Let’s be clear from the start. I am not a Glover School parent. Also: I have only lived in this town for 16 years so I understand how that defines me as a newcomer. As I type, I feel the trouble that my “newbieness ” might engender. My interest in this fight? Despite the fact that I’ll see my limited property value collapse when word gets out that our community doesn’t support its most fundamental assets, I also find it uncomfortable to raise kids in a community that denies positive change as much as ours has in recent years. I wonder where the loud voices in opposition to the Glover School …

I should have known the minute I predicted spring would come early that the season would not begin in my favor. It’s not just getting punked by Mother Nature on April Fools Day that has me off to a soggy foot. How does the saying go? Spring comes in like a lion? I hope it’s that, because I believe it: I can hear the roar and it’s getting louder. Lions and shin pads and mouth guards, oh my! Lions and MCAS and report cards, oh my! This spring, I’ve become the mom I worried I might: flung in five directions, slamming a frozen pizza in the oven and re-heating it three times in one day, in a day …

I love birthdays. I love surprising a newly older kid with that Lego set he’d been wishing for. I love counting the days until the Big Day. I love playing the answering machine messages from the cousins: warbling “Happy Birthday” into the telephone is a beloved family tradition. I love cupcakes and frosting and ice cream cake. I love those candles that sputter and spark. What I do not love? Birthday parties. Oh, the pressure! What to do? Where to go? When to have it? There is photograph of me wearing a newspaper hat. It’s my sixth birthday and I’m sitting at a picnic table in what looks like …

There are two ways I know spring is coming, but neither includes the temperature outside. I am better than a groundhog at foretelling spring. Spring is coming when I become obsessed with cleaning drawers and redecorating my sorry four walls. Really! Hear me out.  If I start the cleaning and redecorating in early March, winter will last forever. I can’t explain why, except that perhaps Murphy’s Law plays a part: pack away the boots and mittens a nudge too early, and surely, it will snow until April. I’m happy to report that based on my very unscientific research (and methods only examined by …

I recently learned a new word: snirt. It’s loosely defined as “snow plus dirt” and more than a little onampoetic. It’s an excellent descriptor (“what a snirty, crabby  man”) but mostly, the word sums up the general state of most of New England right now.  The snirt has added a grey haze to the floors in my house. It has damaged the paint on the fences and stairs surrounding the house. The inside of my car is a total icky mess, thanks to months of snirt. The kids' mittens, coats, hats: all of them snirty. It ain’t pretty. In fact, it’s really the least attractive time of the year. I was …

There’s a lot that happens in the world that I know will be hard to explain to my kids: the shooting in Arizona or the Recession for example. We expect those kind of uncomfortable, inevitable conversations to come up. Sometimes we can even practice them beforehand. I never imagined that I’d have to explain the very public meltdown of a sitcom actor, but Charlie Sheen has invaded our lives. He is everywhere.  “Who’s that?” they say when they see his face all over the TV. “Is he famous?” I tell them that he is, that he’s on a show and in the movies. I change the channel, or the radio station …

When I heard the announcement blaring from the base lodge, I knew it was blaring for me. I can’t explain it more simply than that: I knew the woman would call my name and I knew within seconds I’d be jumping out of my skis and running toward the medical building. And that’s exactly what happened, except the child I figured I was racing to was not the child I found. My dare devil daughter has taken more tumbles than most. She taught herself to ride a bike at age three, and promptly tossed herself over the handlebars. She swung from a rope dangling off a tree branch and face-planted onto the …

There is an art to the apology. I know this, because I am sure I haven’t mastered it. I apologize to my kids all the time. I’ve blamed the wrong kid for losing something or breaking something and confessed my error as soon as I knew it. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I made a mistake.” I’ve apologized for other things, like losing my cool or forgetting to print the report or eating the last of the ice cream. (I wasn’t genuinely sorry for that.) Usually, these simple mea culpas work to soothe the trouble, and frankly, I think my kids get a thrill when I admit I’m far from perfect or all-knowing. It …

I’m not sure if this is a suburban myth, but I’ve heard and told it enough that I’m thinking it’s true. Sometime in the early 1980s, a middle-aged man, new to skiing, decided to try on his fancy new down hill outfit at home. He zipped up his flashy one-piece, popped on his new hat and goggles, and then decided to take it up a notch: he slid into his boots and snapped into his skis. While admiring his winter look in a full-length mirror, and presumably practicing a turn or two, he lost his balance and toppled to the floor, breaking his leg in one humiliating snap. Somehow he managed to drag …

I don’t miss diapers or 2 a.m. wake-up calls from a fussy newborn, but there is a lot I do miss from those days. Besides the obvious chubby thighs and baths in the sink, I really miss the playgroups.  The lazy mornings spent with a bunch of friends seemed to disappear when the strollers did. Even when my toddler picked the wrong moment to hurl a fire truck through the air, those mornings were always fun. I can’t remember what we talked about, or if anyone ate the muffins, but the comfort of those shared few hours saved my sanity more than once. The same went for the afternoons at the …

Don’t bother calling our house at 8:00 p.m. on Wednesday or Thursday nights. We’ll be deep into American Idol. We’ll be too busy measuring the tone and tenor of the contestants’ voices to answer the phone. One or two of us will also be performing our own auditions (in the kitchen) so we won’t hear the ringing anyway. We are totally hooked on this cheese ball talent show. Camped out on the couch, we make up our own panel of expert judges. Though we have no idea what the word really means, we declare contestants “pitchy.” We hoot and holler when the ones we love are “going to Hollywood!” There …

I have a friend in Atlanta who is thigh-deep in the organization of her school’s fundraising Auction. It’s a far more glamorous affair down there than any of the events I’ve worked on or attended in town, but the dramas and snafus she is experiencing are pretty much identical to ours. Sure, they might be offering airfare, hotel fees and tickets to the London Olympics and throwing a bash worthy of an Oscar party, but the headaches stem from the same things and hurt the same way. It’s not just that everyone has an opinion - which they do - but it’s the universal things of vendors falling out or…

Winter separates the girls from the women. If the cold won’t break you, the treacherous sidewalks might. Tack on the lack of day light, the stink of wet wool, the skid of tires on ice-packed streets and it’s enough to make even the most hearty of us whimper in defeat. I have a friend who is permanently cheerful. She laughs more than she speaks and sees the cup not as half-full but as beautifully overflowing. Her joy is infectious, so when she tells me that after four decades of New England winters, she is “done with it” and depressed, I realize how much trouble the season can be. We talk for …

It’s been interesting watching the old YMCA come down. Besides the giant, metal-eating machines ripping through years of wood and steel and plaster, it’s just plain dramatic to see straight through to the block behind it. It’s kind of like a third grader with a missingfront tooth: in a quick second, the whole face seems completely different, as if you can’teven remember what the old smile looked like. My oldest daughter spent a lot of time at that YMCA. It was her first school experience, and she made her fair share of artwork with glue and paint there. She made her first friends there, …

I'm happy to report that Santa did indeed come this year, despite a few last minute fears that he might not regard any of us has having been "nice" enough. I got a little teary on Christmas Eve, thus continuing my multi-year legacy of having a little boo-hoo while settling in for my not-so-long winter's nap. It's a happy/sad kind of sob, anticipating their morning squeals and also the future mornings when they won't care as much. Other than that, though, things were very different this year. Our traveling plans were undone by the snow (and an ill-timed soccer game), so for the first time …

On the first day of Christmas,  My true love gave to me – A kiss as he left the country. On the second day of Christmas, Bad luck gave to me -- Two kids moaning And a kiss as he left the country.   On the third day of Christmas Bad luck gave to me Three sick kids! Two kids moaning, And a kiss as he left the country.   (You know how this goes, right? Let's skip forward to the grand finale…)   On the twelfth day of Christmas Bad luck gave to me –   Twelve loads of laundry Eleven buckets emptied Ten ruined towels Nine blown-off meetings Eight shouts for "MOMMY!" Seven gifts un-shopped for Six …

I like to think of myself as a Christmas magician. Not the kind who makes the greens and holly and holiday lights appear in a poof – ask my neighbors and you'll know this is not where my magic skills lay -- but the kind who makes sure that that one very special, very much wished for gift gets dropped down the chimney. I think that's the kind of magician we all want to be. Usually, it's pretty easy. I'll twist racetracks into gravity-defying loops or score the long-wished for Lego set. The Big Man with the Beard will bring earrings, even when the Mom has said "no pierced ears," and with a snap…

"Is today the day we talked about the day before?" asks my son, who is six. "Is this day that day?" Today, yesterday, tomorrow: the concept of time confuses him, or more specifically, the language of time confuses him. He's six, after all, and has little concern for what was or what will be. Also, he is not a planner; he is a seat of his pants kind of guy. I mention this because I am the exact opposite. I am a list maker, a chart builder, a calendar writer, an alarm setter. I have all kinds of nifty tech gadgets that pop up and chime in to keep me on track, and also trusted old-school …

It's ironic, but true: the season of thanks always finds me griping the most. It's darker earlier, which is an annual buzz kill. It's chillier and the older I get, the colder I seem to feel. The kids have officially lost their back-to-school excitement and have moved into the dreaded homework-is-a-chore phase. The house we spend more and more time huddled inside creaks and moans and shows its age: the railings split, another shingle blows off the roof, a threatening crack appears in the plaster. Soon enough, the Christmas decorating, partying, and shopping will come due in bills that seem …

Kids like to win. They like to win at board games and staring contests and races to the last donut in the box. They like trophies and blue ribbons and heaps of congratulations. As parents and teachers, we've found countless ways to give them these things, sometimes for true victories and achievements, but all too often, just for showing up. The truth is that kids -- well, people, humans, all of us -- do more losing in life than winning. It's the nature of the game, no pun intended, and there's nothing wrong with practicing it a little bit. The boys and girls u-12 soccer seasons came to their …