A Weekend of Remembrance

As parents, it's important to teach our children about the past -- whether that be news events of wide importance or their families' histories. This past weekend I took my sons to Connecticut and New York on just such an educational trip.

Christopher was invited to sing in a concert benefiting the families of the Sandy Hook shooting victims. The concert took place at a festival called "Light the Sky with Light and Love for Sandy Hook Elementary Angels" in Portland, Connecticut, outside Hartford. Since the event had been postponed twice due to flooding of the field where it was to be held and continued wet conditions, we were beyond excited to finally be able to attend and give something back toward the worthy cause.

My older son sang a song called 26 Angels with four other kids, one guitarist, and one adult singer. Recorded last year over our holiday break, 26 Angels has been viewed 23,408 times on YouTube. The original group was comprised of twenty boys and girls, five adult musicians, and singer/songwriter Justin Cohen representing the twenty first graders and six school employees killed in the attack. (See "26 Angels," 12/26/12.) But everyone is very busy this time of year, so just six of the original twenty-six made it down to Portland.

My son understood why he was singing. I explained the December 14 tragedy to him. He is very mature for his age, so I felt he could handle the news with just the right amount of anger and compassion. And he did.

I did not tell my younger son who was the same age as the child victims, however. (See "Psychologically Protecting Kids: One Size Does Not Fit All," 12/16/12.) To this day, I have still not told him. It's just too darn god-awful for a child of seven to learn of a rampage on children of six and seven.

So the question became: How could I, a full-time single mother without readily available weekend child care, bring Charlie along to the audio recording and video recording sessions and Saturday's concert? Fortunately, I figured it out. I dropped off Chris at the first two then whisked Charlie off to Starbucks to play Hangman and Market Basket to pick up chicken wings. He entertained himself in a bounce house this past weekend.

Charlie whirls around in his own world. He seeks out gratification through physical means. Thus, he kept himself busy jumping; climbing an inflatable slide; riding the carnival swings, kiddie roller coaster, spinning metal tubs, and race cars; and eating snacks. He did not ask questions. The event was just a country fair to him. Still, I was relieved for his sake that more blatant reminders of the tragedy were not thrust in front of him.

Though Charlie is not as inquisitive as Christopher -- of course, he is almost two and a half years younger -- he did recently pose a question that startled me. "What is 9/11?" he asked as I watched Today before school on September 11. Thinking a moment, I decided to give him the news.

Fast forward to this past weekend: Following the Sandy Hook concert, we continued on to Stamford to spend the night. The next morning, yesterday, we parked in the Darien train station lot and rode Metro-North into New York City because Charlie was auditioning for Benetton in the back of a downtown wine shop.

Indeed, it's a long haul to journey to the Big Apple for a five-minute photo shoot! On the other hand, a one-day trip to the city and back home to northeastern Massachusetts does not allow for much sightseeing. So I have resolved to hit up just one tourist attraction when we go.

As we had back in March, the first time my younger son tried out to model for the global fashion brand along with DKNY Kids, we strolled up to the nearby South Street Seaport to have lunch. But this time we were disappointed to find the Pier 17 pavilion all but closed save for one cafe. The mall building, depressingly empty as a ghost town, is slated to be torn down and rebuilt.

Argh. Onto Plan B. We ate barbecued chicken on skewers from a street vendor. Thinking fast on my feet, I decided on Ground Zero. The former site of the Twin Towers was just across town, and both of my sons now knew about the events of 9/11. The time was right, and the weather was perfect.

The 9/11 Memorial was incredibly moving, highly secure -- though I read today that a Milwaukee woman attempted to bring a loaded gun inside yesterday, the day we were there! -- and very busy on a sunny and warm Sunday in September. Passing through airport-like security, I pointed out to Charlie three large photographs on the wall. The top one showed the World Trade Center before the terrorist attack. The middle one showed an aerial view right after; the bottom image, as it looks today in the process of reconstruction. Overhearing my explanation to my young son, a woman in front of me turned around and praised my parenting skills. (Let me tell you: it never gets old to be lauded doing the hardest job in the world, especially after a very rough week as mine had been.)


Mid-afternoon we caught a train back to Darien, my hometown, and picked up the car. I had thought about trying to meet up with a relative living in Fairfield County, yet I hadn't made advance plans. Plus, we really didn't have time. I considered taking the boys to the cemetery where my parents are interred in the urn garden, but that would have been just too Claire Dunphy-morbid following the Sandy Hook concert and 9/11 Memorial! So I drove them to Tokeneke, the beautiful club on Long Island Sound that my parents belonged to during my growing-up years.

I half-expected to be stopped at the entrance for trespassing by the Tokeneke area police force. (Yes, you read that right. The neighborhood has its own very small force!) Thankfully, I was not.

Charlie ran to the water's edge to look for crabs. Meanwhile, I took Christopher to the pool where I swam on the team, the locker area where my mother and I changed our clothes, the tennis courts where I played in tournaments, the sailing area where I taught myself how to windsurf, and the dining room where my parents and I occasionally ate. I showed Chris old club photos dating back about a century, including one from 1972 featuring a girl I knew.

We left Darien around 5 p.m. It was a long, slow drive back to our home on Cape Ann. I missed half the Emmy Awards on TV, but that was pretty unimportant. We'd had a great time and a very smooth trip for once. It was really wonderful to spend the weekend away having fun with my sons -- each getting his own special activity -- and teaching Christopher and Charlie about momentous current events and my childhood all at the same time.

When you take the time to share the world -- the one you grew up in and the one they may not understand -- your children will be better off for it. They will feel more connected to the universe and their own family, and they will gain a keener understanding of who they are as individuals.

This is 52

When I was a child, my father told me he didn't expect to live past fifty-two. He had suffered from rheumatic fever in World War II and was discharged at the very beginning of his service. The condition weakens the heart, he explained. Doctors had given him the numerical prognosis. "I think you should know," he added. My mother didn't like it that my father put this ominous information in her young child's head. Sure enough, I couldn't look at my father after that without fearing he would drop dead at any moment. Today, as a parent of two kids myself, I have to agree with my late mother. As it played out, my father lived to sixty-eight. I was twenty-five at the time instead of nine.


Now let me tell you: fifty-two ain't so bad. I know because I just turned the playing-card age today. To be sure, two years past a half-century is getting up there. I could be a member of AARP and get a free donut at Dunkin' Donuts, but I'm not ready to enroll in that age-based organization. I deal with health issues I didn't have even a few years ago in my late forties. However, I am still active (mountain climbing, camping, canoeing, kayaking, etc.) and mostly happy -- indeed, some days are more of a struggle than others -- and very busy because of my kids. Many, many years await me, God willing.

I will do whatever I can to make sure of that.

Fifty-two (or any age, of course) strikes everyone differently. Here's how it has found me: I look, act, and dress much younger than my age. That's not to say I'm immature or wear crop tops. I am not and do not. Yet I still have plenty of wavy blond hair -- no gray -- that I often wear in a ponytail and that hasn't been painted with highlights or wrapped in hair salon foil in probably a year. Occasionally, I get compliments on my skin, which is amazing to me since I used to have acne that I made terrible by obsessive picking. (For the record, you can still get zits at fifty-two! Who knew? I have some right now. My post-summer flare ups from wearing sunblock.) I was forty the first time someone told me I had nice skin. She meant no wrinkles. It was my aunt, but still. Attired in jeans, shorts, tee shirts, or other casual tops nearly all the time, I am generally mistaken for five to ten years younger than my age and sometimes even more.

Back in boarding school, my roommate my first year used Erno Laszlo products. Grace Kelly, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis, and fifteen-year-old V. Seriously. A college roommate of mine was a Shaklee devotee. I had never heard of either skin care line before meeting these classmates. For a time, I used a Clinique trifecta -- cleanser, toner, and moisturizer -- because something free came with the deal, no doubt. Maybe a shiny makeup bag or little case of eye shadow I didn't know how to apply. For the money I was spending, did these products really improve my skin? I really can't say. Mostly I chose what my friends were using, like Noxzema. (My mother really hated that smell.) More recently, it was Cetaphil, and now I buy a Neutrogena cleanser. Jennifer Garner looks pretty good, doesn't she?

I attribute my lack of wrinkles for a woman my age to my simple cleaning regimen and, particularly, my decision to face the world au naturel. What you see is what you get. No makeup (or concealer), Botox, collagen, plastic surgery, facelift, or what have you. I wear a little makeup if I have a date, photo shoot, or evening plans. Otherwise, I walk out the door bare-faced.

My weight has been more difficult to maintain. The culprit, as I see it, is less my age and more my stress level as a full-time single mother for one and a half months short of a decade. Put a crown on my head! I dropped the baby pounds immediately, Duchess of Cambridge-style, both times I gave birth in my forties and even shed a few extra lbs. for good measure one of those times. Jessica Simpson and Kim Kardashian, eat your hearts out! Yet once the reality of raising a child then a second without hardly any free help kicked in (uh, that would be immediately!), the pounds began to creep back -- first, slowly and, later, more rapidly. I was wiped out with one child, but my chronic fatigue syndrome really moved in for the duration after my second (colicky AND a horrible sleeper) came along. Sleep deprivation, exhaustion, and weight gain go hand in hand, nevermind the pressure brought on by my huge responsibilities. All told, I put on about thirty pounds.


I lost the first five myself then went on a formal diet plan and shed the rest. Unfortunately, my effort was all for nought as a series of bad circumstances soon befell me and derailed my success and motivation. Tragedy! I injured my back. My boyfriend broke up with me. My home was damaged following a toilet issue. And I got taken in by a Nigerian fraud on Match.com after wasting an entire summer on him. My mood went from super proud of myself to defeated in a matter of months. The fact that I could not deal with -- and still haven't dealt with -- my home on top of my demanding 24/7 single-mother duties ensured that I could not restore my demeanor to its earlier upbeat level. What's more, despite the fact that I've rejoined Jenny Craig after dropping out, I have not returned to my lowest recent weight. In fact, I am right now at the upper end of that spectrum.

Here's the thing: I like to eat. There, I've said it. I am not a binger or even an overeater, I believe. Yet I still have my appetite, and I indulge myself if I feel like it. I am not someone who picks at her food or chooses hummus and carrots for lunch, though I do love a good salad. I am not a waif, and I'm never going to be anorexic, though I have been too skinny a couple of times in my life after protest-starving myself (another blog post) and returning from four months in Asia during which I contracted bronchitis, severe bacterial dysentery, and dehydration.

Ah, the good old days!

These days I finish my meals then follow up with dessert if I feel tempted. I'm not going to apologize to anyone for enjoying food or having gained some weight as a result. I am okay with both -- emotionally and physically. Unlike the first time I gained weight as a single mother, I feel strong not depleted. I wish I could say the added pounds were all muscle this time around, but I can't because I still don't get enough exercise due to lack of time.

In any case, my situation is not at all uncommon among mothers, even more so overburdened single mothers like myself. And I am fifty-two, don't forget. The march of age does play a role in weight gain.

Regarding my eyes, a new milestone was reached a couple of years ago when I was informed, gulp, that I needed bifocals. I've worn prescription glasses or contact lenses since senior year in high school. Pearle Vision worked the prescription into my new eyewear -- I believe that was the time they gave me a free silver and blue digital camera -- and I even went so far as to purchase two pairs of contact lenses: one for daily use and the other for playing sports like tennis to help me better see the ball across the court. Lol. I can't remember when I last wore lenses AND played tennis at the same time. No wait, I do remember. It was during the spring of 2011 when we took our last week-long vacation, a trip to a family Club Med in Florida. At forty-nine, I beat in the finals of the Ladies Singles tournament that week a thirty-five-year-old MIT professor who was about six feet tall. Still got it (or, maybe, had it)! Four months before my fiftieth birthday, that made me feel really good.

As for my teeth, I don't believe I flossed my entire mouth once before the age of fifty. "Don't leave home without it" -- that classic American Express slogan -- is now how I feel about floss and my seafoam-green plastic CVS toothpicks. I have a near panic attack (okay, a small one) if I find myself out and about and possibly eating a meal or snack without one of the above in my pocket or purse. Food gets lodged easily between my teeth, particularly inside the two pockets in the back on both sides, and it bothers the heck out of me if I can't remove it right away. The word "periodontist" has entered my conversations with my dental hygienist and dentist, but I have yet to seek one out.

Then there's that other aspect of my skin, not the fantastic looking-younger-than-its-age part. I'm talking about the, ugh, skin-cancer part. I was diagnosed at thirty-four, eighteen years ago. The year was 1996, and my mother died from the disease the year before. Certainly, the diagnosis was unwelcome and shocking because of my young age, but it was not surprising given that I possessed the basic markers: genetics, fair skin, and countless painful sunburns in my past.

To be sure, my nose peeled every summer when I was a child and youth on a Connecticut beach club's swim and tennis teams and at a camp in Maine I attended six years. During my college summers, I lifeguarded and taught swimming at a beach-club pool in the Hamptons. And when I was lucky, I got invited down to Palm Beach to visit my aunt and uncle. Suntan lotion, sunscreen and, later, sunblock were beach-bag necessities for me. But I made a lot of mistakes. I forgot to bring them along too many times to count. Or I didn't have a high enough SPF. Or I couldn't reach a spot on my back. Or I got involved in something in the sun before remembering to apply the cream.

While skin cancer itself is not a sign of aging -- actually, I've come to learn that people can die from it in their twenties -- the passage of each year since my diagnosis makes me very grateful once again how long my skin has managed to keep the bad kind at bay. Skin cancer usually worsens with age. In the past close to two decades, I have had numerous actinic keratosis and basal cell carcinomas removed from my face, shoulders, back, and other parts of my body. It seems I can't walk out of my dermatologist's office without something having been done to me: a biopsy here, a liquid-nitrogen application there.... I've been poked, scraped, and cut over and over again. I've had Mohs surgery on my face and shoulders. And one time, when my second son was less than a year old, that surgery was needed to treat a squamous cell carcinoma. During the consultation with the dermatologic surgeon at Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center in Boston, I was told that the surgery could result in disfiguration because the problem area was very close to my right nostril. Needless to say, that was horrifying news to receive. "But we will call in a plastic surgeon," she added in an attempt to make me feel better.

As it turned out, she did an incredible job removing all the cancerous tissue without interfering with my nose. But then the trick became preventing more interference. At the time, I was running after my three-year-old son Christopher but, worse, co-sleeping with baby Charlie and breastfeeding him while trying to keep his flailing arms and reaching hands away from the healing scar!

For several years, I had a question on my mind but was afraid to ask it: Does the presence of a squamous cell carcinoma mean my skin cancer is no longer benign? After finally mustering up the courage a couple of years ago, my fears were confirmed. My skin cancer had left the realm of benign and entered the territory of "invasive."

I don't like the word invasive. It suggests aggressive armies attacking innocent civilian populations. No. I don't want anything invasive forcing its way around my epidermis and taking up residence there!

I also didn't like it when my dermatologist's assistant told me that the BIDMC surgeon had "asked about me." Not because she liked me so much and was interested in my family. But because she wanted to know about my present condition. Let me tell you: you don't want to hear that your surgeon is asking about you!

In any case, the same physician assistant -- who, at first sight of me, lunges toward my scar -- concluded the last time I saw her that I'm just one of these people who gets marks frequently that need to be treated. She is extremely pleased with the job the surgeon did on my face. The scar running straight down from the right side of my nose to my upper lip has healed well, and it appears no different than it did when it first closed up. These are good signs. And it is not too noticeable. It just looks like I was in a street fight. I don't even cover it with makeup. I visit the physician assistant every six months, though I've learned it does me no good to be examined in the warm months when I have color in my face because it's harder for her to tell what might or might not be something she needs to examine. Now that summer is over and my "tan" has faded, I am due for another checkup.

Checkups cause me some anxiety, but I don't talk about my skin cancer or give it much thought, really. I have kept it private. Well, that is, until now.

Another condition I have that makes me think of Charlie is vertigo. He gave it to me when he was breathing into my ear while we were still co-sleeping, and he had a virus. The virus manifested itself in me as an inner-ear infection. For three weeks solid, I had momentary yet relentless waves of dizziness day and night. They were especially scary when I had to drive with my young boys on the highway. Unfortunately, the condition is chronic. Indeed, I have experienced other briefer and less severe periods of vertigo including one that lasted all of last week! I haven't had the chance to go scuba diving in a dozen years, but I hope my vertigo doesn't preclude me from doing so in the future.

Finally, what would a fifty-something birthday be without a new diagnosis?! Yep, 'this true. Today I was told I have plantar fasciitis, a foot issue. A friend's husband, a podiatrist, broke the news to me before he and his wife presented me with their birthday present: my first pair of orthotics!

Hilarious.

Fifty-two doesn't suck. Still, it reminds me which way down the continuum I am heading. For that reason, I took it upon myself to do something today to feel young. I purchased a Rainbow Loom, the hot toy of the moment of girls and boys across the country. Crafting bracelets and rings out of brightly colored rubber bands may not make me feel twelve, so let's just call it a draw.

I'll settle for thirty-two.

A Tribute to Diana (Nyad, of course)

Authentic
Heroic
Epic
"I'm in my prime."

Bronzed
Brave
Brawny
"I'm not a quitter."

Trusting
Unwavering
Age-defying
"I have a tremendous will."

Problem-solver
Record-shatterer
Limit-buster
"You never are too old to chase your dreams."

Steady
Gutsy
Lucky
"[P]ush Cuba back, and push Florida towards you."

Sharks
Box jellyfish
Asthma
"[N]ever, ever give up."

Vomiting
Shoulder pain
Saltwater intake
"[T]o come in with my intrepid crew, it just takes all the physical pain away."

Prosthetic mask
Ribbon line
Shark Shield
"Find a way."

The iconic American extreme athlete completed a 110-mile swim from Cuba to Florida on September 2. It was her fifth try in thirty-five years. It took her nearly fifty-three hours. She is sixty-four years old.

Back-to-School Conundrum

The clock is ticking down. Summer comes to a close in four days. Well, not technically. Autumn doesn't start till September 22nd, and Labor Day Weekend is still a week away. But for all intents and purposes, the season of extended warm-weather play ends on Wednesday, the first day of school in our town.

As it does every year, the first day brings a mix of emotions for parents. I am sad to say goodbye to sleeping late -- well, trying to anyway as one of my sons still gets up in the six o'clock hour, even when there's no school, grr -- the liberating feeling of not putting pressure on myself to accomplish much work-wise, and the ability to take off on guilt-free mini-vacations to camp or visit friends.

On the other hand, I am so ready to get back long child-free days. The boys' day camp ended two weeks ago, and I had to use one at our community center in another town a few times on a drop-in basis. Aside from that, I'd barely gotten a break from my sons since early August. And as any parent knows, the intense togetherness for an extended period of time can really wear on you!

"When does school start?" you want to scream.

The first day of classes means the weather will soon be getting cooler, for better or worse. No more dreadful heat waves (till next year, fingers crossed) during which my home reaches above-90-degree temperatures. September is traditionally a beautiful month in New England that actually suits me much better than those sweltering dog days of August. I have spent many great days at the beach in September enjoying smaller crowds and boogie boarding in the still-warm ocean.

The onset of the school year means it's time to buckle down once again after giving myself a much-needed pass this summer. In the early part of the year, I felt increasing stress that culminated the week I hit a deer on the road. (See "Hitting the Deer," 5/6/13.) That jolting experience caused me to pause, step back, and pay closer attention to what was going on around me. My mind was clogged with a lot of issues, not the least of which was the seemingly contentious relationship of my sons and how exhausting and frustrating it was for me to deal with singlehandedly. The accident did not bring me equilibrium -- more drama was in store the next day (when it rains, it pours, right?) -- but it did set me on a more positive path.

Indeed, two days after being shaken up I received news I'd been waiting for a long time. Charlie had been allowed to stay in a modeling agency he'd just been accepted into before having the Photoshoot From Hell. Two days after the Boston bombings -- and with helicopters hovering over a courthouse in lockdown only a mile away -- my seven year old incurred a freak accident of his own while returning to the photographer's studio in between outfit changes. He had completed one-third of the shoot when suddenly he tripped over the scooter he was half-carrying/half-riding down a cobblestone pedestrian walkway. (The scooter was being used as a prop.) I should have been paying closer attention since he was right in front of me, but I was chatting with the photographer.

My bad.

So down Charlie went, cutting and scraping his bare knee in the process. The injury was very painful. Hence, my son had trouble calming down. Eventually, he managed to get through the second-outfit shoot, though without smiling, before time ran out on us.

As I sat crumpled on a curb with my eyes averted, the next client -- a bubbly blond girl in a pretty spring dress -- skipped up with her excited mother. "How's it going?" she chirped.

"Fine," I gritted through my teeth.

The photographer had to take the chipper duo because it was now their time. But he very kindly finished with Charlie later in the day between clients. By then Charlie had eaten lunch and was feeling much better. He had a good third-outfit shoot. Still, I couldn't watch. I was just beside myself, knowing how much money, effort, and time had been put into this risky venture.

After speaking to an agent and sending her a photo of the scabbed knee one week later, it became clear that my son's status in (or out of) the agency would depend on how the photos turned out. The proof would be in the pudding, in other words. So you can only imagine my surprise, delight, and relief when three weeks later I received a call informing me that Charlie's pictures had come out "GREAT!" The people at the agency loved the shots and Charlie's look. "If he can take shots like that when he's upset, we definitely want him in the agency!" she exclaimed.

OMG. I could have cried tears of joy.

Coming when it did, the happy outcome did so much for me and Charlie because he knew what was going on, too. He understood that the photoshoot had gone very badly. He understood that I was very upset. And he understood that I was under a lot of pressure from many directions, and this situation was only adding to it. Indeed, a huge weight was lifted from both of our shoulders when I answered that wonderful call.

However, it was much less about Charlie being able to model as it was about something (anything!) going right for me/us at that particular time. This was the child whose behavior at times toward his brother at home and in public causes me so much grief. Charlie had come through! So very proud of ya'. I don't know how you did it, but your moody photos evoke a cool-dude seventeen year old posing for Polo Ralph Lauren or Abercrombie & Fitch.

Wow.

Getting a welcome resolution after being on pins and needles for three solid weeks parted the proverbial clouds of my stress-laden funk. I felt at peace and so much more content the rest of the school year, though it is always something of a pressure-cooker toward the end.

When our summer vacation finally rolled around in late June, I knew exactly how my family would spend it. We would have FUN because we all needed a break, and we would focus on US as a unit because our relationship to each other required it.

Fast forward two months: we achieved our goals. We made the most of our vacation, spending close to two weeks in Maine camping and attending a camp reunion of mine -- storms and heat waves be damned. We canoed, kayaked, and climbed small mountains. Christopher did a high-ropes course and tried many new sports: bumper tubing, ziplining, and stand-up paddleboarding. I tried the latter two for the first time. Charlie could have also but elected to play ga-ga with new friends in a large sand pit and build a stick tepee instead. Both boys auditioned for several modeling and acting jobs. (Christopher, in typical no-drama fashion, was also accepted into the agency.) Moreover, each landed a couple of acting gigs, paid or unpaid.

The dynamic between the brothers at home has drastically improved. They love each other yet have opposite energy levels. They clash when one wants to do something that the other doesn't. For my part, I can gauge what types of situations or activities likely lead to problems, so we can just avoid them. Or, by properly anticipating what might happen, I jump in to separate the boys before a conflict escalates. It's an ongoing learning experience for me and them, but we are definitely making good strides.

For being such a short summer, it was quite a satisfying one. I guess I am prepared to plunge into the school year. But please don't ask me to cut off my rope bracelet just yet!

Summer Scenes (Part II)

Summer Scenes (Part I)

A Day in the Life: Heat Wave!

The hottest day of the year in the Boston area was last Friday. The temperature reached a record-breaking 99 degrees, and the heat index -- a combination of air temperature and relative humidity that gauges just how hot it feels to a person -- made it seem more like 108. As if that wasn't bad enough, it was our sixth of seven 90-plus-degree days in a row! Hang on. That's not all. We have had several heat waves this year dating back to May 30. Memorial Day weekend, folks -- not even the official start of summer. Usually, Beantown gets a total of about fourteen days above 90 degrees each summer. We have reached that mark already, and the season is less than half over!

Ugh.

It's been brutal, to put it simply -- especially for those of us with no air conditioning in our homes or cars. With each successive sweltering day, it's just been a matter of pushing through it. Here's how we, as a family, dealt with July 19:

6:50 a.m.: I got up and found Christopher watching Wizards of Waverly Place.

7:00 a.m.: Charlie woke up. Knowing I wanted to watch the news and weather, Chris handed over the remote. I turned to Today.

The boys became very rowdy very quickly. Charlie was the instigator, of course. He's always the instigator. You would think in this heat that he might have felt sluggish. Not my seven year old! The child is wired differently than Chris and me. I often say that I'm not sure he even needs to eat as he doesn't appear to get his energy from food. (He doesn't consume a lot and never finishes a meal.) So slender Charlie tackled his huge nine-year-old brother. Chris protested as always, and I was reluctantly thrown into the position of referee.

I suggested they play a game. Charlie wanted to battle gogos (small, colorful plastic figurines) while Chris agreed to play Battleship, though he complained that Charlie cheats. I suggested they play cards with one of the small decks they got in their kids' meals at Burger King the night before. They tried, but it didn't work. Too much squabbling. They gave gogos a shot then Battleship, yet the brother power struggle -- probably exacerbated by the heat -- raged on. The thermostat read 87 degrees.

I had planned for the boys to come with me somewhere cool such as Starbucks or Dunkin' Donuts until our favorite branch library opened at 10 a.m. While the boys hung out in the children's room playing computer games or others on their devices or (I could only hope) reading books, I would sit in a comfortable armchair in the adult room finishing (fingers crossed!) my four-days-late blog post. Then we would go back home to pick up our bathing suits before heading out to the community center we belong to in another town. We would spend the rest of the day there in and by the large outdoor pool. I would remember to bring lots of beach-type toys to hold Charlie's interest all the way until closing at 7 p.m. He got restless too early the day before, and we had to leave.

However, as is so often the case when children are involved, I changed my mind to adapt to the circumstances. I decided to send them to Summer Playground, their day camp at the elementary school. The kids would play outside on a field or the blacktop or maybe take refuge in the auditorium watching a movie -- each day is different -- but they could cool off with "post," breaks from the action during which they can purchase drinks and freeze pops. The heat combined with their irksome behavior had put my mood over the edge. I needed a break from them!

9:00 a.m.: Heading to Playground, the boys wore sunblock and their most breathable tee shirts and shorts. Each carried a bottle of water straight from the fridge and $1.50 for post. At dropoff, I talked to two counselors about not engaging the kids in vigorous sports that day.

12:00 p.m.: I picked up Chris and Charlie, and we drove to the air conditioned library. Yes! I had spent the morning at Starbucks working on my blog post. As expected, I hadn't been able to finish it. The heat was seriously seeping into my brain. I'd been having trouble concentrating for days. I was very unproductive! I could have caught more work time by sending the boys to Playground that evening -- it's closed in the afternoons -- but that would have meant extricating ourselves from the lovely pool and shady lawn of the community center thirty-seven minutes away. I didn't want to do that, and I couldn't bear to do that. We stayed at the library until we were all starving.

1:30 p.m.: The temperature in my eight-year-old SUV read 110 degrees! No joke. That's the highest I've ever seen it. The a/c broke long go. We swung by Pride's Deli and Pizzeria on the way to the community center. I never stop there, so I didn't know if they have a/c. There was no way in Heat Wave Hell we were staying for lunch at any place that didn't have air conditioning. Period. I popped my head in to ask. Affirmative. The deli has one window unit churning out glorious 60-degree air to the table in front of it. And that table was EMPTY. I snagged it faster than you can say Jack Robinson. (I don't know if anyone uses this antiquated phrase anymore. I haven't heard it said since childhood. Then again I'm quite old, which brings me to another reason why I needed -- and greedily took -- the prime seat directly in front of the unit: menopause. I can't tell if I have personally entered this dreaded female life phase, but I am at the frequently cited age of onset.) For the record, the boys did not object one iota to me taking the seat.

So there!

Needless to say, we took our dear, sweet time at lunch. Subs all around and chips and/or a cookie for the young ones. I made sure everyone chose a bottle of Dasani for maximum thirst-quenching, its cooling effect, and hydration. And I discouraged Chris from ordering a spicy sub because he would need more water to cool it down. (We were in, if not survival mode, then coping mode after all.) A mother of a boy in Charlie's grade walked in with her son, and we chatted. They had recently moved out of our town to a home with a pool. Jealous!

2:30 p.m.: Back to the air conditioning (I mean, library) for more blogging and children's room whatever. On our way in, we discovered a sprinkler watering the lawn and beautiful landscaping. We gratefully ran through it.

3:00 p.m.: Next stop: Orange Leaf, our favorite froyo spot, which happens to be conveniently located on the route to the community center. We filled our bellies some more with creamy, fruity, or sweet concoctions.

4:30 p.m.: Finally arrived at nirvana, otherwise known as the Jewish Community Center. (We are Christian, incidentally, like 60 percent of the other members of this terrific athletic, cultural, and educational facility. Go figure.) Anticipating our swim, I had put my clothes on over my bathing suit first thing in the morning; the boys changed at the library. My feeling about the pool on this day could not have been too unlike that of The Amazing Race finalists upon seeing host Phil Keoghan at the final "Pit Stop" during the last leg of the reality television game show: great relief at the end of a trying experience. Even better, I could see as we approached that the pool was empty. Adult Swim, hooray! I could immerse my sweaty self without worrying about children jumping on me or knocking into me. Hey, wait a minute! Why was the pool completely empty? Surely, many of the adults here also wanted to cool themselves off, didn't they? I was just about to dip a toe into the shallow end when I got my answer.

"You can't go in!" a woman blurted out in my direction.

"What? Isn't it Adult Swim?" I asked.

"No," came the reply. "No one can go in. The pool is closed because someone threw up in it."

"Ohhh!" I moaned. For the love of God. "How long is it going to be closed?"

"About fifteen minutes."

Just my luck. It had closed literally the moment we arrived. Only Charlie among the three of us was fast enough to get in the water before everyone was sent out by the lifeguards!

Fifteen minutes turned into forty-five as the throng of children and parents patiently waited. I had never experienced this situation before at the JCC -- we've been members for one year -- and to have it happen on the hottest day of the year, well, it was a tad annoying to say the least. It was not something, however, that I couldn't relate to on a personal level.

When I was a child growing up in Darien, Connecticut, I raced on our beach club swim team. Practices were long and tiring, and I frequently felt what I called "waterlogged." In other words, nauseous. I was on the verge of vomiting fairly often, and a couple of times I actually did . . . right in the pool in my lane. Our no-nonsense coach did not suffer fools gladly, however. So when I shyly approached him to tell him I was about to lose my lunch, his response was always a very unsympathetic: "GET IN THERE!"

Understandably, my teammates were disgusted, and they were very vocal about it. "Oh, GROSS! Shelby threw up in the pool!" they shouted. Still, our coach -- nicknamed The Silver Fox for his shiny, gray slicked-back hair and deeply tanned skin -- was unmoved. He nonchalantly wandered over to the long-handled bug scooper and lifted out the floating glutinous mess, which he ceremoniously dumped into the shower drain at the pool entrance. A yank of the long metal chain washed away the vomit. No closing of the pool. Swim team practice must continue! Following my public humiliation, I was allowed to leave, my mother trailing close behind.

5:15 p.m.: The JCC pool reopened! After the long day, make that LONG WEEK, I couldn't wait any longer to cool off. So imagine my disappointment when I found the water to be, gasp, lukewarm. Not quite bathwater but not refreshing either. Don't misunderstand me. I don't want to sound like I'm complaining because I am beyond grateful to have access to this awesome pool. It's just that the outdoor shower nearby turned out to be the water source that did the trick. (Major shout-out to the woman who tipped me off!) The shower was deliciously COLD. If I closed my eyes for a moment and blocked out the adult chatter and laughter and squeals of kids splashing in the shallow end, I could imagine myself being washed over by a pristine mountain waterfall. The deserving reward following a strenuous hike -- or an endless day during a heat wave.

The boys had plenty to do while I relaxed on a comfortable lounge chair under a tree. They swam, slurped Popsicles, and played games: ping pong, S'Mores The Card Game, and King's Corner. We ordered Caesar salads for dinner because there was no way in Heat Wave Hell that I was cooking in our residential sauna. Not surpringly, we were the last members to leave at closing.

8:35 p.m.: Back at the house, I asked the boys if they wanted to sleep in the tent in the backyard. They said "sure." The temp inside had risen to a stifling 94 degrees, so I expected a rough night for all of us. I sleep downstairs where it's cooler, but the boys have a ceiling fan. Problem: it can only be run on "low." They broke it last year playing a game in which a large, empty Easter basket is hung from one of the whirling blades while they, standing on their respective twin beds, try to toss tennis balls into the basket. Eventually, the weight of the balls snapped a blade. Argh. When set on "high" or "medium," the fan with its unbalanced blades now clatters and shakes furiously as if it's about to separate from the ceiling and fly around the room like a helicopter! It could do someone serious damage if it came loose. That's why it must be kept on "low" or "off."

The previous two nights had been quite comfortable outside despite the daytime heat. They would have been perfect for camping. This night, on the other hand, still felt unbearably sticky. It was almost dark, but I can pitch our tent very fast. So I got to work pronto. First, I carried the ground cloth, tent, tent poles, sleeping bags, and sleeping pads out of the house and stacked them on two lounge chairs in the yard. I opened up the kelly green plastic sheet and spread it out on the grass near the swingset. I snapped the four tent poles together and set the yellowish orange North Face tent on the ground cloth. But after slipping only two tent poles through their sleeves, I had to quit. I couldn't take it anymore. I was being ATTACKED by mosquitoes! They were all over me, attracted to my sweat and my O blood type. (I read about that recently.)

I hated giving up on the idea of camping, yet the air like the pool water was just too hot. Too hot in the house. Too hot outside the house. There was no way around it. Before dismantling my half-erected portable shelter, I needed a second and third opinion. So I called on my trusty soldiers. The boys weren't perspiring as much as me because they had not just been putting up a tent. Still, they agreed that the annoying critters were especially bad this night. "Okay, that's it," I announced. "We're not sleeping out tonight."

9:00 p.m.: Christopher and Charlie went to bed.

11:30 p.m.: I hit the sack after watching TV, doing Facebook, and taking a cold shower.

Ahhhh!!!