Blue's Clues, Chuckee Cheese, Sleepovers and the Perfect Jinx

  For 13 years, I've made sure that my son's birthday was celebrated big, spending weeks planning a theme party and fun activities for him and his friends.
  For his first birthday, we had the Singing Library Lady come to our house, play her guitar and sing "Wheels on the Bus," "There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly," and other rollicking favorites. He got a toy chest full of toys. And birthday cake. And each child got a specially selected present as a favor. All this, even though the parenting books discouraged grand celebration and warned that the birthday child might freak out. My boy seemed to thoroughly enjoy it all.  I still remember him holding on to the coffee table, unable to walk but happy to stand, and swaying to the beat of the music.
  At three, he was in love with Blue's Clues. That was the obvious theme. But I couldn't find anyone who had a Blue's costume, so I had to settle for a big, furry Elmo. He greeted my son, who was decked out in his green-striped Steve shirt, and he had the children search for Blue's Clues. I was particularly proud of myself for the party favor that year. I had stayed up to the wee hours making Blue's Clues notebooks out of reporter's pads. On the cover, I pasted green construction paper and drew the Big Red Chair that Steve used to think in and decorated it with red glitter. An oversized crayon was stuck in a red spiral. It looked perfect, if I say so myself.
  Other years, we had face painting, Power Rangers,  and Chuckee Cheese, of course. A whole string of years focused on sports -- soccer parties, basketball parties, football parties, you name the ball. One year, we held the festivities in a park. With a summer birthday, outdoors always seemed like a good idea until it got near to the date. Then I would panic over the weather forecast and pray for a clear day. Once it poured an hour before the outdoor party. That time we switched to indoor bowling, scrambling to find an  available alley. This particular year, the weather was fine. I had chosen a beautiful, expansive park not far from the house. Technically, you had to live within a certain distance to book it for gatherings. We were a bit outside, but I figured I could simply show up and stake out a spot. Who would care about 15 little kids playing in a park? That morning, I went over to check out the picnic tables.
  Then I saw a big sign announcing a concert. At the park. That same day. No tables would be available. It was hours until guests would arrive.

  I frantically started roaming other parks. I tried to book a shelter. Everything was reserved -- since the previous year! Finally, in desperation, I approached one family who had a large shelter at Ridley Creek. They were only using two of the four tables. I appealed to them -- telling them how my plans had gone awry, how my son was turning seven, how he'd be so disappointed, how we wouldn't take up too much space, how we'd pay whatever the fee was. Could they please, please, PLEASE share? They looked at me like I was crazy, but bless them, they agreed. 
  And so it went, through laser tag and sleepovers and go-carts. Until this year.
  Now that he was turning 14, the big birthday bash, even a sleepover, seemed too childish. Instead, we planned to spend the day as a family and meet up with other relatives for a day at the beach, picnic lunch, mini-golf and carnival rides on the boardwalk. Everyone was psyched. The weather was blisteringly hot -- a perfect day to escape to the beach.
  And then the plan began to unravel.
   The birthday present -- an $80 Sneijder jersey -- that I had received a couple of days earlier was too small. I had overlooked the size when ordering, and now it was too late to exchange it. The first phone call of the big day was to say that one of his favorite cousins was sick with a temperature of 101 degrees F. The family had to cancel. That left us heading to the beach with the grandparents. We loaded up the car and headed out. Within half an hour, we hit traffic. A 90-minute ride to the beach became a four hour, exhausting odyssey. Everyone was starving. We had our picnic on the side of the road. The view was a forest dotted with trash. Biting flies kept us hopping as we downed deviled eggs.
  Finally, we reached Avalon and set out our blanket. As we put up the two umbrellas, a gust of wind caught one of them and flung it onto nearby beach goers.  It ripped and my efforts to resurrect it failed. That left one umbrella for the five of us. The wind, though, was unrelenting, and I'm convinced, attacked our umbrella more than anyone else's.
  Let's just get in the water, I thought. We set off for the ocean as the grandparents clung to the umbrella stand and squeezed into the speck of shade. Seconds into the water, our feet became numb. The water, on this record-hot day, was Arctic cold.
  We stayed another half hour or so and decided to pack up and go home. I was sullen. This was not the birthday celebration I had intended. I started to apologize to my son. I felt so bad about it all. But somehow he knew how much it meant to me for his day to be perfect. Even though he had to be just as disappointed, he never showed it. Instead, he said, "It's OK, Mom." And then added, with a sweet smile, "You're the best mother ever."
  I was stunned and touched -- and proud -- at this show of maturity. My little boy wasn't a kid anymore. And those unsolicited words of comfort provided a perfect end to a jinxed day.
 

Happiness is Shopping at Wegmans

  Our neighborhood grocery store closed this weekend. It had deteriorated ever since the local store sold out to a national chain. But it was familiar and we liked the folks who worked there. So over the last few days, it was rather sad to see the half empty shelfs and long-faced cashiers and baggers we've known for most of our years in suburban Philly. Now, I'll have to travel another five minutes to the next town's supermarket for last-minute runs for forgotten ingredients, an unfortunately common occurrence around dinner time.
  But all is not lost. Just as one store closed, another opened. And this store is the Shangri La of grocery stores.
  Wegmans in Malvern.
   Forgive my gushing; it was my first time at a Wegmans. The size of a Walmart but with the class of a Neiman-Marcus, it takes the super part of supermarket seriously. The grand opening on Sunday was a cross between Black Friday at King of Prussia Mall and the Devon Horse Show -- a must-go, see-and-be-seen mob event. The whole family came out for the big day. After a 20-minute drive, we had to park half a mile away to get inside. 
  Aisles were as packed as the baskets of produce. Free samples abounded. Strawberry smoothies. South American roses. Cheeses. Fresh-made rice cakes. Candies to rival Willie Wonka's factory. Who knew grocery shopping could be this much fun? And that doesn't even include the food bars. Where else can you find palak paneer as tasty as the local curry house on a "salad bar"? Even the Bossband was impressed.
  LsOL spend a good deal of the week restocking the pantry. Grocery shopping is as important as a client meeting. It should not be a chore. Wegmans takes the experience to a whole other level.  Right away it exudes luxuriousness in sheer size and choice alone. The fact that its prices are competitive satisfies the bargain hunter inside every LOL. And the type of items it offers --  8,000 specialty groceries, 10,000 natural an organic items, 500  premium teas -- has to please the foodies out there.  Heck, Wegmans carries Lakshmi, a South Asian brand usually only found at the ethnic grocer.
  Grocery shopping will never be the same again. Instead of a weekly chore, it's a bonafide event. Of course, a LOL would have it no other way.

In Search of the Perfect Swimsuit

  When did buying a swimsuit get this difficult?
   At one time, I could go to the store and pick up the latest flowery bikini and go off to the pool. OK, I was 12. But even in my post-college years, I could find a decent suit in a couple of hours. Even 10 years ago, the perfect one-piece did not require moving into a dressing room.
  The trend toward tankinis and bottoms and tops sold separately has turned into a nightmare. If you miss the initial arrival of suits at top dollar or choose to wait for the sales, all you get are bottoms in x-small and tops in x-large -- or one-piecers that look like leftovers from great-grandma's closet.
  Ideally, I want a swimsuit that looks sort of fashionable and a little pretty without exposing more than a Playboy centerfold. Is that asking too much? Not everyone is 16 still and able to sashay around the beach in an itsy, bitsy polka-dot bikini. Or at least, they shouldn't. Not after children and middle-age.
  This year, I figured as a LOL, I would have plenty of time to look. I was even willing to pay a little more than my usual under $40 limit. But my search for a suit -- after I finally had to give up my raggedy one-piece from a decade ago -- took me to a dozen stores over three malls and two weeks. If I found a color I liked, then the style was too skimpy. If I found a more modest suit, without a plunging neckline, then the only shade was blue, and I do not like blue. (It's just me.)
  If it looked perfect on the rack, it was a whole another sight in the dressing room. Half the time, I could barely squeeze all of me into the suit. And I'm not really all that big at a Size 8, even Size 6 at times. Those little pads in the tops would always scrunch up or slide around, looking as if I had a boob job gone terribly wrong. Then the bottoms would ride up, letting a little too much derriere hang out. Sometimes the front was great, but the back was all wrong. (FYI: Plunging backs are really meant only for aerobics instructors.) Once, a long, long time ago, I was so close. But then the price tag was over $100 -- and really, even at my level of desperation, I was not paying that kind of dough.
  Then, when I was ready to limit my water play to my bathtub,  I spied a shorts-style bottom -- one of three left. It fit. It was hot pink. I took it. The top, on the other hand, was designed for a flat-chested tweener. Hot pink seemed to be a popular color this season, so figured I'd match it pretty easily elsewhere. I was wrong.
 Three stores later, I settled for a brown and yellow tank-top that cut straight across the neckline and flattered the mid-section. The two pieces fit nicely, covered everything I wanted covered while not making me look like a bather out of the 1920s.
  I know.  Brown and pink? It's a match only Ugly Betty would love, or the colorblind. Well, there's always next season. A girl can dream, can't she?
  
 

Packing Love Notes and Other Goodies

 I'm one of those moms who loved making lunch for my son. When he was in pre-school, I'd write a love note on his napkin -- after I read about a mother who did that in one of the parenting magazines. I'm not sure my own son appreciated that the same way that other child in the magazine did, but I persisted through much of his toddler years.
  Food, and the making of it, is one of those odd ways a mother shows her love. So a lunch box is packed full, with more items than a child could ever eat in one meal, especially when a one-year-old is sent to daycare while Mommy goes to work. Once I overheard the daycare teacher joke about another child whose mother sent a "buffet" for his lunch. They laughed at the mighty meal. But I understood.
  In elementary school, I still got to pack -- minus the love notes. And no more occasional candy treats, because the school didn't allow that. That was OK. I was always into healthy lunches. Sandwiches on whole wheat or multi-grain. Lots of fresh fruit. 100 percent juice. Terra chips.
   Eventually, in those middle elementary years, my son started complaining that he never had "anything good" in his lunch. He meant no Doritos or fruit roll-ups or Oreos or Gatorade. I tried explaining he had lots of good stuff and that other stuff was junk food. But over time, I relented, and he got those items now and then.
  By middle school, he was insistent on buying lunch. Taking a packed lunch wasn't cool. Other mothers were delighted when they no longer had to send a lunch. Secretly, I was heartbroken. He was growing up, and I was a little less relevant in his life.
   That's why Philadelphia Inquirer food editor Maureen Fitzgerald's  piece "For 21 years, packing a little love with lunch" touched a soft spot. I completely related and am a little envious she got to keep at it for 21 years compared to my short 11 years. Her story brought back a flood of memories. And it made me realize how much a I enjoy those rare moments now when I can pack a lunch and "a little love" for a field trip or week at camp -- even if this LOL has to wake up a half hour early.

Photo credit: www.iStockphoto.com/jskiba

Home Sweet Home

  The wind rustles through the waves of trees. The deck is drenched in sunlight. The robins and sparrows chatter. A black butterfly with blue patches flits among the potted plants of peppers, tomatoes, eggplants and one glorious sunflower that towers nearly seven feet. I smile.

  A LOL can finally enjoy her home. Some LsOL, of course, have grand mansions out here in suburbia and well-tended gardens. My abode is more modest, and what I can now savor really has little to do with  grandeur as much as moments that got lost in the frantic insanity of before. I can sit on this deck and read my Kindle (nearly finished with The Girl Who Played With Fire) as the birds sing their tunes  and the butterflies skip from one flower to the next.
   With more control over my time, I can literally stop to smell the roses out front, or better yet, the pots of jasmine arrayed on the deck.
  I have had one plant for more than 20 years, given to me by my mother, who bought the original from a Houston nursery more than 35 years ago and painstakingly grew several more from cuttings.
It was a tangible reminder of her native India. When she passed away earlier this year, I inherited two more jasmine -- now, I like to think, my connection to her. At this time of year, the plant is loaded with small white flowers that give off an intoxicating fragrance. She would  have been very pleased.
   I lean back in my deck chair, a piece of furniture that seldom got used in the past, and I am delighted to be able to enjoy this moment, on this day, in this way.