The First Decade: Amazing!

A decade of full-time single motherhood. Wow. How does one wrap that up in one simple blog post? It's a daunting task. I'm sure I will forget important details, weight some experiences more heavily than they should be, or perhaps even misrepresent the message I want to send. But here goes.

Cheers to the first ten!

Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist Jennifer Egan, who featured me in her New York Times Magazine cover story "Wanted: A Few Good Sperm" (3/19/06) on choosing single motherhood via artificial insemination, predicted that my experience raising two boys without a support network would be "grueling."

Indeed, it has been that.

If you asked me what one word I would use to best describe the past decade, I would choose "overwhelming."

When I think of grueling, Army boot camp or medical school come to mind. Hurricane Sandy and the 2011 Japanese earthquake/tsunami/nuclear disaster trifecta were overwhelming. But single motherhood? Lots of sweet hugs. Bedtime stories. Giggles and growth milestones. Grueling? Overwhelming? Damn right. Of course, neither word is what I had hoped to select to characterize my life since October 30, 2003, my precious first son's birth day. I'd much rather it had been "wonderful," "joyful," or "fulfilling."

Please don't get me wrong. I love my sons with all my heart. They are terrific boys -- handsome, smart, athletic, talented, loving, enthusiastic, inquisitive, social, funny, compassionate, generous, and so very much more. We have had countless fun times together doing a myriad of things at home, in our area, or away on a weekend or vacation. The boys fight, though less than they used to. Occasional fighting is to be expected. They are brothers after all. Still, we are a happy unit. Yes, we are. As I knew it would be -- and that is why I decided to try to become a single mother in the first place -- my experience with them has been wonderful, joyful, and fulfilling most of the time.

However, raising from birth on up two children close in age -- boys who are temperamental opposites, no less! -- when you have no family members to call on for practical help by definition means your life is going to be difficult . . . at least for the first few years. In my case, it has been much longer.

From the get-go, I was blessed with a good first baby. "Christopher is so smiley!" exclaimed a college friend who had encouraged me to have a child on my own after the finding-Mr.-Right-at-the-right-time thing failed. Others praised my baby-handling skills and asked me if I had multiple children. I found this hilarious because I was completely clueless about caring for an infant. It was just a testament to the kind of baby I had.

Nevertheless, there were problem areas. One was getting him to nap. Once down, he was capable of sleeping in the middle of the day for four hours, but it was extremely tough to get him to fall asleep when the sun was out. Another was my living environment -- a ground-level apartment in a noisy building with a scary tenant at a major intersection in a sketchy neighborhood of Cambridge, Massachusetts. Yada, yada, yada, we moved to the suburbs when Christopher was just under fifteen months of age.

Finally, peace and quiet! Well, not exactly. I bought a townhouse on a densely populated street with tight parking. The woman who owned the home next door routinely blocked me in then didn't take it well when I had to ask her to please move her truck so I could get out to purchase my toddler milk and food because a snowstorm was approaching or was already under way! Yada, yada, yada, it got to the point that I had to visit the police station because of the criminal activity being perpetrated against me by this woman, who flaunted her untouchability due to being a prominent town employee's wife.

Oh, please!

So we up and moved to yet another community, our present one. I had been seriously worried that word would get out about this woman who, not surprisingly, was rather unpopular in the townhouse association. Fortunately, though, I found a buyer after several months.

Phew.

By this time, my second son -- a colicky-baby-turned-rambunctious-toddler -- was almost fifteen months old, and I was several years into chronic fatigue syndrome due to extreme sleep deprivation. (Did I mention that I'm an insomniac? The poor-sleeper kind, not the no-sleeper kind.) Dizziness? Check. Headaches? Check. Ringing in the ears? Check. Crabbiness? Check, check, check. EXPLODING HEAD SYNDROME? Check. What is that? Google it. It's hearing a loud bang while sleeping. A type of hallucination, it can be (and was for me) accompanied by paralysis during an attack. Most people who report an out-of-body experience say they had one of these attacks preceding it. Thankfully, I didn't reach that stage.

Yet I was so exhausted for such a long period of time that I actually thought I might die. I certainly didn't believe I could recover! There were nights -- not a lot of them, probably a handful -- when I felt myself fading while trying to sleep. I don't mean falling-asleep fading, which is what I wanted. I mean a type of fading that really frightened me. I didn't want to fade in this way. I had to exert a great deal of effort to jolt myself alert to, it felt like, stay alive. I'm sure this sounds completely looney, but that's how far into the nether regions of exhaustion I had come.

Unlike his brother who had been sleeping through the night consistently since two weeks of age, Charlie was a wretched nighttime sleeper and completely abstained from daytime naps unless he was at day care or riding in my car, neither of which helped me one iota to get any rest at all. The situation was made much worse by my ill-advised decision to co-sleep. Nursing or not, Charlie woke me every three hours for a full two years before I finally got him out of my bed on my second attempt. Then it took another six months for him to adjust to his own bed. As if that wasn't enough, he also gave me chronic vertigo after breathing in my ear while suffering from a virus during the time he slept with me. Needless to say, I am one strong anti-co-sleeping advocate!

In short, as good (easy) as Christopher was, Charlie was equally bad (difficult). Even the doctor who delivered him said: "He beat you up inside."

In addition to the two home moves, I also lugged half my belonging from a storage unit on Boston's South Shore to my then-North Shore home. The stuff had been dumped in the unit because it didn't fit in my Cambridge apartment after I moved back East from Seattle in early 2000. Problem was: it clogged up my townhouse pretty quick at a time when I was stocking up on yet more baby gear for Charlie's arrival. Then while still breastfeeding him, I singlehandedly cleaned out and later sold a distant cousin's large but very poorly maintained Vermont house across a lake from Canada.

Yes, Canada, for Pete's sake!

Finding child care has been a huge challenge from the beginning. In the early days, it was part-time help I sought to relieve me of 24/7 caregiving. I required breaks to both keep me sane, enable me to attend my grad-school class at Emerson College, and do my homework including my thesis.

Since I elected not to go the nanny, au pair, or full-time-babysitter route, my task was to piece together the bare minimum of help here or there as I needed it. As you might guess, creating a jigsaw puzzle of occasional coverage had its issues. Anyone who has ever tried to use many sitters knows what I'm talking about. There's the flaky sitter, the careless sitter, the mouthy sitter, the irresponsible sitter, etc. The situation caused me so much aggravation that I basically gave up once my kids entered a school that offered good extended care. That became my answer. Still to this day, I rarely use paid sitters. I choose instead to rely on the elementary school's wonderful after-school program during occasional late afternoon hours and mother friends whose sons play with my own at other times of need.


Getting my home into and keeping it in a presentable condition has been a nearly impossible task for me. That is due to many factors: 1. I am not by nature domestic. 2. I have way too much stuff. (In 1995, I also singlehandedly cleaned out my parents' house, the one we lived in for thirty-one years). 3. I don't like spending much time in my home due to years of neighbor ugliness. 4. I am too busy with other aspects of my life. Multiply all of these reasons by a factor of 100, and you will get a more accurate feel of what I am up against every single day.

Now that I have reached TEN YEARS -- yahoo! -- I can look back on my trials and tribulations and give myself a huge pat on the back. Am I proud of myself for the job I have done? You're damn right I am. And nobody's going to tell me otherwise. My boys are happy and thriving. We have our struggles like any other family, of course. But they have taken a turn for the better. Chris and Charlie get along very well at home now . . . most of the time. And when they don't, I spring into action to separate them. Other times that is not even necessary because I, the sole referee, have correctly anticipated a coming conflict and taken immediate measures to thwart it.

I have learned a lot about parenting and, in particular, parenting my boys with their unique challenge of having dissimilar personalities. Christopher is innately sensitive and sweet while Charlie is aggressive and tough. Christopher likes alone time; Charlie wants to constantly interact with others. I could go on and on about their differences. Suffice it to say, the pediatrician hit the nail on the head when she declared: "Shelby, you have the most opposite full siblings of the same gender in the same family than I have ever seen."

Indeed.

It's been very difficult, yet our family is working. We have our moments, but they are fewer than they used to be. That's because I have bent over backward for my boys for a solid decade. I have poured myself into them. And I ride them when misbehavior crops up. Sometimes the message has to be delivered over and over again, but they are getting it.

Looking back, I am blown away by so many things: I am amazed I ever bounced back from five years of chronic fatigue syndrome. I am amazed after two and a half years that I ever got Charlie to sleep through the night. (Incidentally, he has been a terrific nighttime sleeper for the past five years. I have NO issues at bedtime or getting-up time whatsoever with either one of my sons.) I am amazed at how well I have extricated myself from bad neighbor situations in the past. And I am amazed at how well I have been able to cope with hostile neighbor relations in the present. I am amazed at how successfully I have handled two moves to new communities, one move of storage-unit contents, two home purchases, and two home sales (one practically in another country!).

Mostly, I am amazed at my beautiful sons. Life has not been easy for the two of them given all of the troublesome situations I have had to deal with alone in the past decade. Yet they have rolled with the punches with no or few complaints, and they suffer no ill effects from them. One son is now five feet tall, and the other placed seventh in the New England Junior Olympics in the 100-meter dash. I could sing their praises to the high heavens and beyond. Heck, I still can't cook or get the house clean! But my boys are devoted to one another and me, and we have a blast together . . . especially when we go away camping for days at a time.

I am a different kind of mother. A kind of mother I didn't originally want to be. A single mother by choice it's called. Still, I have made the best of it, and my sons are testament to my hard work. Reaching the ten-year point makes me elated. It feels like a much more momentous milestone than simply turning fifty, as I did two years ago. That was just about reaching a certain age; this revolves around marking something really important -- the achievement of raising two children through the first decade completely on my own from conception using, first, intrauterine insemination with anonymously donated sperm and, later, in vitro fertilization with the same sperm.

Since we are on the up and up, I want to conclude by amending "grueling" and "overwhelming" to "growing" and "overcoming." Those two words I like so much better, and they more accurately reflect what is going on in our household today.

It has been amazing. Simply amazing!

So a big Happy Ten Years to me! A huge Happy Tenth Birthday to Christopher! Let the celebrations continue!

Self Care: A Mother's Salve

Motherhood is wonderful, but it is also grueling.

If you are a mother, then you understand what I'm saying. The hours on the job are tough -- twenty-four per day. (Last time I checked, that's every hour in the day.) The job description is extensive. It ranges from breastfeeding (or bottle-feeding or a combination of both) to potty training to assisting with homework to breaking up sibling fights to picking out kids' clothes to throwing birthday parties to teaching morals to cleaning the home to changing the sheets to driving to sports practices to attending awards ceremonies to navigating transitions to new schools to helping a child suffering from an eating disorder or one victimized by a bullying situation and on and on and on. Obviously, the skill set needed to perform this job is wide and diverse.

No wonder motherhood is considered the hardest job in the world!

How then is a mother supposed to get what she needs -- a break, alone time, comfort, nurturing, etc. -- when all she seems to be doing is giving, giving, giving to her young ones?

Well, if she has a husband or other significant other, and it is a healthy relationship, she can get much of or some of what she needs from that person. A listening ear, a foot rub, a night of dancing, an offer of dish drying or lawn mowing. If she does not have such a loving partner in her life, she may turn to a trusted family member living close by or a special friend who has a knack for making her feel good when she's stressed out, overwhelmed, or just plain old tired. Or perhaps she can soothe herself thanks to the collective efforts of several people in her circle.

But the fact remains: every mother should consciously practice self care because motherhood is an unending marathon that requires energy, patience, pacing, and replenishment. Unfortunately, the experience -- like life itself -- is not created equal from mother to mother.

Indeed, some mothers seem to have it all. Self care is built into their schedules. They are members of a women's tennis league. They are diligent about treating themselves to a massage. Their husbands take them clothes shopping. (Yes, I actually ran into someone I know on such a spree a few months ago!)

For most of us, however, it takes some level of effort to make self care happen. Calling in a babysitter. Forgoing most of a lunch break in order to take a walk. Sacrificing an expense in order to splurge on a facial.

Self care takes many forms:

It can be physical. Eating well. Getting exercise by running, practicing Pilates, playing a sport, or having sex, for example. They make the body feel good, and they lift the mood. With regularity and proper eating, they help the body look good as well.

It can be emotional or psychological. Talking to a close friend over coffee or having a psychotherapist session can do wonders for the spirit. Then there are other things one can do -- and each of us knows what they are or are still discovering what they are -- that help to bring us up from a dark place. For me, some of them are sleeping in a tent, downhill skiing, gazing at Impressionist paintings, and swimming. Being one with nature, being exhilarated in the crisp mountain air, being moved by artistic beauty, and being "baptized" in cool water have a transforming effect on me.

Now that's good self care!

It can be spiritual. Listening to a moving sermon or hymns being sung at one's beloved church. Praying. Meditating.

It can be charitable. Making a donation -- monetary or otherwise -- to someone or some group in need. Writing a check to the American Red Cross. Offering the gift of time to a worthy cause. Paying forward baby clothes and other items to a new mother. Giving to another person out of genuine kindness and with no expectation of getting anything in return is marvelous self care because of the warm feelings that result within.

It can be intellectual. Stimulating one's mind with thought-provoking conversation by attending a political forum or book group.

Self care should be a regular part of a mother's life, especially a single mother whose responsibities are many and whose resources are few. At a bare minimum, she should practice it in at least one form every single day. Ideally, many forms many times a day, but few of us have the time for that. And during those especially tough spells -- when a child is sick or injured, when work is extra stressful, when there's a death in the family, etc. -- it becomes essential as a way to try to keep the equilibrium.

I am recently coming out of one of those highly exhausting, pressure-packed, and soul-crushing periods. Nothing short of an all-out self-care blitz was needed to balance me out! In the space of about one month, I indulged myself in among other things a haircut, a manicure, a facial, an intensely focused session of Rainbow Loom bracelet-making, a solo visit to an annual fair, a long walk along a fall foliage-beautified bike trail, a tete-a-tete with a dear friend during a playdate, and a new pair of running shoes.

It's called loving one's self from head to toe. Do it. Just do it! Do it as often as you can because your mental health is dependent on it, and your children are dependent on you.

Autumn Beauty

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.