Being Game

When you are a single mother by choice, you do the work of both a mother and father. You wear two hats, and you are keenly aware of it every single day. If you weren't already familiar with your strengths and weaknesses, full-time single motherhood will rapidly make them very apparent to you. I guarantee it!

I have many failings when it comes to performing this gargantuan two-headed job: I am woefully not domestic, and I am also not mechanical. And that's just for starters. So please don't ask me to bake an apple pie or put together Ikea furniture. (For the record, I have done the latter, but that was during a period in my life when I had a great deal of time, patience, and no distractions from children.)

However, one characteristic I do have as a parent and that I am quite proud of is "being game." I think of it as being adventurous, fun, or a little crazy or quirky in a good way. It's a quality that doesn't get discussed much in SMC circles, but I think it should be. Much more attention is paid to such practical subjects as financial stability, nurturing issues, the daddy question, support-network relationships, etc. and rightfully so.

But I feel that if a woman is going to choose to have a child or children on her own, she also ought to make an attempt to provide a happy experience for them beyond the "routine." Routine, in this case, I mean as the status quo of childhood leisure time -- sports clinics, teams, lessons; Disney vacations; beach visits; and the like. All of these non-school activities are fantastic for the child. Don't get me wrong. My boys have partaken in them for years -- with the exception of Disneyworld, which we still haven't visited.

In a traditional family, often one parent is more game than the other, and that is okay. The pressure is off the less game parent because the more game parent can pick up the slack. As a result, the child or children of this couple benefit because they do have a game parent. However, when there is just one parent in the family, the onus is on that one parent to be game because she or he doesn't have a partner who can provide that quality to the offspring.

I try to be game, but I find it fairly easy to be game because I already am game. Granted, not all the time and not in every circumstance. For example, I am not game to voluntarily drive a long distance through a snowstorm -- even to go skiing, which I love. I am not game to allow one son to take sailing lessons before I feel comfortable with his swimming ability. And I am not game (at least for now) to give my other son live chickens for Christmas. In these instances, issues of safety, responsibility overload, and/or cost take precedence.

Exactly what do I mean by being game? Being game can take many forms. As an example, this week I entered my first-ever eating contest. Yes, you read that right. Eating contest! What on earth possessed me to do such an odd thing? You must wonder. Did I think I was Takeru Kobayashi downing hot dogs on Coney Island? Hardly! This just seemed like a wild thing to do. It's called "Walk the Plank," aka The Captain Hook's Pizza Challenge. A pizza place we love in a neighboring community would award a tee shirt and free large pizza with three toppings to anyone who could eat said pizza in thirty minutes flat.

Game on!

Did I believe I could accomplish it? No, but I was game to try. I don't binge eat, and I don't pick at my food either. I have a healthy appetite. Still, I could only stomach one quarter of the pie. Lettuce and extra tomato sauce were good choices for toppings, but extra cheese most certainly was not, I quickly discovered. Too heavy and too filling!

My boys were amused to watch and content to be eating their own small pepperoni pizza at another table (because there wasn't room at mine). At one point, I had an audience of about eight people including two ladies who delayed their return trip home to Ossipee, NH, to see if I could succeed. 

My timekeeper -- a cheerful, bespectacled restaurant employee named Al -- called my attempt "valiant." I'll take it! Only two other people (teenage boys) had entered the contest, and they both quit after consuming half a pizza. I was glad I gave it a shot, even after learning the next day that I'd put on almost two and a half pounds for the week. (For the record, I don't believe all of it was pizza weight, but some of it definitely was!)

But the point is: I was willing to go outside my comfort zone and possibly (or probably) look foolish just to have a good time. My sons got a kick out of it -- my large, football-playing third grader wants to make his own attempt -- and we made a goofy memory together that we will recall years in the future. I can just hear my sons now: "Mom, do you remember the time you tried to eat a giant lettuce-covered pizza all by yourself? That was so funny!"

Being game can also mean agreeing to camp with the kids in the backyard, allowing a group of teenage boys to partially bury a willing younger son in the sand under a mom's watchful eye, taking an older son down an expert ski slope when he is ready and the snow is just right, etc.

It's about being up for the unexpected, being spontaneous, being in the moment, and being open to new and offbeat experiences. As a parent, I personally think it's the only way to be because it models for the child an approach to life that is fun, positive, and adaptable to the circumstances. The alternative is, well, being an old fuddy-duddy.

And who wants to be that?

Hitting the Deer

You've heard of "hitting the wall," the point of complete exhaustion. Unfortunately, I've used that cliche far too often the past nearly ten years of full-time single motherhood. As of today, however, I have a new stock phrase to call upon to describe the same condition though, if possible, a more severe version because it suggests a fatigue so incapacitating that one cannot even avoid striking a living creature while driving down the road! When you hear someone say "I hit the wall," you think to yourself I hear you, I know what you mean, I've been there. But when you hear someone say "I hit the deer," you really pay attention. "You WHAT? You hit a deer? You actually hit a real deer? Oh, my God! Are you okay? Is the deer okay? Is your car okay? That's really scary!"

No kidding. It IS really scary. I know because it happened to me today. (FYI, I am okay. The deer appeared to be okay as it continued bounding toward the woods with its companion. And my car also seems to be okay.) First off, the accident was completely unavoidable, and it ended in the best result possible given the circumstances. Here's what happened: I was driving the speed limit from my town to the neighboring town when two deer leapt into my path at a bend in the road. I had a split second to brake, if that. Swerving would have been extremely dangerous and surely would have resulted in striking the first and larger animal broadside or going off the narrow road. I did not consider turning the wheel in that brief moment. Thank God no one was coming in the opposite direction or we would have wound up in a two-car/two-deer pileup! I could have been killed. As it was, I just clipped the backside of the second deer. If I'd had more distance between my vehicle and the animals, both deer would have cleared my front end. Unfortunately, they were just too close to me.

Though not at fault, I feel that hitting the deer was truly the culmination of a spate of unpleasant events that have plagued me for a while now. In other words, it is an apt metaphor for where things have been heading. They have been escalating, and not in a good way. I'm referring to a child's behavior, the condition of our home, and my financial situation among other aspects of my unpaid job singlehandedly managing this household of three. But many other unusual and undesirable events have also been happening since the beginning of the year. In no particular order, they include incurring nearly $3,000 worth of automotive repairs and car-rental fees, running out of gas on the highway, losing heat in my home during Nemo, forgetting my wallet at Staples (resulting in an hour-long anxiety attack and missed Easter egg hunt), losing two different earrings two days in a row, being put on Facebook probation for sending too many friend requests, and dropping my iPad on the pavement before stepping back onto it. Plenty more oddball occurrences have befallen me recently. These are just the ones I remember off the top of my head!

Why does this keep happening? For one, I am a person who seems to be a magnet for drama. It has pretty much always been this way. However, it has intensified considerably since becoming a full-time single mother and has grown even more pronounced of late to the point at which if someone had asked me if I thought I might hit a deer today, I would have laughed wryly and answered "YES!" -- as unlikely as that scenario would have been and considering the fact that I had never hit a deer before in my entire life.

Yeah. It has gotten that bad.

Motherhood can be grueling, and if you don't have a spouse or partner assisting you (and providing a second income!) or a support network of family or friends -- even just a few or one reliable person -- willing and able to give you free help when you need it, then 24/7 single motherhood IS grueling. Period. (Of course, if you have loads of money to hire substantial at-home help, then all bets are off. You are the apple to everyone else's orange. Lucky you!)

The single-mother experience ebbs and flows, though for me personally I am still waiting for the flow. For most of the past nearly ten years of it, I have fallen into the former category. Since I have lived in my present community twice as long as my previous two, I have had an easier time finding people to pitch in the past few years. I have made better friends here. Still, I really don't like to ask for help (who does?), and I try not to do it if at all possible.

Single motherhood is very intense for me just about every single day. My boys are in elementary school -- third and first grades -- so my reality is homework, school projects, field trips, evening programs, sports teams, martial arts, playdates, sleepovers (for the uninformed, seven year olds do have sleepovers), birthday parties, and more. As if that's not enough, throw in acting opportunities separate from school and many miles away (even out of state) and multi-day camping trips all over New England, and you have a pretty good idea what we are up to year-round. The schedule is full. Scratch that, overloaded. And it is nearly always about my sons. (Note to self: see if you can tweak that a bit.)

But while I am the facilitator of all of the activities -- the person who finds them, registers for them, pays for them, buys the uniforms for them, keeps track of the schedules for them, drives my sons to them, watches them, sometimes helps at them, and prepares my boys for them (playing catch, choreographing a piece, reviewing spelling, correcting homework, etc.) -- I also have to fit in my own life: teaching, getting ready for class, critiquing student work, blogging every ten days, accepting an occasional extra job or focus-group opportunity for spare cash, and submitting query letters and manuscripts and more to agents and editors in an ongoing effort to get my book-length memoir published. Yowza! Of course, there's also washing laundry, putting it away, buying groceries, making meals, packing lunches or lunch money, picking up the house, teaching right from wrong, comforting and disciplining, taking my children to dentist and other appointments, and on and on.

It is an endless list and the reason why being a mother is the hardest job in the world. Given this backdrop, it is crucial for mothers of all stripes and especially single mothers to apply the brakes once in a while so as not to "hit the deer."

Go out to a matinee. Have lunch with a friend. Walk on a beach. Have a massage. Take yoga. Wolf down a decadent dessert. Leave on a girls' weekend away and do karaoke in the local bar. If it feels good, makes you happy, relaxes you, or provides a brief escape from your daily pressures, then by all means indulge yourself. Do it as much as you can.

If you don't practice self-care at least once in a while, you will go "crazy." Maybe not in the clinical sense (though maybe you will) but surely in the teetering-on-the-edge sense. The mother, particularly the one without a partner or other free help, will feel like she is living inside a pressure cooker or vise with pressure bearing down on her from all sides. It makes her depleted, irritable, and unable to tolerate anything else thrown her way such as a flat tire, missing car keys, or petulant child. Her sense of calm and equilibrium will be replaced by excessive anxiety, imbalance, and a disordered mind. Regretfully, I know this state intimately. Take my word for it: it is horrible to experience.

Don't let yourself get to the point of hitting the deer. Carve out break times to give you pleasure and find moments of peace so you can manage to keep the crazy away . . . or at least at bay.

Love Letter to My Adopted City

Dear Boston,

As you begin to heal following the horrific marathon bombings followed by the gunfights and lockdown later last week, let me take this opportunity to tell you how much you mean to me. It pained me greatly to see you suffering from the killing of innocent adults, a child, and a young police officer as well as the injuring of more than 270 others. Evil held you and your surrounding communities in its tight grip for an entire workweek, disrupting your routine and the general peace you and your residents enjoy and expect. Thankfully, the malicious parties have been subdued -- either by being slain or captured.

The time to dress your wounds and comfort you has begun. Your finest and strongest citizens are working diligently to protect you, maintain you, and improve you. They along with federal authorities are turning over every stone to uncover just how the perpetrators were able to pull off the vicious attacks on you in the hopes that both the lone surviving terrorist may be brought to justice and such heinous acts may never be repeated within your borders.

The unthinkable occurred at your proudest of moments on a very special day. Marathon Monday and Patriots' Day. A sacred doubleheader of a day testing and celebrating the world's top long-distance runners as well as a state holiday commemorating the anniversary of the first battles of the Revolutionary War that led to America's independence.

For ambitious spectators, it was a full day. First up: the 5:30 a.m. reenactment in Lexington (Concord's was too late if you were trying to make the 11:05 a.m. Red Sox game). This year the game was played against the Tampa Bay Rays. It was Jackie Robinson Day. And, finally, the marathon -- the world's oldest and most prestigious. (The finish line is walkable from Fenway Park.) Hopefully, these fans already filed their 1040s because it was also Tax Day, April 15.

As it was the beginning of spring vacation, my boys and I were lazing around the house. We had no plans. It was a gorgeous day and just the right temperature for the elite competitors one hour south. Turning on the TV, I saw a Portuguese woman with a long, swinging ponytail running well ahead of the pack. It was inspiring to watch her, though I have no marathon aspirations myself as I have a bad knee containing only twenty percent of its protective cartilage. The camera then cut to Tatyana McFadden, a Russian-born Paralympian, as she accepted her trophy for winning the women's wheelchair division. She looked so happy.

Around midday I made plans for my boys to play with a friend's boys on a field behind the elementary school. Though they had gotten up at an ungodly hour to make the roughly fifty-minute drive to the Lexington reenactments, her boys were not the least bit tired. They were raring to practice for the Little League season beginning this weekend. By mid-afternoon, we were back home. I called up Facebook. The first post I read on my newsfeed indicated rather cryptically that there'd been some kind of disturbance at your marathon. I didn't stay on my iPad any longer to learn more. I rushed to the TV. Like everyone watching that day, I could not believe my eyes. The news about you was shocking, surreal, and heartbreaking. Little did anyone know it was just the beginning of your terror-filled workweek.

I love you, Boston, and I always have. You are my adopted city.

I met you over Columbus Day Weekend 1980 when visiting friends at colleges in your area. I arrived at the bus station a day late because I had changed my plans and decided to hitchike alone and for the first time from my college in central, western Vermont. After thumbing a couple of rides, I wound up in the back of a pickup then its cab after it started to rain. The male driver took me to a bus station in Brattleboro. Alas, too late. Missed the last bus of the day by five minutes. Next he drove me to a couple of motels. No vacancy. It was leaf-peeping season! Running out of options, he invited me to his home in nearby South Newfane. A risky proposition, indeed. Yet I felt I could trust him when he discussed his wife and kids. I had spent enough time talking to him and observing him in the cab to come to this conclusion. At their house, I borrowed the family's phone to call the childhood friend I was supposed to stay with at your namesake college. She called me "crazy" when I told her about my trip. I couldn't disagree. That night I had a wonderful time with the warm, caring family. Dinner featured fresh greens and tomatoes from their garden and applesauce made of apples from their trees. A giant pancake breakfast was served up in the morning before the father drove me back to the bus station. He stayed long enough to watch me board, just in case I had a hankering to try hitchhiking again. (Hint: I did.)

Looking back, I realize how naive and lucky I was. Still, meeting you after twenty-four hours of adventure ensured that I would like you. A LOT. It was a very good first impression, and you have not disappointed me since. My Boston College friend took me to Faneuil Hall where I sampled my first fried dough. (More than thirty years later I still love the messy treat.) We browsed the shops, and Claire encouraged me to buy a teddy bear I liked. I named it Claire Bear. I still have it. That weekend I stopped by Harvard to visit two friends from my all-girls Connecticut boarding school -- Sheilah from Hong Kong who just last year singlehandedly took my son's Flat Stanley around the world and Connie, a senior-year roommate who died of a rare cancer at the age of forty-four. I wanted to also get together with Eleanor at Wellesley, but I ran out of time. My stay in your area was rushed due to my late arrival. But I had no regrets regarding my transportation method of choice.

Post-graduation you were the first major city I lived in. I had landed a job at the "Christian Science Monitor" and had taken a one-bedroom apartment above the kitchen of a cool Asian restaurant on Columbus Avenue. (Appropriate given my Columbus Day Weekend introduction to the city.) Two years later my bichon frise Sparkplug and I moved from the South End to Beacon Hill to be closer to a friend from boarding school who I had reconnected with over an Appalachian Mountain Club trip to New Hampshire the weekend O.J. led police on that slow-speed chase. Rentals in the ritzy neighborhood were steeper, so I downgraded to a studio not far from Louisburg Square where Secretary of State John Kerry has long resided. My space had formerly been servants' quarters for the neighborhood's blue blood population and featured a bathroom (truly a water closet) off the building's stairs. Yes, outside the apartment. But I didn't mind.

During this time, I left work on the Family and Medical Leave Act to manage my ailing mother's Christian Science care. It was an intense, exhausting, and painful period and continued to be so for many months to come. One of the few bright lights in my life at that time was an AMC rock climbing course I was taking in your city. A couple of cousins encouraged me to continue with the class despite my heavy responsibilities before and after my mother's death and the cracked rib I sustained carrying her when she fell into my arms. In fact, I was top-roping your awesome Quincy Quarries and afterward having a beer at a nearby Irish pub while she was drawing her last breaths.

After my leave ended, I left the newspaper to handle her estate and the sale of her house, relocating to Seattle by late fall for Chapter II of my life: Post-Parents. My West Coast adventure didn't last long. Some four years later I came back to you to attend an MFA program in creative writing. This time I took an apartment across the Charles River in Cambridge. My first son came along a few years later, thanks to your world-renowned medical care. My second was born during our brief stint in Marblehead on the North Shore. And today our family resides on Cape Ann, a little further up the coast. I can't express my gratitude enough to your excellent reproductive endocrinologists who made it possible for a single woman to become a mother two times over in her forties.

All told, I have lived in your area for roughly seventeen years before and after my Seattle experiment. Almost as long as my childhood hometown. I have celebrated or suffered through countless milestones in Beantown and its environs. The Impressionist paintings at the Museum of Fine Arts have lifted my spirits when I felt blue. Riding the T has been a salve for loneliness. Nothing compares to taking your firstborn to see the Green Monster up close, watching your dog romp on the historic Boston Common, or laughing hysterically with a visiting boyfriend at The Comedy Studio in Harvard Square. I have had many, many good times in and around your fair city.

I am so proud of you and in so much awe of you. Keep strong, mighty Boston. You will always prevail.

Love,

Shelby

Our Guernica

Just trying to get by
To pass a day with needing a cry.
The tears don't come easily.
I wish they would. That's at least
A welcome release.
But you've numbed me,
Hardened me. I'm like a callus,
Jaded from your callous
self-indulgence and flitting about.
I'm your punching bag, your doormat.
Can you help it? It's not yet clear.
Do you feel for us? You don't hear
When I tell you to stop.
Just STOP.
Am I beating my head against a wall
If it's not your fault?
IT. Our Guernica. The unknown that makes it all
About you, always you, not me, not him, just you
To do what you want, be where you want,
Hurt who you want, say what you want.
It's taking a toll. How can it not?
Reinjuring me: you don't care.
Costing me extra money: you don't care.
Making him weep: you don't care.
Invading his space: you don't care.
It's holding you back,
Holding me back,
holding him back.
Back, back, back.
WE'RE GOING BACK!
I don't want to go back.
Let's turn the corner,
Together move forward,
Learn all about it,
downright conquer it.
It's not enough to cope with it.
HOW DO WE LIVE WITH IT?

*"I Saw Your Like" (extended version)

I saw your like
I saw your like
On my Facebook page, I saw your like.

Adam Carr, I saw your like
A way, way back when.
Then your name vanished
From the "People who like this" list.
Asking about it made you flustered
And you pleaded ignorance.
Were you pissed?

Meg Rose, I saw your like
Before I sent you an invite.
You were happy to lend support
Yet had a change of heart.
I'm not sure exactly which part
of Mad Mom caused you to abort.

I saw your like
I saw your like
On my Facebook page, I saw your like.

Barbara Lyons, you dropped off after unfriending me.
I hadn't taken kindly to your mean-girl moves
Of stealing my fan boy
And playing coy
And feeding me lies
And refusing to apologize.

I know the tricks. You claim, "I liked the page,"
But you really didn't as my notifications tell me so.
"I liked the page," says another. Ha! A second click
Of the button makes it a no, no, NO.

I saw your like
I saw your like
On my Facebook page, I saw your like.

I work hard posting every ten days
To build my fan base one by one
Up to 177 likes. Wait, what's this?
The total has slipped to 176!

Then it happened again and again --
FIVE times in four weeks!
Would I ever get to 177?
And exactly when?

I saw your like
I saw your like
On my Facebook page, I saw your like.

Soon I smartened up:
I started noticing a trend.
"Unlikes" -- usually few and far between --
followed public, first-name-dropping thank yous.
My posts of gratitude became your cues!

Maybe I wouldn't notice losing one like.
Hey, that's where you underestimate me
Because every day I check my tally
Like a stockbroker, obsessively.

I saw your like
I saw your like
On my Facebook page, I saw your like.

I'm onto your games.
They are certainly clever
and quite amusing.
They evoke: "It depends upon what the meaning
of the word 'is' is."

That line fooled no one
And you don't fool me.
Relax, lest you think I am angry.
I am on my iPad right now
Laughing hysterically.

Yes, I know you are fibbing.
I'm just giving you a ribbing.
So please take this in jest.
It's not an MCAS test.

I saw your like
I saw your like
On my Facebook page, I saw your like.

*To be sung to the tune of "We Saw Your Boobs," Seth MacFarlane's controversial Oscar ditty.

Feeling Connected to the Universe: My Circle of Life Day

One of my happiest sensations is feeling attuned to the universe. It can come about from a satisfying encounter with a friend -- a fun coffee break, a quick but mood-elevating accidental meeting on the street, or a long phone conversation during which each party listens and expresses in an equal and caring manner. I often glean this lift after positive exchanges with complete strangers. (It's one of the many reasons why I love traveling.) It could be learning that a Facebook friend whom I have never met ate lunch at the same chain restaurant as me clear on the other side of the country the same day I did. (It's one of the reasons why I love Facebook.) It could be thinking about a person from my past only to have that person contact me that day. Or it could be something very, very small like using an unusual word in conversation before hearing that word that evening in a TV commercial I'd never seen before.


These kinds of connections/coincidences and so, so many more happen to me very frequently. Though I am not attending a church at the present time, I consider myself a spiritual person and always have. I feel God -- someone else might call it Spirit, the Universe, what have you -- guiding, supporting, and protecting me.

Two days ago I experienced a day just bursting with synchronicity. It was my "Circle of Life Day" -- March 25, the day in 1995 my mother passed on and the day in 2006 my son Charlie was born. (Cue the soundtrack to The Lion King, please.) My mother didn't live long enough to meet her grandsons, and they are growing up without knowing their direct blood relatives in the older generation. Yet this is the day that links three generations of my family. This is the day that turned death into life.

For his seventh birthday, I had planned to take Charlie to New York City for the day. Since we live north of Boston, that's no easy task. But Charlie had been given an incredible chance in the Big Apple, and I wanted him to be able to accept it. On a Facebook page I'd joined for the parents of child actors and models in New England, I saw a notice about a casting for the advertising campaigns of two major clothing lines. Bolstered by my characteristic what-the-heck attitude that gets me both opportunities and trouble, I submitted three candid shots of Charlie from my iPhone. Lo and behold, didn't I receive an e-mail telling me to bring him to NYC for a brief photo session!

Let me make this perfectly clear: Charlie has NO modeling experience, NO headshots, NO resume, NO agent, NO NOTHING. Still, based on one photo she saw, a prolific college filmmaker asked him to audition for her latest indie project. Alas, due to the unrelenting series of snowstorms occurring EVERY WEEKEND the second half of this winter, we simply could not manage to get our physical bodies to Rhode Island to meet her. Needless to say, the part was given to another child who lives much closer.

Regarding the New York opportunity, our choices were to come that very day (Sunday) or the next day. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out it's pretty tough to pull together a trip to New York on just a couple of hours notice, so I opted for Monday. The weather was supposed to be lousy (a storm coming in, naturally!), and it was a school day. Yet it was also Charlie's birthday. Now I've learned that it's not uncommon for a parent to remove his or her child from school for a special treat the day of the birthday. Personally, I have never done such a thing, but this day looked to be the perfect chance. Seriously, how exciting would it be for a seven year old to take his first trip to the Big Apple on his birthday to try out for the first time with a hot casting director for two major jobs? Pretty darn exciting, that's how!

New York was my mother's city. She (like my father) grew up there, and they came back into the city to give birth to me after moving to the suburbs. My mother absolutely loved the city. She worked at Doubleday Books and the Metropolitan Museum of Art. She loved the theater, the symphony, and art, art, art! I can't think about or visit the Big Apple without reminiscing about my mother.

This trip with Charlie would have been right up her alley -- not only because it involved her city but also because it involved modeling. Back in the day, she modeled hats for department stores such as Lord & Taylor and Bergdorf Goodman. She would have been very proud of Charlie for landing the audition.

Any other day pulling off such a feat as getting us down to the Big Apple on such short notice would have been near-miraculous. But on this day plans fell into place like never before. It seemed positively meant to be. First I reserved seats on the Bolt Buses that enabled us to arrive in a timely fashion and leave the audition without rushing. Next up: child care, always the stickiest piece of the puzzle for me. My older son would go to school, of course. But it didn't start early enough, and neither did the before-school program. So I had to find a family to take in Christopher at the crack of dawn. As Charlie and I would not be back for the 6 p.m. pickup from the after-school program, Chris also needed to go to someone's home afterward. And what if we were delayed? He might have to spend the night -- a school night, no less -- at that someone's home.

For mothers with family nearby, a simple phone call can be enough to fix this type of problem. But I don't have and never have had family to assist me with child care. If I was lucky enough to locate help, I expected that it would be split between two families: one each before and after school. Well, you can only imagine my SURPRISE, RELIEF, and JOY to get a YES to ALL OF IT from the very first mother I approached! As she had earlier asked me to accompany her son home from school that day, I had to get right back to her to inform her that would be impossible and actually I was in need of child care. She had just started a new, full-time job so was in some need herself. However, her father lives in the community next door. Plus, she has a husband. Compared to me, she's in much better shape care-wise.

This is really working out! I thought to myself after hearing from her. Truly shocked (but in a good way), I set about getting ready: doing laundry, picking out Charlie's audition clothes and a backup outfit, selecting Christopher's clothes for school the next day and the top and bottom I'd wear into the city, printing up the bus receipts, filling the gas tank, getting cash at the ATM, and packing a duffel bag for the trip.

The next morning I dropped Christopher off at the family's house at 6:41. I was running late from having spent too much time online trying to obtain directions to the Boston bus station's rooftop parking lot. I found the address and glanced over a map showing the congested streets near it, but I couldn't find actual directions to it. I didn't have time to call up Mapquest, yet honestly it didn't even occur to me because it was too early in the morning and my brain wasn't working properly. Indeed, it was disconcerting to think that I would be heading out without a clear idea of how I was going to get us to the parking lot on time! I'd been to it before, mind you. However, that was more than two years ago.

While driving to Boston, my mind ran amuck trying to figure out a Plan B if we missed the bus. I could try to get us seats on another bus, but there were several issues with this option. The buses from the various companies all seem to leave at roughly the same time, so missing one pretty much means missing all (or almost all). If I found a bus scheduled to leave a little later than ours, would it arrive in enough time for us to make the audition's three-and-half-hour window? We had to go way downtown to the tryout. Would any bus meeting our criteria have any available seats? I would have to shell out for two more round-trip tickets. They are not cheap! And the tickets I already had -- costing a total of $102 -- would go to complete waste unless Bolt offers compensation for missing a bus. I didn't know. Another option would be taking a train to the Big Apple, but the same concerns would apply. (The Boston train station happens to be conveniently located adjacent to the bus station.) Or I might have to drive. Argh. That would take just as long, and I would not be able to relax because I would be at the wheel! Where on earth would I park? I'd never in my life brought a vehicle into New York City and for good reason! It is NOT a car-friendly city. I could park at the Darien, Connecticut, train station, I thought. I knew this parking lot well from having grown up in Darien, which is a straight shot into the city. But what I didn't know was the Metro-North train schedule. I recall from years ago there being just one train per hour heading into Manhattan. If we failed to arrive at the right time, the journey could take an extra hour or so, possibly causing us to miss the audition window. What's more, we could very likely hit heavy traffic on our way to Darien. There were plenty of opportunities for that driving through Hartford, New Haven, and Bridgeport on the busy I-95 corridor. Conclusion: being late for our bus would be an utter disaster. I couldn't let that happen.

So I plugged along, talked to the other drivers ("Come on, come on! Are you kidding me? NO, NO, NO!"), and prayed FERVENTLY. ("Please, God, we can't be late. We need to make this bus! We need to make this bus!") At the Sumner Tunnel, I asked the tollbooth lady to tell me the exit "for the bus station and 93 South." I expected her to say "the South Station exit" and give me the number. (I really only wanted to know the number.) But she answered "Government Center." Argh. Not what I wanted to hear because now I was confused! I didn't have time to discuss this any further. Plus, a long line of cars waited behind me. It was rush hour after all. So off I went, taking the Government Center exit as instructed. Immediately, I was confronted with the first of countless detour signs. Great, just what I needed! I had forgotten about them, but now it was all coming back to me. The traffic pattern in this area of Boston was and still is a complete mess. It took all my concentration to follow these blasted signs through the maze leading to 93 South. Somehow I managed it and soon reached the South Street exit. The problem: the bus departure time was fast approaching. It was 8:10 at this point; the bus left at 8:30. I still had to get through traffic and lights then find and park in that rooftop lot whose location was HAZY in my mind. Charlie and I also had to load up on snacks for the four-a-quarter-hour-long trip to New York. This latter task was absolutely crucial because sitting for so long next to Charlie (or any other young child, for that matter) with only one nut bar in my purse would be a nightmare. (Charlie ate a different bar during the drive.)

By the grace of God, I am thrilled to report, I succeeded in covering the remaining half a dozen or so blocks. At one of the last intersections, I was convinced I was supposed to turn left. But there was a no-left-turn sign in front of me and no way to stay straight. The driver behind me obnoxiously honked at my hesitation and slow-to-come decision to turn right and pull over. But I had no choice. There was nowhere else to go! As I sat idling next to the curb, my heart thumped inside my turquoise down jacket and my brain felt like it was going to explode. Seconds away from dropping my face in my hands and bawling, I noticed at the next light a sign way up high pointing the way to "South Station parking."

It was a beacon from God!

I couldn't believe it. I had done it. We weren't on the bus yet, but I had FOUND THE LOT. Next I launched into prayer aimed at finding a SPACE in the lot. One thing at a time, one thing at a time. Done. "Quick, Charlie, to the elevator!" (Lucky for me, my younger son is a seriously fast sprinter. Boy, was I grateful for that on this day!) Honey Dew Donuts. Ten minutes and counting. Two donuts, one bagel, one muffin, and three drinks. Awesome. Running to the bus gate. The other passengers had already boarded. OMG, made it! The bus pulled out of its space. We had literally TWO MINUTES to spare!

Settling into my seat, I couldn't help but marvel at how amazing it was that we were sitting on the bus. Truly, it was one of my closest calls ever for such a costly and exciting or important commitment. I felt led to that rooftop parking lot just as I was about to give up. My correct decisions under extreme pressure to turn right here and left there reminded me of another time in my life when I absolutely made the right split-second call under the gun, quite literally.

I was in Kathmandu, Nepal, in the spring of 1990 when the country was embroiled in a democracy revolution. My traveling partner chose to stay back at our hotel during a day of protests; I willingly hit the streets. By 11 a.m. the throng of demonstrators shouting "WE WANT DEM-O-CRA-CY!" (in English to garner the world's attention) had reached into the thousands and filled the narrow streets. Looking around I grew concerned about how this would end. I remember thinking: People are not going to just go home at the end of the day. Something bad is going to happen. I stepped away from the protest to return to the neighborhood of my hotel. I needed a break and to find some lunch. A couple of hours later, I was ready to return to the streets. Being a former news reporter, I like to be at the center of the action . . . or on the periphery anyway. It wasn't difficult finding the crowd. I just followed the noise. At an intersection with the main road leading to King Birenda's palace, I saw to my left a line of police officers and military wielding guns; to my right, the advancing protesters. They were mostly Nepalese, but scattered foreigners were among them. Joining ranks with the protesters would have come naturally to me since I had marched with them that morning. Instead, I turned left and took my place directly behind the men with the weapons. Soon after the protesters reached the uniformed officers. Small skirmishes broke out, and tear gas was shot into the air. Everyone nearby must have felt the sting enter their throats and nostrils. I certainly did. The demonstrators momentarily backed off but did not give up. They regrouped and continued to push toward the palace gates. Tear gas was shot off two more times before I decided that the situation was getting too hairy for me. I retreated and returned to my hotel. I later learned about the Tiananmen Square-type incident that followed. One hundred or so people, including tourists like myself, were killed in the conflict outside the palace. That afternoon I made two good decisions: to fall back behind the armed men and to leave the area before I got hurt or worse. When telling this story -- and I rarely get the opportunity these days -- I always describe my first decision as completely instinctual. No conscious thought went into making it. I saw the two groups of people then without hesitation walked toward one, stationing myself out of harm's way. To this day, I get the chills when I think about that day. I have a strong sense that I was being guided and shielded by God.

Though the circumstances were infinitely less dire this week, the feeling of being led was no less strong.

Charlie was a champ the entire ride to New York. We talked, looked out the window, and he played Minecraft on my iPad. Once again it was a case of Thank You, Technology! (See blog post by that name, 6/9/12.) I wanted him to rest or fall asleep. But he was too busy constructing a house made of butter in lightning speed, hanging paintings on every square inch of the yellow walls, and blasting them to bits with arrows.

Boys!

The day was wet and cloudy, yet we made it to the city twenty-five minutes ahead of schedule. That enabled us to eat a leisurely lunch and clean up before hailing a taxi downtown. The Freedom Tower at Ground Zero loomed outside our foggy windows as we sped by. We arrived right at the start of the day's audition session. I signed in, and Charlie was immediately photographed "six or seven times," he said. That was it. With time to spare, we walked a couple of blocks to the South Street Seaport. I took some rainy-day snapshots. We wandered through a few shops. And we sipped mango smoothies overlooking the gray East River. Then I realized something was missing. My duffel bag. My panic attack started to return as I racked my brain about where I could have left it. Let me tell you: not much makes me crazier than losing my belongings or my kids' belongings, even if they were just a spare child-size outfit, one raincoat, and lunch leftovers. (See Hunter-Downer Mom, 3/21/12.) Back to the seaport shops we'd just visited. Not there. Back to the audition location. Found it!

No one was being photographed when we walked in, so the impromptu visit gave me a chance to chat with the casting director. He had just been to Boston visiting two modeling agencies, he said. He asked me why Charlie didn't have an agent. He seemed genuinely interested in my son and wanted to know if we would be willing to travel to New York City for jobs. We didn't talk long, but it was a good conversation. I left the building with a spring in my step from the insight I'd gained.

Like the others, this turn of events struck me as serendipitous -- as though Charlie and I were being watched over from Above.

Now I don't harbor ANY expectations that my son will be picked from the thousands of kids being considered for the two advertising campaigns. It bears repeating: unlike most (if not all) of the other child candidates, Charlie has no agent, no headshots, no resume, no experience, no nothing. If, by some quirk of nature, Charlie IS tapped, it would be akin to Lana Turner getting signed by MGM while sipping a drink at a soda fountain.

We still had a little time remaining before boarding the bus but not enough for a museum visit. The weather prevented stopping by a park, and walking just for the fun of it would also be out of the question. So I decided we would just make our way back uptown. We'd have no trouble flagging a taxi outside the photo-shoot location, I'd been told. Of course, we then did have trouble. Leaping over puddles at intersections, Charlie and I hoofed it many blocks before I managed to spot a cab. Back at the bus stop, we once again stocked up on provisions. Then we hung out at Chipotle. Adam Lambert's "If I had You" came over the sound system. I was dumbfounded. Rarely do I hear this rendition anymore because it is a few years old. But when I do, I take note. It is the song I choreographed a dance to for Christopher when he landed his own modeling/acting contract a couple of years ago. (That one turned out to be a scam.)What a coincidence to hear it this day! I thought. I took some last pictures to memorialize our trip before Bolt Bus brought us safely back to Boston, though one hour late due to heavy traffic at rush hour.

During the return journey, I checked in on Christopher. Turns out my older son had been coughing up a storm. If he vomited, he would be sent back to me for the night. Otherwise, he could sleep on a pull-out couch at the home of the family helping me. Bless his soul, he got through the night episode-free.Thank you, Christopher!

I had been very nervous about the weather. I hate to drive in poor conditions, especially on a highway and with another person at the controls. I had chosen seats in the middle of the bus to New York and back. Charlie wanted the open front seat with the clear view of the highway, but I said no. I didn't tell him why. In addition to being concerned about the bus trips, I was slightly on edge about the return drive from the bus station to our home. The weather was supposed to be worse later in the day, and it looked like I might encounter a mixture of rain and snow at a fairly late hour in the dark.

The driving turned out to be a breeze! The roads were dry. The traffic was light. I made record time. Feeling protected again!

I turned on the TV back at home. Nancy Pelosi was on the news celebrating the twentieth anniversary of the Family and Medical Leave Act. The links with my past just kept on coming! In early 1995, I utilized the FMLA to take care of my then-ailing mother. Like the Adam Lambert song, I can't remember when it last crossed my mind.

Still high from the New York experience and profoundly grateful for Charlie's terrific behavior under tough circumstances, the next day I called up the casting director's website. In my haste to plan the trip, I had neglected to check out his work. So I scrolled down the home page filled with male and female high-fashion models posing for GQ, Details, and Interview magazines with cars and bicycles and while arm wrestling or standing in a police lineup. And there, off to the right, in the only photograph featuring children, was Charlie's doppelgänger. I mean DOPPELGANGER. I was flabbergasted! Despite wearing large dark-rimmed glasses (the product he was modeling), he had the same face, same hair, and same smile as my younger son. He even looked the same age. No wonder the casting director liked Charlie!

What a day it had been! What connections! What similarities! What fortuitous events! It was a hard day, a very trying day. But it was MY kind of day because I felt completely in harmony with the universe, God, my mother, and my son.

It was a perfect Circle of Life Day.

"Hello, Beast!"

If you are a regular reader of my blog, you know that my New Year's resolution this year is to "tame the beast" (see "Taming the Beast," 1/16/13). The beast, of course, being my way-beyond-messy home. Well, like many of you, I suspect, I did not get right on that. Resolutions are resolutions because they haven't been addressed or fully addressed, right? We don't have time to deal with them. We don't want to deal with them. We find it too difficult to deal with them. We have loads of excuses for not dealing with them.

Nevermind. The point is: I only this week -- yes, mid-March! -- got around to beginning the process of tackling the state of my house. I set aside an entire school day, save for the roughly forty minutes it took to obtain a coffee drink from Starbucks (needed caffeine to keep me going!), so I could make some serious inroads. Or that was the plan anyway.


Start Time: 9:10 a.m., Kitchen Table:

The cornerstone of family life, mine had become cluttered with all manner of whatnot. Half-empty juice boxes and bags; a couple of Legos; playing cards; two light bulbs; two bowls of varying amounts of unpopped popcorn kernels; a newspaper; correction tape; several baggies of partially eaten goldfish crackers, tortilla chips, and Ritz crackers; the boys's summer day camp schedules from the past two years; a campground map and clam shack menu from Maine; directions to a state forest in the Berkshires; an appropos Chinese fortune ("Time is wealth."); and Flarp! farting putty. Awesome. After putting away or disposing of all of the above, I discover a small brown spider scurrying across the surface. Eek. The scrubbing down of the blond wood reveals small drops of last year's Easter egg dye in purple, red, and green. I kid you not. Hint: red dye smeared across light-colored furniture gives one serious pause because it too closely resembles BLOOD!

Finish Time: 10:19

Start Time: 10:19, Dishes in Sink

My Kenmore dishwasher detergent compartment won't latch, so I do my dishes the old fashioned way: in the kitchen sink. Far too often the pile spills over onto the counter and then another counter and then the kitchen table (if there's room). Plastic bowls, pots, forks, plates, empty milk and juice containers for recycling, and what have you. Why, you might ask, would I spend valuable time during my big cleanup day on dishes? Dishes need to be done every day. A better use of my time would be, for example, clearing off the dining room table. Well, yes and no. I didn't plan on losing many minutes on them but rather decided to utilize the undertaking as a kind of relaxing transitionary palate-cleansing, like eating sorbet between meals. (Truth be told, I'd much prefer consuming the frozen dessert.)

Stop Time (not finished): 10:35

Start Time: 10:36, Kitchen Chairs

They don't get dumped on half as much as the table, but they can still get mighty grody if not tended to. At least they're mostly out of sight, tucked underneath the sides of the table. I wipe down all four.

Stop Time (not finished): 10:44

As I look over at the digital clock on the oven, I feel a little depressed that I haven't done more. I'm tired and growing sluggish.

Start Break: 10:45

I watch the end of The Today Show and beginning of The View while munching on macadamia nuts and pistachio pieces and drinking water.

Finish Break: 11:15

Start Time: 11:15, Kitchen Chairs

Finish Time: 11:30

The kitchen hasn't been completed by a long shot, but the table and chairs now look lovely. I put a placemat depicting a Chinese painting in the center of the table and an emerald green glass bowl holding paper mache fruit and vegetables on top of it. They don't go together, but who cares?! The table still looks gorgeous. Now I don't want it touched . . . EVER.

Start Time: 11:35 Wingback Chair, Living Room

This piece of furniture is covered in schoolwork and random stuff from (afraid so) last year. More specifically: teacher-reviewed homework, the boys' artwork, and special projects. Color-by-number sheets on rainforest animals, fact pages and maps for a "Where in the World is" section on the seven continents, handwriting practice from kindergarten, a mini autobiography featuring such entries as Christopher's first tooth lost (after being hit in the mouth by a tee ball tossed by yours truly, argh) and first trophy won (for wiffle ball), a gymnastics class evaluation from the Y, opinion pieces on why it's better to be a child than an adult and why Christopher doesn't like school uniforms, and the photographic and written record of Flat Stanley's travels around the globe. There's a signed tee shirt from the bowling alley where Charlie held his belated birthday party last August, texting gloves from my-not-so-mysterious Secret Santa, Christopher's leopard project and his incredible rendition of a lighthouse, a poem about summer ("Summer is not a bummer. . . .", insert smiley face), and a construction paper teddy bear inside a paper bag cave with a cotton (snowy) opening and upside down Do Not Disturb sign.

The waterworks start around noon. Sifting through this precious material might have caused me to tear up anyway, but the tasks of the morning have worn me down and weakened my defenses. Immediately, I recognize these blues as different from my "Tipper Gore Depression" (see "When Things Get Dicey: Part II (Risk-Taking Gone Awry), 2/25/13). This is MY depression caused by feeling overwhemed and unable to keep up or stay on top of everything. In this case, I feel badly that I haven't examined all the beautiful fruits of my boys' labor from their last school year and put it all away or on display by now. I haven't done right by my sons.

How did so much schoolwork from 2011-2012 get tossed on this chair whose chocolate-brown legs I refinished many years ago? Convenience, plain and simple. The chair -- reupholstered in a now-faded cobalt blue fabric featuring a dusty rose and ivory flower pattern -- stands near the door we enter and the area of the floor where school backpacks are left. How does the material accumulate? As soon as we arrive home after school or anywhere else, chaos often ensues. People want snacks. People want to play on my iPhone. People start rough housing with one another. People want things from me NOW. (I can't imagine who these people are!) The demands and ensuing scuffles that invariably erupt deplete me -- I'm fifty-one, don't forget -- to the point at which I become devoid of energy to do anything other than what's absolutely necessary of me for the rest of the day and evening. Time goes by and, before I know it, the clump of papers and mixed-media artwork has grown exponentially. My eyes see the pile, and my mind registers it. The problem: With WAY too much on my plate, I don't know where or how to start. Of course, this mess is as good a place as any, yet it doesn't feel like a high priority to me. My brain is just too distracted and my time too crunched to tackle this particular item on my LOOOONG to-do list.

Start Lunch: 1:20 p.m.

I watch The Chew while downing a turkey sandwich, tortilla chips, and two Oreo cookies (okay, four).

Finish Lunch: 2:00

Start Time: 2:00, Coffee Table

Due to all the papers, books, and other miscellaneous items scattered across its surface, I can't see much of the mottled peach-colored marble slab. It's a shame because I always liked this rectangular table and have kept it since it sat in my childhood living room in Darien, Connecticut, in the early '60s. About six years ago, I had its medium brown wood frame and legs refinished. Now I behold Captain Underpants and The Big, Bad Battle of The Bionic Booger Boy, Where the Wild Things Are, and The Tower Treasure (The Hardy Boys). Two Harry Potter snow globes flank corners. An old framed photo of my boys with Santa faces the wrong direction. And a plastic bag containing last year's Cub Scout badges hangs halfway off the edge. The rest of the junk atop the space includes information from the elementary school Open House last September, a letter from Yakima about my recalled bike rack, prescription instructions for Charlie's eye infection last summer, an A Christmas Carol program and ticket from the North Shore Music Theater's production in (gasp!) 2011, a couple of other playing cards, and Charlie's school picture from kindergarten. (He's now in first grade, duh.)

Handling this stuff (yay, no half-eaten food or insects!) doesn't cause me any more distress. I seem to have brought my emotions in check, and it is now only about wading through the mementos -- putting the books back in the boys' bookshelf in their room and finding a logical home (or the recycling bin) within my home for the remainder. It is going to take MANY sessions like this one to gain control over the "beast." Still, the process has begun. While I am somewhat disappointed I haven't accomplished more, I can say that I am genuinely pleased to have made a dent in the massive cleanup job.

Finish Time: 2:45