mom who marched on the field and told your son if he dropped the ball again you would "pop him in the mouth." WOW is all I can say to you. To your kid I say: Maybe you can live with your grandparents. PS: You can easily outrun your Mom if needed.

6. To the Dad with the worst behaved kid on the field: Do you think it is the coach's job to tell your son to stop hitting, spitting or kicking other kids? Answer: NO. Your answer: WHY OF COURSE. Which is why you literally stand there for an hour when your son acts like a jackass and you do nothing about it. I love that the coach told your son on Sunday that if he did it again, he was sent out of the park. Not off the field, not to time out, out of the park as in "get in your car and scram."  Oh, and even more interesting is you will yell at your son for not drinking water during the water break but you won't say a word to him when he spits in another child's face unprovoked. You have parenting down pat.

7. To the grandparents who brought their tiny grandson to practice one day, with 4 of your friends in tow, you are awesome. And I was delighted to watch how delighted you were when you learned your grandson's nickname on the field is "Sweet Feet". That kid has skills and you all were in heaven watching him dart around. And you cheering " Goooo Sweeeet Feeet" was almost as loud and likely more fun than a Georgia game which is really saying something. PS: You made up for the above mentioned.

8. To the woman who told me she couldn't believe that "Little X has two Moms and I don't know what I think about that or if I am really comfortable with it...." in reference to one of the players and his lesbian mothers, well, all I can say is Thank God they didn't conceive you so you don't need to worry about it. The football field is not the location to share your social beliefs on same-sex child-rearing. Especially with me. Oh, is that what people do when they don't understand the sport and yet have to yap about something? Zip it. Good to know you are not teaching your son about football, teamwork or sportsmanship but rather ignorance, intolerance and prejudice.

9. To my favorite Dad, the one who witnessed your child get hit from behind, knocked down and hurt. I was unaware the way to make a child stop crying was to yell approximately 6 inches from your child's face. Wait, did you just call your son a wussy? Oh my, you did. And you meant it. This is a sensitive issue for you.  I feel certain your son is not a wussy for getting knocked down from behind and doing a face plant in the dirt. He is only 5 and not Stone Cold Steve Austin. Wussy? Really? I hope he tells your wife. And his grandparents. And we all know that wussy is the less abrasive version of the word  P____. So you basically called your son a P____? WOW. That might be the worst thing I have seen to date. And unfortunately, it won't be the last. Welcome to team sports, also known as 'Time filled with delight watching your child while simultaneously being around a few people you don't like at all."
PS: Is it not odd you would basically call your son a P_______? I find it interesting men use this word on another to imply weakness, impairment or frailty.  Doesn't this word  in fact represent your favorite thing on earth? So in your own weird way when you call a male a P______ you are really saying I WORSHIP YOU or I THINK OF YOU APPROXIMATELY 6000 TIMES PER DAY!!!! Wow, so not only are you an A-hole, but a rather poor communicator as well.
PSS: I think men who don't know how to conduct common interaction with their sons so they resort to caveman tactic of pushing, punching in the arm, and basically calling them a P_____  in some archaic stream of thinking it will 'toughen' them up are not ideal role models.  And by "not ideal role models" I specifically mean d-bags.

10. Best piece of advice on read on being a parent of a young person playing sports: At the conclusion of every practice or game, tell them first how much you like watching them play. Don't launch in with your long list of critiques or how you would have handled it differently 25 years ago when you played. It can wait until you get off the field. The first statement should be: I really enjoy watching you play. Amen.