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            Maybe you’ve seen the commercials: A scruffy looking young man enters the screen carrying a backpack.  Accompanied by sweet-sounding violins, he arrives on a front porch, greeted by a middle-aged woman wearing an apron, who embraces him tightly.  It’s his mother, apparently, who proceeds to tuck the fellow in for a nap.  (The guy’s around 22.  It’s creepy.)  A moment later, sonny sits at a dining table as mom loads his plate with, heaven forbid, a healthy heap of greens, whereupon he looks at her disgustedly, tosses his napkin on the table and bolts, leaving the poor woman staring after him as the screen door closes in her face.

             Cut to scene two, where Junior arrives at another home, once again embraced by a mother who proceeds to fatten the boy up with some homemade goodies.  All is well until mommy, noticing a smudge on sonny’s face, licks her thumb and attempts to wipe away the crumbs.  Once again, momma’s little man is disgusted, throws her delicious munchies on a plate and takes off, leaving mother number two staring after him, equally as forlorn as mother number one.

             The commercial ends with our hero approaching a third mother (who looks frighteningly like Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie) as she stands in a soccer goal, playing goalie for the overgrown tyke.  She lets the arrested adolescent score and it looks as though we have a winner, folks!  Junior has chosen the mommy he likes best.

             Welcome to Kleenex Tissues’ wacky new ad campaign, during which viewers are exhorted to “Get Mommed” by visiting the website www.GetMommed.com.  Once there, a bevy of possible mom candidates takes up position on the screen, each exhorting her virtues when you scroll your mouse over a mother’s visage and click.

             We have Southern belle mom, multi-cultural mom, nature mom, Junior League mom, best friend mom, crafty, down-home mom and finally, no-nonsense mom, all in a variety of shapes, sizes, skin tones and ethnicities.  Each brings her own individual stamp to the role, but all extol the benefits of using Kleenex Tissues during cold and flu season.

             Once you “choose” your mom, you can set up the mother’s “To Do” list, selecting items such as “Wake me up” “Boost my confidence” or “Tell me a bedtime story.”  (Really?  A bedtime story?) 

            Your “mom” can remind you of things, including friends’ birthdays and she’ll offer advice on any number of matters.  If you’d really like to be in cahoots with your new mom, you can have her “rescue” you by calling your cell phone when you’d like to get away from someone or something.  By filling in the appropriate boxes, you can have your mom call, email or text you with her loving meddling at any time of your choosing.  Quite a bit of work, this tailor-made mother thing.

            So here’s a thought:  Instead of going through all of the trouble of picking and choosing a mom from an internet website, setting up meddling mom moments and having your virtual mother phone and text you ad nauseam, how about this…LISTEN TO YOUR OWN MOTHER!

            I’ll bet your very own, flesh and blood mother can give you all of the advice you need and she’s right there.  I’m also going to assume that she’ll be more than happy to dispense that advice, with no effort involved on your behalf at all. 

            No, we’re not perfect, but we’re there for you.  We cook for you, we clean for you, we wake you up, we’ve spent your entire life telling you how wonderful you are.  We also worry about you, and if occasionally, we try to wipe a smudge off of your face with some spit and a thumb, well, deal with it.  That’s what we do.  We’re moms, and we’re free of charge, no advertisements attached.

            As for the folks at Kleenex who are trying to replace us?  I’ll be dispensing tissues this flu season, but they’ll be the generic brand, not the fancy Kleenex kind.  A good generic tissue, like a regular, ordinary mom, gets the job done just as well, without the hype or the Dustin Hoffman wig. 

             It makes my head hurt.

            Having recently passed the mid-century mark (Geez, I hate saying that!), I’ve read all of the articles on aging and how, in order to stave off dementia, it’s important to challenge yourself mentally on a daily basis.  Keeps the mind sharp and slows the ride to Loopy Land.

             Since I feel like I’m on an express train to that particular destination, I know that honing the blade of my mental prowess is important.  In fact, we should all embrace the opportunity to learn something new, to go where our minds haven’t gone before and expand the cranial horizons.

             But frankly, I’m tired of thinking.

             It’s not that it’s difficult to find new ways to challenge myself.  Everyday life is replete with things I know nothing about.  Which is precisely the problem.

            Seems like everything I want to do these days comes with a 487 page instruction book and a learning curve the size of Mount Everest, which, by the way, is not the world’s tallest mountain from base to peak.  That honor goes to Mauna Kea in Hawaii.  Mount Everest is the tallest mountain above sea level.  Want to know how I know that?  I Googled it, of course, in yet another effort to add wrinkles to my brain—the only place I welcome wrinkles, I might add. 

             Oops.  I just Googled “brain wrinkles” and it turns out that’s a myth.  Apparently, “The wrinkles we're born with are the wrinkles we have for life, assuming that our brains remain healthy.”  (http://health.howstuffworks.com/10-brain-myths3.htm)  See what I mean?  Nothing, and I mean nothing comes easy any more.  Not only do I have to learn new stuff all of the time, the stuff I thought I knew isn’t even true!

             On my personal quest to increase my brain’s synapses (another thing I learned from the previously cited website), I rely frequently on the internet, the blessing and bane of my existence.  For everything I learn while exploring the vast amount of knowledge available at my fingertips, I also learn just how uninformed I really am.  Actually, that’s putting it mildly.  I am hopelessly, undeniably incompetent on just about every level, with virtually no hope of ever getting up to speed.

             How could I?  In fact, how could anyone?  When I Googled “brain wrinkles” the search turned up 450,000 results.  Even a simple thing like a phone, which to my child-like mind should be used to make phone calls, is now capable of flying Air Force One.  Okay, that might be an exaggeration, but Apple’s iPhone has over 85,000 applications available for download.  85,000!  For a phone!

             Last week, I met up with two writer friends, both charming, highly intelligent women whom I respect and admire.  We’re working on a seminar together and met to plan our presentation, which we’re creating on Google as a slide show.  Yes, the days of scrawling notes with a marker on a transparency for an overhead projector are long gone, sadly enough.  Things went pretty well and we pulled it together, but by the end of our meeting, we were all spent.  It wasn’t that the work was beyond our collective brain power, it was simply that once again, in order to do one thing, we had to learn half a dozen more.

             “The next time we plan anything,” my friend Chrysa said, “we need to ask one question: Do I have to think to do this?  If the answer is ‘yes,’ I say we pass.”

             I’m with you, Chrysa.  In fact, I think I’ll just purchase my train ticket to Loopy Land now.  The ride’s gotta be easier than this.  All aboard!

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            “Have you heard from Meg today?” my husband asked last Friday.

            “Yes.   She’s great.  Had a good week at school.  Her anatomy test was easier than she thought,” I said.

            “That’s good.  Is she staying at school this weekend or is she coming home?”

            Uh-oh, I thought.  This is where things get dicey.  “As far as I know, she’s staying at school,” I answered vaguely.

            “What’s she doing out there?  Is the school having any activities or games this weekend?” he persisted.

            “I know there’s a football game on Saturday afternoon.”

            “What about tonight?  Does she have any plans?”

            Sigh.  Here we go.  “Tonight she and her roommates are going to a party with the baseball team,” I muttered, hoping he’d miss most of it.

            “Oh.  Wait.  What?”

            “I said that she’s going to a party with her roommates.”

            “No, you said that she was going to a party with the baseball team.  She just transferred to that school three weeks ago!  How in the world does she know the baseball team?” he huffed.

            “Her roommates know some of the boys on the team and the girls were invited to a party,” I said, helpless to halt the downhill slide of our conversation.

            “So let me get this straight.  Our nineteen year old daughter is going to a party at a university that’s an hour from our home and she’s going with a baseball team.  Is that about it?” He asked.

            “Ah, that about sums it up,” I said.

            “Why didn’t you say she couldn’t go?”

            “Dave, she’s in college.  We’ve been through this before.  Once they go off to school, we have very little control.  As it is, I’m just glad the kids tell us what they’re up to.  They could lie, you know.  I always check in with them a few times during the night.  I’ve given them all the appropriate safety instructions.  They never go anywhere alone.  The girls are all very protective of each other and they look out for one another.  Oh, and both of our girls have mace.  I bought it for them to carry with them,” I said.

            “Well, gee, that’s reassuring.  At least Laura is back home with us and I don’t have to worry so much about her.  What’s she doing tonight?”

            “Um…she’s going out with her friends,” I said.

            “Is she going to someone’s house to watch a movie or something?” he asked.

            Another sigh.  “No, she’s going to a bar to meet up with some people,” I answered.

            “What?!  Are you kidding me?  Who’s driving?  How is she getting there and how is she getting home?  What in the world is going on?”  he sputtered.

            “She’s driving to a friend’s house and they’re going from there.  One of the kids is a designated driver and if Laura doesn’t feel comfortable driving home later she’s going to stay at her friend’s house,” I said.  “Look, I know this throws you, but this is what happens when your kids get to the ages our kids are.  This is what they do.”

            “Well I don’t like it.  They should stay at home and play board games or something!”

            “Oh, like we did when we were that age?” I asked.  Silence.  “Look, here’s my suggestion.  For as long as we’ve had children, I’ve kept you updated on a ‘need to know’ basis.  How about we stick with that plan?  Keep your questions generic and I’ll fill in with selected details, eliminating anything remotely provocative.  Okay?”

            “All right,” Dave sighed.  “Wait, I almost forgot.  What’s David doing tonight?”

            “Do you really want to know?” I asked.

            “Come to think of it, I don’t,” he said.

            Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.

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              I actually shut off my phone.

             For the first time in…I don’t know how long, I shut off my cell phone the other night before turning out the light.  And I slept through the night—the entire night—without once waking up and wondering where one of my children might be.

             This past Labor Day found my husband, me and our three kids at our home at the Jersey shore.  It was the first time we were all under the same roof in months.

             Those are words it’s almost impossible for a young mother to imagine.  When children are young, one can’t fathom the day when they will sleep anywhere but in their own beds, safely tucked in and dreaming before mom and dad would even think about ending their day.   

             Homework, dinner, bath time, bed.  The routines are in place for so long that life without them would be unrecognizable.  Until the day arrives when the first child leaves for college and the family is forever altered.

             It’s not always a bad thing, this moving on.  Life with fewer kids at home almost always means just a little more calm and sanity.  And as long as the absent child is doing well, it’s exactly the way things are supposed to be.

             But it also introduces yet another stage into a parent’s life—another stage, but one with familiar symptoms.

             The first time a child leaves home to live somewhere else a mother loses her equilibrium.  For a while, you wander around the house, still setting a place at the table, still looking for the missing link’s laundry, still checking that bed before you turn in yourself.  And you hold your breath.  Again.

             I held my breath the moment the nurse put my first born in my arms.  I’ve held it at least several times every single day since.

             I held it when we brought my son home.  I held it the first time I closed his nursery door, the first time he ate solid food, the first time he developed an ear infection.  I held it the first day he stepped onto a school bus, marking our first real separation.  When his sisters came along, I held it again, for the same exact reasons.

             Fast forward to high school, broken hearts, broken friendships, and most frightening of all—driving—and it’s a wonder I didn’t keel over from oxygen deprivation.  To this day, my husband and I still find that watching our kids driving away from us behind the wheel of a car is one of the most stressful “normal” experiences we have.

             But truth be told, by far the worst is laying your head down at night and wondering if your kids are okay, wondering where they are, wondering if they are safely tucked in their beds.  (You know they probably aren’t, as now they’re just heading out for the evening when you’re putting on your jammies.)

             So you sleep, or rather doze, with your cell phone on, checking for messages each time you wake during the night.  Until you speak to them the next day, you never really catch your breath. 

             As is always the case, as soon as the kids left on Labor Day, I found myself holding my breath yet again.  But for one weekend, we were all together.  I was able to exhale.  And sleep.  And shut off my phone.  And check on my babies before I lay my head down at night. 

             I know that last part gives them the creeps.  They hate it when I watch them sleep.  But creepy or not, they’ll just have to deal with it.  Because a deep, full breath is truly a beautiful thing.

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          The joy of motherhood brings with it many gifts—an incredible love, an oddly fulfilling sense of self-sacrifice, fierce determination to protect one’s child—just to name a few.

             I’ve learned all of these things from my children, and felt enriched for the lessons my offspring have taught me.

             But this past weekend, my daughter instructed me in lessons previously unknown to me even after twenty-four years as a mother.  On an evening out, my daughter taught me how to play her favorite Goldfish Game slot machine in Atlantic City and also how to order a drink from a waitress walking the casino floor. 

             Yes, you read that correctly.  My daughter, the beautiful little girl I held in my arms and rocked to sleep, drove me to an Atlantic City casino and showed me how to gamble on the penny slots.  And how to obtain some liquid refreshment to further enhance the experience.

              I’m still a little stunned.  Of all the things I expected to learn from my kids, these were not on the list.  New songs from kindergarten, new dance steps, how to program the DVD player, sure.  Naturally, I expected the roster of things they knew and I didn’t to change as they grew older, but I’m not so sure I’m ready for my latest forays into uncharted territory.

             In my mind, as in the minds of every mother on the planet, my kids are still babies; I occasionally find myself checking the clock to see if it’s nap time.  (Okay, now the nap is for me, but you get the point.)  Even though I was vaguely aware that the passing of time would allow my children to leap frog ahead of me in some areas, the fact that the current learning curve requires my daughter to be of legal age has me scratching my head.  Exactly when did this happen?

             Lest anyone get the wrong idea, my daughter doesn’t make a habit of gambling, drinking or frequenting Atlantic City.  (At least I don’t think she does; she’s still refusing to be micro-chipped.  I’m thinking of hiring a detective….) But like most twenty-somethings, she and her friends socialize at clubs and restaurants and they know about this stuff.

             Every kid looks forward to the coming of age things.  We did too.  And we navigated it with a few bumps, but came out relatively unscathed.  However, now it’s my babies who are doing the stuff we did, or in my case, doing the stuff I never did—until now, when my daughter is around to teach me.

             She wants to teach me other things as well, things like how to use current lingo without sounding like a dolt (hopeless—I’ll never get it), how to drive (apparently, the fact that I taught her is now moot) and how to dress (the practicum on undergarments will never be enacted—EVER). 

             I admit that being the student when I’ve been the teacher for over twenty years is humbling and not a little disconcerting.  The whole experience makes me feel off-balance, like I have an inner ear infection.  But maybe it’s time.  My kids are adults, like it or not.  Truthfully, I’m lucky that they want to spend time with me, even if I have become a source of personal amusement for them.

             Nonetheless, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to hearing my daughter order a beer, let alone extol the virtues of her favorite slot machine.  But there was an upside to the evening:  I won forty-five dollars.  She lost thirty. 

             Maybe that learning curve isn’t so steep after all.

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          Oh, the words I thought would describe my life!  Glamour, travel, intrigue.   The delusion of youth had me convinced my days would be full of wildly interesting choices offering me opportunities to work and study in all manner of intriguing locales.  I’d spend my endless supply of time exploring the world, doing a job that would support me in the style to which I aspired—in other words, I’d be making big bucks.  No ties would bind and a daily dose of high flying excitement would be the norm.

             Do you know what word I aspire towards now?  “Settled.”

             That’s it.  I want everyone in my life, especially me, settled.

             In marked contrast with the other words I’d tagged for life, this one’s boring, dull.  And at this point, it’s exactly what I need.

             Dictionary.com offers a multitude of definitions for “settle,” but I’ve earmarked my favorites: “to place in a desired state or in order, to make stable” and my personal mantra: “to quiet, calm, or bring to rest.”

             Here’s the scenario:  three kids—two graduated from college, one in her second year.  No careers as of yet, in fact, no full time jobs—remember, the economy’s on the skids.

             One daughter preparing to move into an apartment at college.  One mom preparing to help her haul the requisite 85 loads of stuff into the apartment—after spending half the month’s mortgage payment buying said “stuff,” of course.

             The second daughter currently living at the Jersey shore while working a soon-to-end summer job.  Her plans come September?  Ummm…not sure yet.  Perhaps moving home, perhaps back to West Chester to take more classes.  The one given?  There will be moving involved and mom will be helping.

             A son ensconced non-too-happily at home after graduating college in 2007.  Laid off from a full time job and working (again, none-too-happily) part time for his father.  The boy is restless, frustrated anxious to move on with his life.  His parents are too.

             Add to the mix two middle-aged adults who can’t quite figure out how we got here and where we’re supposed to go next and you have a recipe for major angst—the kind of worry that sits like an overripe watermelon in your stomach every morning.

             Glamour, travel, intrigue?  I suppose there’s still plenty of that to speak of, if you consider shopping glamorous.  I did make three trips to Target last week.  Travel?  Like I said, there’s moving in my future, although I only get to drag boxes from one place to another for the kids.  I still have to go home at the day’s end.  (And the house really needs a good cleaning.)  But we’ve got intrigue by the boatload, especially if you’re intrigued by confusion, uncertainty and the unanswered question, “What do I do now?”, posed by the children and left unanswered by the parents.  (Sorry, kids, we don’t know ourselves.  We’re out of answers for you.)

             What I wouldn’t give to be settled, to “place (things) in a desired state or in order” (my order, of course, that’s the point), to have life approach “stable” and “to quiet, calm or bring to rest” our daily commotion.  I’d love to have all of the answers, for myself as well as my children.

             And yes, there might still be room left over for some of that excitement, as long as it happens on the Discovery Channel and I can turn off the television set when I’ve had my fill.  (Although frankly, I don’t think those Survivor Man types can hold a candle to the stuff we’ve encountered lately.)

             But as for monikers for my day to day life?  You can keep glamour, travel and intrigue.  Offered a choice, I’ll take “settled” any time.

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            I knew what had happened the moment I opened the kitchen cabinet.

             There, staring defiantly from the cereal shelf, stood a box of blueberry muffin flavored Mini Wheats, along side a sister box of cinnamon streusel Mini Wheats.  On another shelf perched two bags of odd-looking baked chips, one of the cheddar cheese variety, another sour cream and chive.  Finally, a peek in the refrigerator revealed myriad bottles of liquid refreshment, all in colors not found anywhere in nature.

             Someone had let my husband go grocery shopping.

             “Girls!” I yelled. 

             Sheepishly, my daughters slunk into the kitchen.  “We tried to stop him, Mom!  He said he was bored and he was going to the store anyway.  We tried to rein him in by making a list, but….”

             “I know it’s not your fault.  When he makes up his mind to grocery shop, there’s not much anyone can do, short of swiping his cash and hiding the car keys,” I said.

             “Hey, what’s going on?” my husband asked, strolling into the kitchen.

             “You went food shopping again, didn’t you?” I accused.

             “I got what was on the list.  I just picked up a few other things, too,” he said.

            “Blueberry muffin Mini Wheats were on the list?” I asked.

            “Not blueberry, but Laura said she wanted Mini Wheats and they didn’t have any.  A girl who worked there told me they were out of them.  I said that I couldn’t go home without Mini Wheats.  She told me to try the blueberry and cinnamon streusel kind.  So I did,” he concluded, triumphantly.

            No one in our house has ever eaten a blueberry or a cinnamon streusel Mini Wheat.  As for the other experimental selections?  All also completely foreign to my pantry and refrigerator, as well as our gastrointestinal tracts.

            My husband and I tussle continually over food.  Mainly, the battle lines are drawn between my nature-conscious choices and his day-glo selections, which often look like they were created inside a nuclear power plant.

            The other day, we stopped for breakfast.  A man at the table next to us ordered an egg white omelet, asking the waitress to throw in “a kitchen sink’s worth of vegetables.”  My husband visibly blanched.

            “What’s wrong?” I asked.

            “I wouldn’t eat that if someone put a gun to my head,” he said, pursing his lips into a thin, impenetrable line.  The only green “food” Dave puts into his mouth is lime Gatorade.  Vegetables?  Not on your life.

            “Your eating habits are so bizarre,” I said.  “It’s like you’re still six years old.”

            “My eating habits are bizarre?  How about you?  Yesterday, you pulled out a container of green beans on the beach!  Who does that?” he sputtered.

            “Okay, but it’s better than a steady diet of Tastykakes for breakfast and McDonald’s for lunch.” I answered.

            In our house it appears to be a gender issue.  My husband and son would do all of their grocery shopping at the dollar store and the Entenmanns’s outlet if they could, while my daughters and I stroll farmers’ markets, gathering fresh produce.

            Still, I suppose I should be grateful that Dave makes the effort to relieve me of food shopping, although I know his motives are far less pure than to give me a break.  Despite any list, he passes by perishables, moving right on to the stuff that would last 900 years in a time capsule.  Only occasionally does he come home with something I can down without an Alka Seltzer chaser.

            As for the latest intruders in my kitchen?  I’ve already forced down two bowls of the Mini Wheats, loathe to waste food.  The strange chips?  Don’t tell my husband, but they’re not half bad.  I’ll pass on the neon liquids, however.  And the next time he offers to go grocery shopping, I’ll be the one hiding the car keys.

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     My mother does not know how to blog.  Nor does she “Tweet.”  “Google” is a nonsense word—something a baby would babble.  Truth be told, she’s occasionally even flummoxed by her cell phone.

     Technologically speaking, my mother is a dinosaur.  The few concessions she’s made to joining the twenty-first century have been made kicking and screaming.

     Several months ago, I was to pick her up at the auto mechanic’s while her car was being serviced.  Running a bit late, I called her cell phone to let her know I was on my way.  Then I called again.  And again.  She never picked up.

    “Why didn’t you answer your phone?” I sputtered, flustered and worried, only to be met by her unconcerned gaze as she sat patiently in the dealership’s waiting room.

      “Oh, was that you?  I kept hearing some music going off, but I thought it was someone else’s phone!”

      My mother doesn’t know how to do a lot of things.  And I always felt kind of sorry for her.  How sad to be so woefully unaware of how much more fulfilling her life could be if only she would open her mind.

      I am much smarter than my mom.  I can navigate the internet.  I spend countless hours wading through mountains of useful…well kind of useful…well mostly not remotely useful, information.

      I’m always on my cell phone, if not talking, then texting really important stuff.  Like my last text reply to my daughter, who wrote, “Can you bring a big water jug to the beach?  We’re thirsty.”  “K,” I tapped back.

      And technology is not the only area in which I trump my mother.  I know how to gas up and start a lawn mower as well as a weed whacker.  I mowed and “weed whacked” not only my entire lawn, but my neighbor’s lawn just this morning.

      I can crawl underneath of my house to find and shut off the main water supply to my home.  I know what size sledgehammer to buy in order to break up concrete.  (Dutifully detailed in a previous column.)  I know how to maneuver a furniture dolly—essential when moving desks, file cabinets and other office furniture with your husband, or when moving your college-aged daughter into or out of her third living arrangement in a single year. 

      Unlike my mom, I also work out, so carrying a small dresser down three flights of stairs is no sweat.  Actually, it’s a lot of sweat, but I can still do it.  I can also minister to an overheated radiator in my car.  They kind of know me at the auto parts store.

      So sometimes, I really feel sorry for my mother.  I’m current with the wonders of technology.  I mow the lawn; I handle all manner of aquatic home disasters.  I’m well-versed in hand tools.  I’m probably qualified to own and operate a moving company and I think I could pass auto mechanics 101.

      My mother doesn’t do any of those things.

      Wait….My mother doesn’t do any of those things.  Ever.  Never has, never will.

      When mom fires up her computer, she reads a few jokes, laughs, forwards them and then turns the thing off.  When she wants to make a phone call, she makes it, accessible only if she wants to be.  The lawn guy does the mowing and whacking.  The plumber handles all water related issues.  The auto mechanic deals with the car.  Moving furniture?  Please.  That’s what men are for. 

      Come to think of it, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen my mother sweat.  I sweat daily, and occasionally, profusely, just being the competent, modern, “I can do it all” woman that I am so proud to be.

      Someone in this scenario is smart, all right.  But at the moment, I’m thinking it probably isn’t me.

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I am in awe of Lance Armstrong.

I am in awe of Lance Armstrong, but not for the reasons you might think.

Yes, the uber-athlete has beaten cancer, won the biking marathon the Tour de France a total of seven times (so far) and inspired millions with his determination and drive.

But that's not what impresses me most about America's favorite biker dude.

What astounds me most about Armstrong (in fact, about all of the Tour de France contenders), is that they bike continuously, for approximately 120 miles at a time, for a total of around five hours at once, and they never stop to pee.

This unfeted accomplishment goes wholly unnoticed.  I didn't notice it until my daughter stumbled upon the truth quite accidently while watching the race with her father.

"Isn't it amazing how the coaches ride next to their bikers and hand them their lunch and water supply?" my husband observed.

"Wow.  Look at all the water the coach is giving Armstrong," Meg said as Lance stored bottle after bottle of water on his body and bike.  "That's a lot of water.  When do they stop to pee?" she asked.

"They don't," Dave replied.

Simultaneously, my jaw, along with my daughter's, dropped to the floor.

"What do you mean they don't?" we asked in unison.

Dave laughed.  "It's a race.  They don't stop until the end of the day."

One hundred twenty miles?  Five solid hours without peeing?  I could sooner go five hours without breathing.  The truth is, for women, peeing is as necessary as breathing, particularly if you're a woman who has given birth.

With women, peeing figures into every activity, every outing--we even monitor bathroom use in our homes to be certain factilitis are available when the urge strikes, which it does--often.  "Hey!  Are you almost done in there?  I might have to go soon!"

There's no negotiating with this force once it makes its intentions known.  Like it or not, convenient or no, if the spirit moves you, you're going to pee.

The lack of peeing opportunities might explain why the Tour de France is an all male event.  Without readily available facilities, we ladies couldn't compete if we wanted to.

That said, you could probably count on one hand the number of women who would willingly participate in a 2200 mile, weeks long bicycle race to nowhere.  My husband suggested we ladies might be more tempted to partake in the Tour de Mall, a race across the U.S. with the top malls in the country as destinations. Despite my knee-jerk instinct to howl at the discriminatory implications of such a contest, I could actually consider it.  Plus, there would be no shortage of restrooms.  Two birds with one stone, that.

It's possible that the insistent urge to go is genetically programmed in women, given that once we have kids, we are forever scanning our surroundings for bathrooms--for ourselves as well as our offspring.  For no matter how often we shriek "Did everybody go to the bathroom?" before leaving the house, you can bet someone will have to go immediately upon reaching a major highway, the restaurant or the aforementioned mall.  And, as we age, that someone is usually us.

So Lance, while your athletic prowess and achievements are certainly noteworthy, what you and tho other "Tour" guys really deserve is a medal for holding it.  On that front, you've got half the species beat hands down.

As for the Tour de France, you're welcome to the endless bike trip to nowhere.  Personally, I'll stick to a spin around the block and a trip to the mall...and the bathroom.

Mary Fran also writes at Philly Moms Blog and at EspressoLatteMocha.

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A Failure to Communicate

          I have one of those nasty birthdays coming up next week.

             You know the ones; just hearing the number elicits a shudder and a wince.

             I suppose, given the alternative (you know—death), that having this particular birthday is preferable to not.  But just barely.

             All women know that a certain point, we stop counting.  There arrives a moment when we realize we don’t have to count any more.  All we need to do is look in the mirror to confirm what we already know:  Time is marching on, and it’s taking a path directly across our faces, after which it continues downward, dragging the rest of our bodies with it.

             I wasn’t too thrilled with my fortieth birthday, having experienced one of those existential crises during which you look at your life and in simultaneous horror and confusion say, “Are you kidding me?  How in the world did I end up here?!”  At the time, my kids were still young and my days were a mix of frantic dashing from one lesson or game to another, stopping at the grocery store, the bank and the cleaners, slapping together a quick Hamburger Helper dinner before more driving, making cupcakes at midnight for a school party, running to WalMart for poster board at 7 A.M. and working in between.

             But I survived and in the ensuing years, managed to get the kids through most of their lives’ roller coaster rides relatively unscathed, while keeping my own head above water and still liking my husband.  (I think he still likes me; he doesn’t say much.)

             While I appreciate that small measure of progress, I just figured that by the big 5-0 (And can someone tell my why everyone continually refers to it as the “big 5-0”?  It’s really annoying.) I’d have a better handle on so many things.

             For example, why don’t I have more money?  I wasn’t under the illusion that I’d be on Easy Street; I just figured I could buy the magazine at the grocery store checkout without doing mathematical calisthenics in my head to determine if I had enough money.

             I thought I’d be able to buy underwear at Victoria’s Secret instead of Kmart if I wanted to.  I assumed lunch out might be a little more highbrow than Whopper Wednesdays at Burger King. 

             I figured I’d have a bit more self-confidence.  After all, anyone who makes it through half a century (Oh my god, that’s nauseating!) should at least give themselves credit for surviving.  But I’m still plagued by ridiculous insecurities, having had a jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none working life, assuming it was because I was always just shy of being really good at any one thing.

             I thought that by this point, I’d be looking beatifically at my children as they embarked on higher education and successful careers.  Yet I’m constantly on heightened alert, wild-eyed as I watch them make missteps, powerless to stop them and holding my breath, waiting for a crash and burn that I’ll want to swoop in and repair.

             Looking back, I’m not sure I’ve learned all that much in this first fifty years.  I’ve got life in a stranglehold that I’m still trying to contort to my will.  Maybe my next fifty years needs to be about loosening my grip.

             After all, I have enough reading material.  Kmart makes some pretty nice undies and Whoppers taste really good.  If I’m never a brain surgeon or I fall short of writing the Great American Novel, that’s okay.  And the kids will be just fine, even if they continue to stumble along the way.

             It’s been a challenging fifty years, but I’m still standing.  That’ll have to be enough for now.  Who knows, if I can manage to lighten up just a little, the next fifty could actually be fun.

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           I’ve long known that my husband’s mind works quite differently from my own.  Sometimes it seems we’re operating in parallel universes, pausing only long enough to look quizzically at one another as we each wonder what could possibly be going on in the other’s head.

             On the road completing some errand or another recently (most likely dropping a car off at our mechanic’s—a practice in which we indulge weekly), Dave asked if I wanted something to drink.

             “What did you have in mind?” I asked.

             “Just some green tea or something.  There’s a Wawa right up here,” he said.

             We pulled into a parking lot and Dave deftly maneuvered into a spot, not near any Wawa that I could see, however.  “What are you doing?  I thought you were going to a Wawa,” I said.

             “I am.  The back door is right over there,” he said.

             “How do you know where the back door is?” I asked.

             “I was in here three times last week.  Haven’t you ever been in this Wawa before?”

             “Well, no, I haven’t,” I muttered.  “I don’t make a practice of frequenting them.  But I’ll take a diet soda.”

             Upon his return, Dave proceeded to tell me the location of every Wawa within a ten mile radius.  “By the way,” he added, “Do you have to go the bathroom before we get home?  TD Bank has really nice bathrooms.”

             “Now how on earth do you know that?” I asked.  “Are you going around inspecting public bathrooms now?”

             “Hey, you forget that I was in outside sales for years.  One of the first things they taught us was to scope out the decent bathrooms.  Otherwise, it can be a really long day on the road.”

             “I think I’ll wait until we get home,” I said.

             “Suit yourself,” he answered.

             The other day, my husband phoned to ask if I’d like to join him for a weekday lunch.  “It’s Whopper Wednesday,” he said.

             “What?  Again, I have to ask, how do you know these things?”

             “What do you mean?  Every Wednesday is Whopper Wednesday.  And Monday is Chicken Monday, with four different kinds of chicken sandwiches.  So do you want to go?” he asked.

             “Sure, I could go for a burger,” I said.

             “Not just any burger, baby.  A Whopper, don’t forget.  One condition, though,” Dave said.

             “What’s that?” I asked.

             “Please don’t tell anybody.  I don’t want Whopper Wednesdays to get too crowded.”

             “I’ll try and contain myself,” I said.  “What other little secrets do you have circling in that head of yours?”

             “How about this:  If you go to the bagel shop before the 8:30 Mass on Sunday morning, they have Everything Bagels.  If you go after church, there’s a run on them and they’re usually out.  So you have to get up early and go before church.”

             “Wow.”

             “And, you know how I like Hershey bars?  They’re up to 89 cents.  But, the newspaper usually runs a coupon for them, so if you add 11 cents and buy the paper for a dollar, then clip the coupon and divide by the price of the paper, you get the Hershey bar for less than half price!” 

             I could hear him grinning over the phone.

             “You’ve really got your world figured out, haven’t you?” I asked.

             “Hey, it’s tough out there.  Anything to make life a little easier,” Dave said.

             He may be quirky, but he’s happy.  Maybe I should pay a bit more attention and orbit in his universe for a while.  A big chocolate bar for only 40 cents?  There’s got to be a Wawa near here somewhere.

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          He sounded like one of those old guys who tells his kids stories about walking to school uphill both ways, but when my husband relayed his unpleasant go-round with two hernias in his youth to our son, we listened incredulously.

             “When I had my surgery, I was in the hospital for six days,” Dave said.  “I was hooked up to all sorts of monitors.  Nurses and doctors in and out.  It was really intense,” he went on.

             About two months ago, our son came to us with an uncomfortable problem which my husband immediately recognized as the nasty signs of a hernia.  Sure enough, a doctor visit a week later confirmed it and we scheduled surgery for later in the month.

             My son and I left the doctor’s office with a few sheets of paper, a pamphlet and instructions to show up at the surgical center early on the appointed day.  David was told he’d be admitted around 6:30 A.M., patched up and sent home a few hours later, hernia repaired.

             Informed of the protocol, my husband regaled us with his hernia history.  “Well, not only will he not be in the hospital for six days, he probably won’t be in there for six hours,” I said.  “In fact, he won’t be in the hospital at all.  This is an outpatient surgical center.  They take them in, slice, dice, patch and send them on their way.  Kind of like the Veg-a-Matic on those infomercials,” I added insensitively.

             “Gee, thanks, Mom,” David said, turning a peculiar shade of green.

             I looked up “chop shop” in the dictionary, and while it currently relates only to stolen cars which are dissected and sold for their parts, I think the definition needs to be expanded.  Because these surgical centers are chop shops.  Well run, technologically advanced, sterile chop shops, but chop shops all the same.

             On the appointed morning, we arrived at the chop sh…I mean, surgical center and David was checked in, taken back to a prep room, dressed in his surgical gown and hooked up to an IV within forty minutes of walking in the door.  We met with the anesthesiologist and the surgeon, after which Dave and I were ushered to the waiting room.

             An hour later, the doctor emerged, informing us that the surgery was successful and David would be able to go home in a short while.  Ninety minutes later, we were home, after the patient had been passed gently to his mother through a side door about fifty feet from the main entrance—all to keep the undiced walking in the front door from running in the opposite direction, I’m sure.

             As we helped our dazed and sore son into the house, I whispered to my husband, “I can’t believe they sent this kid home.  They were just digging around in his abdomen two hours ago!”

             “MOM!” my son croaked.  “They didn’t operate on my ears.  I can still hear you!”

             “Sorry,” I said.  “I just find this whole experience surreal.  They had so many people going in and out of those doors, the only thing missing was a conveyor belt.  It was like the baggage claim at the airport.  Round and round they go.”

             “I just want to lie down,” David said, again looking green.

             I know the logic behind a surgical center is that patients heal better at home.  (Hopefully, most patients are blessed with a caregiver possessing a better bedside manner than mine.)  But four hours total for abdominal surgery?  How about giving the patient at least half a day? 

             Somehow, surgery just shouldn’t call to mind an infomercial in a chop shop.

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            I almost forgot it was coming.

            You’d think that with the saturation of airwaves, newspapers and internet with ads touting its approach, it would be impossible to blot out Mother’s Day, especially when you’ve been a mother for 24 years.

            But when I think of Mother’s Day, I envision handmade cards, macaroni picture frames and a plant, hastily purchased from a gas station nursery that has sprung up precisely to aid the hapless men who find the day dawning without a gift for the mother of their children.

            I picture cherubic little faces delivering wet kisses and lots of hugs.  I imagine sentimental rhymes crafted by nursery and kindergarten school teachers, delivered to their students for presentation to the kids’ mothers on the appointed day.  (I don’t know if I ever publicly thanked my children’s teachers for those occasions, and now, memories, but here’s the acknowledgement you so richly deserve, ladies.)

            In short, I see young children, who are still under the delusion that their mothers are the smartest, prettiest, bravest women in the world, worshipping at my (and other mothers’) feet.

            What I don’t see are the adult children, no longer hoodwinked by the “My mom is perfect” illusion, lining up to sing the praises of their mothers, who, quite frankly, probably deserve it more than the mothers of those adorable youngsters.

            See, while mothering is never, ever easy, sometimes it’s just easier to mother little ones. 

            For the most part, you put them where you want them to stay, wielding the “Because I told you to sit there” power like a jailer with a key.  Try doing that with an adult “child” who wants to take a trip with twenty of her closest friends and spend a week in a house somewhere doing God knows what while you’re home trying to imagine (or not) what she’s up to.

            The little ones eat what you put in front of them or they don’t get any dessert, unlike the older version who not only don’t always eat what you put on the table, they don’t even show up to the table.  And they don’t call to say they won’t be home for dinner.  Or, they say they won’t be home for dinner and then they show up, at dinner time, with a friend in tow.

            You put your babies to bed and their nocturnal wanderings are limited to trips to the bathroom and trips to your room after a bad dream.  In the advanced version, your child puts you to bed, leaving the house at 11 P.M., advising “Don’t wait up for me, mom.  And don’t worry; I’ll be fine.”  You, in turn, turn off the worry channel in your head and sleep soundly while they’re out wandering the streets.  Yeah, right.

            When you want to buy your munchkins a treat, a trip to the dollar store is akin to an excursion to Disneyworld.  Five bucks purchases a week’s worth of happiness and you don’t even have to pack a bag.  The big kids?  Five bucks buys a drink at Starbucks, and lasts all of fifteen minutes.

            But every once in a while, some miracle takes place that lets you know you’re not completely off their radar.  Take a recent text I received from my daughter when she returned to college after a weekend at home—“thank you i had so much fun at home i love home and i miss you too love you and dad and everybody so much”  (No punctuation or capitalization; this is a kid texting, remember?)

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            "Hey, is that Laura you're talking to?" my husband asked.

           "Yes.  Why?"  I answered.
            "Let me talk to her," he said.
            "Sure.  Hey, honey, Dad wants to say 'Hello.'  Hold on," I replied, giving Dave the phone.
            "Hi honey.  How are you?"  Dave asked.  And then, "Hey, do you know what time that ceremony is on Saturday?"
            I listened as he nodded, rolled his eyes and then repeated what I guessed was our daughter's response.  "It could be 10:00, 10:30 or 11:00; you're not sure?  Okay.  I guess we'll figure it out.  All right, talk to you later."  Dave flipped the cell phone closed.
            "When are you going to give up?" I questioned. 

             "What do you mean?" he said.

             "You asked her what time the ceremony is on Saturday, didn't you?"

             "Yeah.  I was hoping by now she'd have an answer."

             "How many times do I have to tell you that the kids don't know what time anything is until five minutes before they have to walk out of the door?" I said.

             "I know.  I know.  But this is her COLLEGE GRADUATION, for heaven's sake!  It's in four days!  I thought she'd have a clue by now!" he sputtered.

             Believe me, it's not that I didn't sympathize.  But after 24 years as a mother, if there is one thing of which I am certain, it's that the concept of time for kids is a relative thing.

            It starts when they’re babies.  You bring the sweet bundle home from the hospital amid visions of becoming a Norman Rockwell portrait only to morph into the Rocky Horror Picture Show as night turns into day and day into night while the sweet bundle turns into a mythical monster capable of controlling time.  Time becomes entirely the baby’s domain…and it never changes.

            Everything you thought you knew about time flies out the window in the clutches of a baby, then a child, then a teenager and onto your “adult” child.  (No, you don’t get a break after they turn 18; in fact, it gets worse.)

            They sleep during the day; they’re up all night.  They’ll sit immobilized for hours playing video games but can’t sit still for five minutes in church.  They chat, text or IM around the clock but can’t spare three minutes for an intelligible conversation with a parent.  

            When they make plans with friends, oh that’s right, they don’t make plans.  That would require a commitment to a time.  Instead, they revert to the aforementioned chatting, texting or IMing, ending each “conversation” with “I’m not sure what time I’m going out.  I’ll give you a call later.”  “Later,” especially if the child in question is of the “adult” variety, generally arrives around 11 P.M., when more reasonable, time-conscious adults are going to bed.  

            They show up to dinner when they feel like it; they leave when they want to and they make those of us who treat time a bit more conventionally feel like obsessive compulsive fanatics.

            Heaven help us if any of them get jobs as air traffic controllers or train engineers.  Or, for that matter, jobs that start at a particular time of day.  Wait, that’s pretty much every job, isn’t it?

            Really, who doesn’t want to live unencumbered by a clock?  Few things appeal more than a vacation away from the constraints of time.  But isn’t that precisely what makes it a vacation?  The fact that you have to get back to reality?

            Kids, I know you want to live life on your own terms and your own schedules.  But at some point—maybe college graduation?—you have to acknowledge the clock.

            It’s time.

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            We all know it’s tough out there, but things are getting downright ugly.

            Last week in Madison, Wisconsin, a manager from Dean Health System called a nurse from an operating room where she was assisting in a surgical procedure—to tell her she was being laid off.

            I’m going to guess that the patient wasn’t the manager’s mother.

            I’m not sure if the nurse ever returned to the operating room, but then, would you want her to?  A nurse with an attitude and a score to settle is not who I’d want standing over me while I was knocked unconscious on an operating table, though I wouldn’t have blamed her for wanting to hand the doctor a hammer instead of sutures.

            And if she didn’t return to the procedure, can you imagine the operating room conversation?

            Doctor:  “All right, everyone, nice work.  Let’s close.  Nurse, sutures, please.”

            Anesthesiologist:  “Sorry, doc, she’s gone.”

            Doctor:  “Gone?  What do mean, gone?”

            Anesthesiologist:  “She was sacked.”

            Doctor:  “Oh great.  I’ve got three more surgeries after this one.  I’ve got to get this guy closed up.  Say, how’d you like to jump in here and help out?   And if you’re not busy for the next few hours, I could a hand on a few other procedures, if you’re game.”

            Anesthesiologist:  “Yeah, what the heck.  My insurance premiums for this anesthesiologist gig are killing me anyway.  Might as well try something new.”

            What if this becomes standard lay-off practice?  People getting dumped in the middle their workday, with no regard for the circumstances.  Can you imagine the fall-out?

            “Hello.  This is Susan Smith.  I dropped my car off four days ago to have new brakes put in.  Is it finished yet?”

            “Actually, it’s still up on the lift.  Joe was working on it, but he was laid off in the middle of the job.”

            “Excuse me?  What happens now?”

            “Not really sure.  The parts are all over the garage but we don’t have anyone to put them in.  Do you own a bike?”

            At your favorite restaurant—“Excuse me, we placed our orders over 40 minutes ago.  Could you please find our waitress and see what the holdup is?”

            “Oh, I know what the holdup is.  Your waitress put the order in and it’s ready, but she was just laid off.”

            “What?  What do we do now?”

            “I dunno.  I guess you’ll have to go into the kitchen and get your food yourself.”

            “But I have to do that at home.  That’s why we came to a restaurant.”

            In a plane, 30,000 feet in the air—“I don’t want to be an alarmist, but isn’t that the pilot up front crying on the flight attendant’s shoulder?”

            “Yep.  I just heard him say the airline laid him off.”

            “LAID HIM OFF?  NOW?  WHO’S FLYING THE PLANE?”

            I suppose in the operating room fiasco, the patient couldn’t really complain, given that he was unconscious, which is probably what the manager was counting on.  But complain we should, loud and long.

            It’s one thing to be laid off, to lose your livelihood in the midst of this crushing economic downturn.  But does anyone have the right to annihilate a person’s last shred of dignity by pulling them off the job and sacking them right in the middle of a day’s work?  “I’m sorry, but not only do we not need you, we don’t need you starting right this second!  You can leave; we’ll get the night watchman to finish up for you.”  And should customers (or patients) be subjected to the shoddy service that will inevitably result?

           A little sensitivity, people.  Because tough doesn't have to be ugly.

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