Ate Their Veggies

"Eat your veggies!!!" Isn't that the battle cry of all moms of little kids? Johnny doesn't like carrots. Suzy won't touch green beans. Their mom is tearing her hair out, fretting how her munchkins are going to get enough alphabetic vitamins.

If you are a regular reader of my blog, then you know I have many challenges as a full-time single mother of two school-age boys. There's the aggression. There's the disagreement on games to play. There's the volume. There's the unwanted scorekeeping. And on and on.

But I am proud to say that persuading my sons to eat their vegetables isn't one of my challenges. Chris and Charlie are very good consumers of the green stuff (and orange and yellow, etc.) They really are.

Hey, I'm as amazed as anyone. What is my secret?

Well, for one thing, I am not a cook -- or much of a cook anyway. Seriously. So I don't try to hide broccoli in fancy, flavorful sauces. I haven't read -- and don't intend to -- Deceptively Delicious, Jessica Seinfeld's book on tricking kids into eating their vegetables. I don't peruse articles, blogs, or comments on the subject. And I don't collect recipes or ever read food magazines, though I am currently getting Cooking Light in the mail because I signed up for three glossies the last time I registered Chris for football. (Thought it might be helpful to have but still haven't even opened one issue!) I do make an occasional chicken stir fry, though, and I throw a lot of vegetables into the wok along with the soy sauce.

No, doing the Julia Child thing as a way to convince my nine year old and seven year old to say yes to leafy greens is not my style. Quite the opposite.

When Christopher was a toddler, I stood in front of the frozen vegetables section at Shaw's and faced a choice: broccoli with cheese sauce or plain broccoli. White corn with butter sauce or without. Peas in butter sauce or just peas. What's with all the butter sauce? On face value, it was a mundane decision, but somehow I instinctively recognized that it was a momentous decision. A decision with consequences. A decision that would set the course of things to come. I was choosing between the tastier (and more fattening) version and the less palatable yet healthier option.

Odd, but I had a precedent of sorts. In the days of formula-feeding Christopher when I was away from him -- I breast-fed at all other times -- I opted for the tougher-kid approach: no bottle-warming, even in winter. My son turned out to be an eager milk drinker and very healthy baby. I never regretted my course of action (and I saved myself the cost of a bottle warmer).

Yes!

Likewise, I chose the tougher-kid option there in the frozen-food aisle. I bought only plain frozen vegetables. If my son was going to learn to eat vegetables, he was going to LEARN TO EAT VEGETABLES. No namby-pamby melted cheddar cheese smothering them. No silky smooth buttery concoction drowning them. My son could choose to dress up or down his vegetables any way he liked when he got older, but first he had to learn to taste the vegetables and like them au naturel.

Back at home, I rolled onto his tray next to his hot dog slices a handful of honest-to-God naked peas. He picked them up one at a time and popped them into his mouth. I can't remember if he made a face. I was in too much of a sleep-deprived haze in those days. But he did it. He ate the peas, and we have pretty much never looked back.

Here's my theory: if you don't know a bottle can be warmed, then you won't miss it if it isn't. If you don't know vegetables can be purchased with yummy sauce already on them, then you won't miss it when they come without. Give your child the real deal and skip the disguise.

Don't give your child any reason to have a negative opinion of vegetables. For example, don't say: "Try this. You might not like it, but it's good for you." Or "Spinach is not my favorite, but it might be yours." Just serve a small portion sans the editorial comments. Or, if you have to say something, make it positive. Me: "I ate so many beets when I was a child." Or try "What's summer without corn on the cob?" How about "Remember that yummy guacamole you enjoyed with tortilla chips at your friend's house the other day? Well, this is an avocado. Guacamole is made of avocado!"

It may not work. You could end up with sweet potatoes on your wall. But just maybe Suzy will surprise you. So why jeopardize your chances with negativity right out of the gate?!

Along the same lines, when possible avoid serving your child vegetables in front of people who might taint his or her opinion of them. You don't want anyone telling your child the squash on the plate is undesirable. Treat this as seriously as you do the Easter Bunny and Santa Clause. You jump through hoops to guard those secrets as long as possible to protect your child's innocence. Do the same with vegetables. You want to shield Johnny from the prevailing view of kids that vegetables are gross. This may be easier to accomplish for single parents who, like me, usually don't have other people around when serving their children. Perhaps, if you're lucky, your child may not find out until he gets to elementary school. And by then, hopefully, he will have learned to like some veggies enough that he won't care what his peers think.

Christopher is such a boy. He makes choices outside the status quo and proudly stands by them. Being an adventurous eater -- and that includes enjoying all manner of Asian food, seafood (even squid), sushi, and delicacies such as frog legs he's had the opportunity to sample at a family Club Med in Florida we visited for many years -- is one way my son marches to the beat of a different drummer.

Charlie, whose choices are more conventional across the board, goes with the flow very nicely, however, when we eat out at an ethnic restaurant or seafood place. He doesn't have a big appetite -- and, yes, he often selects a fried chicken offering (he is only seven, don't forget!) -- but he gamely tries new foods, including vegetable dishes.

Take your young ones to farms to see vegetables growing in the fields and for sale in the store. I've been taking my sons for years to Harvest Days and Farm Festival Days. They are really fun for the kids because they often also feature pony rides, hay rides, crafts, live music, etc.

Let your children check out farmers' markets. They can see which vegetables grow in their area and learn the importance of buying local and organic. Then go home with some purchases.

If you have the space, grow a garden of your own, or join a community garden if you live in a city. Two years ago I started a vegetable garden in our backyard. It has been very exciting for my boys each morning in the summer to check on the progress of our broccoli, lettuce, eggplant, cucumbers, and especially tomatoes. We grew several variety of them . . . with delicious results.

When you can, eat out at a restaurant that serves vegetables well. For example, we recently discovered one not far from our home that offers up the crunchiest and most savory asparagus spears I have ever tasted. They come alongside our favorite steak tips. A win-win situation! As much as I would like to (remember, not a cook), it is obviously not possible for financial reasons for most of us to eat out all the time. So make a good decision when you can dine out.

Put vegetables in dishes without hiding them. I like to throw green vegetables into plain white rice, brown rice, couscous, and ramen noodles. The latter two, courtesy of Near East and Maruchan, respectively, have the advantage of coming with flavor packets. But the point is: you can still see and taste the vegetables. They are not buried underneath a sauce and their flavor killed by the ingredients of said sauce. Bonus: since my boys have grown to enjoy vegetables plain, they actually prefer to eat them that way raw than with a dip.

I might have added mac 'n cheese to the above list. However, I've tried pouring peas into the bright orange Kraft variety, and both of my boys protested . . . loudly. I get it and agree, actually. Kraft mac 'n cheese is sacred to kids (and many adults, present company included). It is not to be tampered with. And, since I had to eat the pea-tainted batch because I don't throw food away, I will say that the veggies did alter the absolutely perfect flavor of Kraft's woefully unhealthy fun meal.

Pshaw!

For the past couple of years, I've been listening to and reading about on Facebook the wonders of the Crock-Pot. How it is so easy to just plug the thing into the wall and drop a bunch of food items into it for a certain amount of time then, voila, you have a tasty dish loaded with goodness. Now that's my kind of cooking! I think I will buy myself one this winter. (I know, I said that last year. Well, maybe it will happen.) Anyway, the Crock-Pot method seems like an ideal strategy for offering up healthy dishes kids would enjoy. Personally, I've always loved stews chock-full of beef, potatoes, and vegetables, especially in winter. They warm the tummy and comfort the child (or adult) coming in from the cold.

Try to refrain from obsessing over how many servings of vegetables your child gets a day. Generations of men and women have grown up just fine without counting their peas and q's. (Sorry, couldn't resist the pun.) For the record, I don't count vegetable servings. I provide opportunities for my sons to eat vegetables, and they take the bait because they genuinely like vegetables. Your stressing about it will be noticed by your child and may very well compound the problem. Lord knows enough kids (and adults) suffer from anxiety around food issues!

Christopher chooses salad bar as his lunch choice at school on a regular basis. He's been doing so since kindergarten. And Charlie loves grape tomatoes as a snack. Last week when dinner wasn't enough for my hungry fellas, I asked: "How about some broccoli?" Both answered in the affirmative. Well, they consumed an entire package of Green Giant Broccoli Spears (no sauce) between them!

A few days ago, we went to a pizza place after football practice where the three of us usually choose the two-slice special. I felt like having something different for a change, so I ordered the chef salad. Charlie asked for a barbecued chicken sub, and Chris chose wings. When I finished my salad, my older son saw the two green pepper rings I had left on my plate. He asked for them and gobbled them up happily.

That's my boy!

I've found that it really helps if your oldest child takes to vegetables because the younger one/s will notice and very possibly emulate the first. With unwanted results, this is what happened for us in regard to swimming. Despite countless lessons at numerous locations -- not to mention from his frustrated former swimming instructor mother! -- Christopher refused to put his face in the water for many years. No way, no how. Charlie watched these protestations and this fussing and, much to my chagrin, took them on himself. Now had my second child not witnessed his brother's behavior, I'm convinced, he would have had a different experience learning how to swim. Alas, as a full-time single mother, I was unable to shield him from Christopher's lessons. Charlie had to come along because I didn't have any other child care.

That's just the way it goes sometimes. Okay, all the time.

It's called doing the best you can. Maybe it's swimming. Maybe it's vegetables. You can't reach perfection in every area of parenting. You can only try to approach the challenge in a positive, pressure-free way. Easier said than done on occasion. I know.

Don't I know!

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)