Mastering the Schedule: Part I (Choosing Activities)

Along with new teachers and new classes, the new school year ushers in new extracurricular activities for the kids. They may be old in the sense that the child has played that sport in previous years -- a familiar commodity, in other words -- or brand new to the boy or girl or family and, therefore, an experiment of sorts. In either case, coming up with just the right mix for the youngster, the sibling/s, and the parent/s, is no easy feat. As is so much of parenting, it's an issue of balance.

The school year for us is three weeks old, and I have just nailed down the schedule for both boys. First and foremost, my older son plays football. Christopher is in his second year on a team comprised of kids from our town and a neighboring community. The third- and fourth-graders make up the "C" team. Last year this team went undefeated and won the league Super Bowl.

Football seems to be the premier sport in our town. I was amazed last year at how many townsfolk come out for games. Sunday is a marathon day starting with the "D" team (Christopher's old team) at 11 a.m. and moving right on up to the "A" team in mid-afternoon. There are cheerleaders galore, and a canteen staffed by parents and kids serves an array of food to the hungry players, their brothers and sisters, parents, and out-of-town guests. To show team spirit and drum up interest in that weekend's games, players wear their shiny dark green jerseys to school on Fridays. The teams are coached by dads, former players themselves who dish up just the right amount of  machismo and nurturing to the eager boys learning the game.

I envisioned myself more as a Tennis Mom, but here I am a Football Mom of a large, defensive player in the third grade. I don't know where this is going, if anywhere. I just take it one day at a time and make sure I attend every practice and game so that I am available if needed because . . . FOOTBALL IS A DANGEROUS SPORT! (A couple of weeks ago I watched an "A" player being strapped to a stretcher. Neither parent attended that practice and couldn't be reached right away by phone to give permission for the transport to the hospital. I made a mental note to not let that happen to me!)

As surprising as it might seem, football is a FOUR-DAY-A-WEEK commitment for an eight year old. Yes, that's right. This isn't Texas or Nebraska I'm talking about. Noooo! It's MASSACHUSETTS. Practices are held for one-and-a-quarter to one-and-a-half hours Tuesdays-Thursdays with one-hour games against teams from a neighboring city on Sundays. You have to really love football to be this dedicated and, despite my mixed feelings about the sport, my son really does.

When you play football, not much time is left in the week for any other extracurricular activities . . . unless you have a highly driven and masochistic mother, which many women seem to be. Since Christopher also loves to perform, I try to keep that interest alive by looking for classes or other opportunities for him. Thus far, he's sung in a regional children's chorus; taken classes in hip hop/jazz dance, musical theater, and on-camera commercial acting; performed in a Christmas musical; won an acting and modeling contract; and worked as a paid extra in two Hollywood films ("Moonrise Kingdom" and "Grown Ups 2") two summers in a row. He is currently enrolled in a stage acting class (with a magic and prop-construction component) in the city next door that meets twice a week for a total of four hours.

GADZOOKS! I think I might be one of those masochistic mothers.

My younger son is busy in his own right but not nearly so. At the moment, he has two activities per week: soccer (his choice) and Tae Kwan Do (my choice). Charlie is my challenging child, so every new activity I put him in must be weighed VERY, VERY CAREFULLY.

Soccer is a case in point. When he was four, I enrolled him in the town's clinic as I had with Christopher at the same age. Charlie took to the sport but had fits when things didn't go his way on the field. Pretty normal stuff for a preschooler but disruptive when most of the other kids aren't doing the same. By his choice, he wound up becoming the unofficial clinic ball boy, chasing down the ball when it sailed out of bounds and tossing it back into play. Very helpful, yes, but NOT WHAT I PAID $90 FOR! So we took a break from the sport until last spring. Charlie played the game well again -- he is a natural -- yet his conduct still left a lot to be desired.

Ahem. Cough, cough.

Fast forward to almost four weeks ago: Back on the field, my first-grader lost it when a second-grader cut him in line for a drill. Kids this age are expected to behave, so in no time the man in charge of the clinic pulled me aside to inform me that Charlie was skating on thin ice. He would be KICKED OUT of the clinic if he had so much as ONE MORE outburst! He needed to take a ten-minute break before returning to the field. (FYI, it took thirty minutes for him to pull himself together.) Pondering this zero-tolerance policy, I wondered if Charlie's reputation in past clinics preceded him.

Since that day, I have given him several no-nonsense talkings to that have apparently made a difference, i.e. Charlie is still in the clinic. Just as he had last winter in basketball, he made the first score of the season for his soccer team. As one of three team "managers," I stand just out of bounds assisting with guiding play -- handy for also keeping Charlie in line if need be!

Tae Kwan Do is new for Charlie and the whole family. I don't know much about it, but this class at the elementary school comes with rave reviews. The sport's physical component, I figured, would appeal to my active son while its emphasis on self-discipline appeals to me. (Charlie needs help with self-discipline, duh.) At this point, we are only two classes in. However, he's happy so I'm happy. And I've heard nothing negative from the teacher.

Yay!

The fifty minutes my son is in class is fifty minutes I can be with Christopher who, like his brother, needs quality one-on-one time with me. (Charlie gets a two-hour slot of it on Friday afternoons when Christopher takes his acting class.)

Football practices and games are yet another animal when it comes to alone time. Charlie and I could spend them one-on-one, but he prefers to run off to a playground with his friends -- the younger siblings of other players -- so I stand on the sidelines or in the bleachers contentedly chatting with the mothers and fathers. These long hours on the turf could be a real drag, let me tell you. Instead, both of us find them quite enjoyable.

It's taken me several years to come up with a seasonal extracurricular schedule for my sons that works as well as this one does. The activities do not conflict with one another; are located close by, in our town or a neighboring community; and have not become too burdensome, with the exception of only a few days since mid-August when Christopher specifically asked to take a day off football.

Indeed, I am pleased with the choices I/we have made this fall. My boys are having fun; getting good exercise; and learning teamwork, self-discipline, more advanced football plays, a new martial art, and the creative workings of the theater. They are not getting burned out and still find enough time to complete their homework.

I think I finally got it right.

Nostrils, "Johnny," and the President

Just days before the Middle East erupted into violence over an anti-Muslim video, the Obama administration was riding especially high following a rousing Democratic National Convention. I had the privilege of attending the very first campaign rally post-convention.

Location: Portsmouth, New Hampshire
Venue: Strawbery Banke Museum grounds

In attendance: The Obamas and Bidens (along with New Hampshire Governor John Lynch and United States Senator Jeanne Shaheen)

Mood: Jubilant

Weather: Unseasonably hot (in the 80s)

Felt like: In the 90s

Even more handsome in person: President Obama

Toughest to photograph behind a TelePrompTer: Vice President Biden

Organizers were best at: Providing water to the crowd

Organizers were worst at: Getting attendees back to their cars, which were parked at the Pease International Tradeport parking lot

Reason: The school buses that transported attendees into Portsmouth failed to pick them up post-rally.

Alternate mode of transportation used to get back to car: Group taxi

Rumors flying: The buses were dropping off children after school, but school was canceled that day, I was told. The buses were caught in a presidential-motorcade traffic jam at a rotary. However, two hours had passed since the rally ended, and the President had left the area on Air Force One.

Most unwanted photo I took: My nostrils

Best photo I took: My nostrils. (Don't believe me? See for yourself. Anna Wintour, are you reading this? It's gratifying to know that after a half-century I have finally found my best angle!)

Explain: Fifteen feet from the President and First Lady, I endured the world's worst-timed camera "malfunction." Standing side by side, the President was waving to the person standing next to me (yes, practically looking at ME!); the First Lady had a huge smile on her face.

Problem: The lens was facing me, not the President.

The power of Facebook: I inadvertently spotted a friend of a Facebook friend -- the former I didn't know about and the latter I hadn't met!

English, please: While waiting to enter the museum grounds, I posted as my status: "In line behind Johnny Depp doppelgänger. Lol." In no time whatsoever, my Facebook friend named "Johnny" as a very good friend of his. I was flabbergasted but by then couldn't confirm it because "Johnny" had disappeared into the crowd of thousands.

Small world: Later in the day, I saw "Johnny" again! I told him the funny story, and he confirmed his identity. He seemed unfazed to be mistaken for the Hollywood heartthrob. I figured it must happen often. Indeed, my Facebook friend later said it does.

Biggest annoyance of the day: Waiting thirty minutes to get out of the Pease parking lot because traffic was being directed by a campaign volunteer who looked TEN! (I was told he was fifteen.)

Biggest bummer of the day: Losing a friend's paperback copy of Dry, a memoir by Augusten Burroughs I was thoroughly enjoying, and my campaign-rally ticket stub stuck inside.

Hunter-Downer Mom action taken: Phoned Starbucks -- not there. Phoned taxi company -- not left inside vehicle. Phoned Pease International Tradeport -- not found in parking lot.

My best guess: I put it on the hood of my car while loading my car post-rally. In a big hurry to pick up my boys, I forgot the book. It fell to the ground while I backed up, and someone parked near me picked it up.

No worries: I have replaced the book. And the ticket? Well, at least I'd taken a picture of it. Most importantly, I'd had it when I needed it -- to get into the rally!

Perfect way to end the day: With a dip in the cool ocean after returning to my town and discovering I had one extra child-free hour -- I love it when that happens! -- having miscalculated the pickup time for the after-school program.

Verdict: A memorable day all around!

Back-to-School Jitters

Like New Year's Day, the first day of school offers an opportunity to start over. Kids get new classes and new teachers. They make new friends and wear new clothes. They play on new teams and try out new enrichment activities.

Their parents get into the act as well. They post new photos on Facebook of their sons and daughters heading off to school. They might get a new haircut or reward themselves with getting through a long summer with scarce child care with a new pair of earrings. Perhaps they have a new schedule that enables them to pick their children up after classes or attend their kids' extracurricular activities. They adopt new routines at home and shepherd their kids through new homework.

The first day of school brings mixed emotions. Children experience excitement as well as anxiety. The jitters, in other words. Will they like their teachers? Why aren't some of their friends in their class? And for parents, well, the first day of school is loaded.

Our school district must have had the longest summer vacation in recent memory. We had not one snow day to make up, and we started the year yesterday six days later than last year when we did have numerous snow days. The end result: our summer vacation was two weeks -- yes, a full fourteen days! -- longer than last year.

It was a glorious summer. The weather was fantastic. We went away camping four times on multi-day/night trips -- to the Berkshires, Vermont, and Maine twice (to the same location back-to-back weeks, that's how much we enjoyed it). We spent a lot of time in a community-center outdoor pool: the boys playing, me swimming laps. We spent less time at the beach, though that's what late afternoons and weekends in September are for. And my oldest son had TWO Hollywood movie experiences. He saw himself onscreen in Wes Anderson's "Moonrise Kingdom" as a boy scout ever so briefly. SO briefly, in fact, that I missed him (DEVASTATED!) and had to go back to the theater a second time to spot him as the camera panned across his face in one scene. But that was nothing compared to "Grown Ups 2." Christopher put in a few hours of work five days in a row filming a dance recital scene for the Adam Sandler sequel due out next July. (That hip hop/jazz class at the Y sure paid itself off!) It was pretty heady stuff, indeed, for an eight year old! Not to mention I got to be photographed with Adam and Alexander Ludwig (the hot young actor who played Cato in "The Hunger Games"), shake Shaquille O'Neal's hand, and see up close a host of other big stars. Honestly, it's going to be mighty tough to top the summer's highlights next year.


So as we transition to the school year, you can probably appreciate my slight apprehension. It's back to work, basically. The class I teach starts in ten days, and I need to get others lined up as well as perhaps accept a part-time job. Both of these ventures will take a fair amount of hustling. A single mother friend of mine and I have applied to lead a preparation workshop for would-be parents, yet it wouldn't be held till late fall. I will continue blogging, of course, but need to step up efforts to increase my fan base via social media. Also prominent on my plate: making a second stab at landing an agent for my memoir. After that, I need to nab a publisher. Or, conversely, pursue self-publishing, which I REALLY would rather not do. In other words, a lot must be accomplished this fall -- chief among my tasks being earning more money to support my family and pay for my house in my very expensive town.

Though I did as much work toward these ends as I could have given my sons' limited day-camp hours this summer, the past few months have largely been about having fun . . . and to THAT end, I succeeded magnificently. Sure, it would have been nice to have gone on a couple of dates, better still get into a romantic relationship. But you can't do everything, and nobody knows that better than a full-time single mother like me with no family help! Pulling the latter off with two young boys -- eight and a half and six -- would be akin to winning the Olympic gold medal in women's judo. For what it's worth, I ALMOST got invited on a date to a museum (Ha!), and I DID get invited to an adult/child party too many states away. So, for awhile there, I had my admirers: my blog fanboys.

I feel some anxiety about the start of the school year. However, I also feel a HUGE amount of relief from round-the-clock caregiving of rowdy boys. Was I ready to send them off to school for six and a half hours five days a week? HELL, yeah!!! I haven't had a break from them in nearly an entire month. Seriously. Their day camp ended at noon on August 10; their school opened at 8:25 a.m. on September 6. I was so desperate I made plans to watch FIVE children (mine and a friend's three) in order to get two or two and a half hours to myself in return. Alas (or maybe thank God), the arrangement fell through when my oldest son fell sick.

Next week will be absolutely surreal when Christopher and Charlie are in school for a full week for the first time in three months. What am I going to do with myself besides the aforementioned work? Besides the grocery-shopping, laundry, straightening up the house (bwaahahaha, I say with evil laughter), bill-paying, etc.? Maybe get a massage or facial. Go swimming in the community center's indoor pool. Eat some delicious crab. Take out my flatwater kayak for the first time this year.

Therein lies the excitement of transitioning to the new season. Bring it on!

Redheads Unite!

  

Was it a redheaded crush by a cougar?

That was my first thought when my carrot-topped older son got out of the community center's outdoor pool way too early and started hanging around me. "What are you doing here?" I asked him. "We just got here."

Christopher answered that a girl was following him. "Don't tell Charlie [because his younger brother would tease him], but it's creepy," he said. Say WHAT? A girl following him? That hadn't happened since preschool -- actually, two preschools ago when we lived in another town, the town where this pool is located, as a matter of fact. A crush? Did a girl at this pool have a crush on my incoming third-grader? OMG. Was it starting already?

I asked Chris which girl was following him. He pointed to a girl standing on the deck near the deep end in a pink and white bikini. She had long, thick, curly red hair and looked like . . . a TEENAGER! She was with a couple of other girls doing age-appropriate things like falling into the deep end backwards and flipping their hair upside down then right side up.

The situation seemed strange, but I needed Chris to go back in the water because I had work to do on my iPad. I had driven thirty-seven minutes one way to get here. I wasn't about to let whatever this was ruin our visit. So I told Chris I would sit right next to the shallow end and watch.

The Jaws advertising slogan: "Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the water" ran through my head, and promptly I dismissed it.

"Go ahead, Christopher. It will be fine," I said, sending him toward the pool.

Sure enough, within a few minutes the girls spotted him across the pool and swam mostly underwater to him. This time the other, also bikini-clad, tallest girl took the lead. Chris noticed, I could tell watching from a distance, and tried to get away. As he swam toward the pool ladder, the second girl trailed behind by only a couple of feet. She even reached out her hand to TOUCH him as he ascended the ladder!

It WAS creepy.

What was going on? Was this some kind of dare? My son is big for his age. He could pass for eleven. However, these girls were surely in middle school -- around thirteen or fourteen was my guess. Chris hastily walked toward me then stepped behind a concrete post. I whipped my head around toward the pool in time to catch the girls pointing at the post and laughing! They'd seen him try to hide.

I needed to put an end to this. So I approached the girls in the pool and told them to please leave my son alone. Calling them on their behavior, I said they followed him across the pool, and when he got out they pointed at him, laughing. "He's just a young boy," I said, a tinge of anger in my voice, "much younger than you." They looked up at me sheepishly and said they were sorry.

I walked back to a picnic table under the large pavilion and sat down on the bench. Christopher, I noticed, had moved to a new hiding place behind a tree on the sloping lawn. I went over to him and told him he could go back into the water because I'd spoken to the girls. He said okay but didn't budge. I returned to my seat. Next I knew a woman relaxing in a lawn chair close to the tree started talking to my son. From my vantage point roughly twenty-five yards away, it looked like Christopher was tearfully telling her the story of the girls bothering him. So I walked back up the sloping lawn and, to my amazement, discovered that this woman was none other than the mother of the two redheads and responsible that day for the third girl, a friend, as well! What were the chances of that in a busy outdoor pool area?!

I was further surprised to have a very good conversation with this woman. The girls were just goofing around, she explained. I countered with the fact that my son is very sensitive and felt they were being mean to him. She rejected the notion that the "good girls" had engaged in any intentionally hurtful behavior. They were mindful of bullying as it was discussed often at school, she added. My son didn't know they were kidding around, I stated. How could he know? He is only eight and a half. She suggested that Christopher meet the girls. He was reluctant, but after a moment's hesitation I persuaded him to go with us. The woman called to the girls in the water, and we did introductions. She explained that Christopher didn't understand they were joking around. As I watched them, I could tell they seemed to get it that it was not okay for three older, larger girls to target one younger, smaller boy whom they had never met. While swimming behind Christopher, I learned, they had put their hands up behind their backs to mimic shark fins. I guess they wanted to try to scare him a little. In any event, they apologized a second time.

I thought it was over . . . happily resolved, which was shocking to me because the last two times I have had to deal with a mother in regard to her child's behavior the conversation has not gone well at all, and that is just about the Understatement of the Year! Mothers are fiercely protective of their children, so when they sense anyone questioning Junior or Susie they can lash out -- justifiably or not. Hence, I almost couldn't believe that this mother was actually RECEPTIVE to my take on the issue. We both agreed there had been a power imbalance that made the pool play unequal. It needed to stop, and Christopher needed to be reassured that the girls meant no ill will toward him.

But then something even more wonderful happened. The woman's oldest daughter, the one my son first pointed out to me, asked Christopher if he would like to play volleyball with them. Still feeling a bit hurt (and perhaps shy, too), he declined. So I encouraged him until he came around. Even without a net, he had a great time batting around a bright yellow volleyball with the girls. I watched him laughing and smiling from the pool deck.

I was so happy.

Next I noticed that a boy had joined them. I couldn't see his face from where I was standing, but immediately I thought of Joshua, Christopher's best friend from preschool five years ago when we lived in this town. His family belongs to this community center, and his mother even works on its staff. Christopher and Joshua were polar opposites: my son, all sensitive and cerebral, versus Joshua, tough and physical -- a lot like Charlie, come to think of it. One of my last memories before we moved to our present town was of Joshua standing on a table at Panera Bread. During the same meal, he stuck a toy school bus in Christopher's eye. The boys were three years old then.

Joshua was at the pool this day. I saw him walk in with his mother and sister. As he still lives in this town, he has other friends now, of course. He has seen Christopher a few times since we started going to this pool recently. The boys say hello, and they even played ping pong once. But they are by no means hanging out together. So my guess that the boy playing pool volleyball was Joshua was as much wishful thinking as anything else because I would like Christopher to reconnect with his former best friend. Despite the distance, I anticipate spending a fair amount of time at this community center. I enjoy swimming laps in the outdoor pool. I can get work done on my iPad while sitting inside the pavilion. And post-Labor Day, I will move my activities indoors to the center's other impressive pool and athletic facilities.

When it was time to leave that afternoon, I checked in with Christopher. "How did the volleyball with the girls go?"

"Good," he responded in typical, unemotional eight-year-old-male fashion.

"Who was that boy playing with you?" I asked.

"It was Joshua."

Just as it should be.

Manic Monday

It's a running joke among mothers that things go wrong on special and/or important days. When a child has a birthday, the child falls sick. He breaks his arm the day before the first football practice. She has an accident in her pants en route to a playdate an hour away.

Murphy's Law, many people would call it. But for mothers -- already overworked and harried -- it is Murphy's Law Magnified.

Every mother has stories to tell, and I am certainly no exception. Example #1: My older son, Christopher, had a fever on his first Halloween (technically, his second since he was born the day before the holiday the year before). Not to be dissuaded from my first opportunity to take my first baby trick or treating, I slipped him into his adorable fleece (read: hot) Tigger costume. Example #2: My son vomited in the car on the way to day care the last day I had been given to clean out my old Cambridge apartment before returning it to the landlord. Christopher was upset, not sick. In any event, I needed to hide "the crime" because his teachers would turn him away if they found out. So I stopped at a children's clothing store to buy him a new outfit and, to mask his rancid breath, a lollipop. The teachers suspected nothing was amiss on account of our lateness as a fierce snowstorm was in progress at the time. Example #3: Charlie, my second son, tripped on a concrete step right after we arrived for his brother's Little League game. He screamed bloody murder for a full forty minutes and uncharacteristically begged me to take him to the hospital. I did because I feared my six year old might have cracked a rib just like I had seventeen years earlier. One X-ray later: no broken bones, thankfully.

These are just a few experiences that come readily to mind when I think about Murphy's Law Magnified. I have plenty more locked away in my brain vault.

A new one just got added this past Monday. After waiting (mostly patiently) for four and a half months, Charlie was finally getting his sixth-year birthday party. (Yep, his birthday was in March.) He changed his mind a few times about where he wanted to hold it but eventually settled on a candlepin bowling alley in the city next door. We have been to several pizza parties there in the past couple of years since Christopher was in kindergarten. Kids love the venue, and the party is a no-brainer for parents: pay one price per guest and provide nothing or pay less per guest and provide cake and goodie bags/takeaway presents. Other food can be brought in to supplement the pizza, but that is up to the hostess.

I chose the lower-priced option, dubbed "The Spare." Either way -- easy, easy, easy! Just what many parents (non-Martha Stewart types like myself, especially) want.

This kind of a children's birthday party, though not particularly creative, gives Mom the chance to relax and enjoy the social aspects of the gathering. And when you are a mother, especially a full-time single mother like me, chances are good that you crave positive social interactions with other parents because solitary caregiving can feeling isolating at times. So the day was shaping up to be a fun one for my entire three-person family.

However (isn't there always a however?) -- hello, Murphy's Law! -- something always seems to be looming that could potentially derail said enjoyable day. So, yes, something was very much looming. Four days earlier, the boys attended yet another pizza party at their day camp. (If you don't already know, kids and parents eat a tremendous amount of pizza.) The next day Charlie's right eye was swollen. What had happened? As there had been no napkins or paper towels with which to wipe off his hands, he had stuck his pizza-greasy finger in his eye to remove a piece of dirt. I gave Charlie an ice pack. By Saturday, the following day, his eyelid was reddish purple, as if someone had punched him. On Sunday, I noticed the swelling had gone down, but the discoloration had not. That afternoon we went to a pool party for my single mother's support group. A woman at the party asked about Charlie's eye.

Of course, I considered taking Charlie to the doctor, but I decided to wait to see if it improved on its own. My son's temperature had not changed, and Charlie reported no irritation to the eye. Plus, I was annoyed to be dealing with yet another Charlie Issue so soon after the rib incident, which took place in the late spring and cost me $50. Not to mention one more awaited us just days away: a pulpotomy, a baby-tooth root canal, that would set me back another $150 because we don't have dental insurance.

It's always something with Charlie. He's just that kind of boy.

Seeing as the eye problem had just been commented on -- the first time from anyone outside of my family -- AND the hostess of the party was a doctor (a pediatrician, in fact), I decided to get some free medical advice. That could potentially save me from having to make the seventy-minute round trip drive from my home to our pediatrician's office or the thirty-minute round trip drive to the emergency room. Her verdict: possibly cellulitis, a skin condition. She recommended going to our pediatrician in the morning if the eye was still red.

"In the morning." That was the day of Charlie's party! Nevertheless, what needs to be done must be done. So bright and early we headed out and got an official diagnosis of cellulitis. The prescription for Cephalexin was to be faxed to a pharmacy, but when we got there some forty minutes later we were told the prescription had not been filled. I was becoming agitated because the party time was rapidly approaching. We had to choose between waiting fifteen minutes for the Rx to be ready or coming back to pick it up. I elected the latter, having spilled a coffee drink all over my shirt while driving, necessitating a sudden change of clothing. Back at home I discovered that several people had been trying to reach me about the party. One mother had lost the invitation and needed directions. A second asked if her son could still come since she had earlier been unsure about their schedule. And a third canceled because her son was being taken care of by her sister that day.

We finally returned to the pharmacy and picked up the prescription. The pharmacist raced through the instructions in a perfunctory manner. I thanked him, though I didn't really understand the dosage. I was in a hurry, but it was printed on the bottle and I vaguely remembered what the pediatrician had told me. I said I would give Charlie the first dose after the party. "No, no, no," said the pharmacist, suggesting I give it to him right there in the pharmacy. He fetched a measuring cup, poured in the pink Pepto Bismol-like liquid, handed me the cup, and walked away. Charlie drank the substance. I poured the same amount into the cup, and he drank that down, too. Suddenly, the bored pharmacist reappeared with a concerned look on his face. "You didn't just give him another 10 mls., did you?"

"Yes, I did," I said. "It's two doses two times a day."

The pharmacist explained that he had poured the two doses together into the measuring cup. OH, SHIT! I thought as the realization that Charlie had taken twice the dosage amount sunk in. "WHAT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME? OH, MY GOD! I AM SO ANGRY RIGHT NOW!" I said to the pharmacist, who seemed flustered. The overdosing occurred because he failed to properly monitor Charlie's intake. He walked away while Charlie was drinking the liquid; he did not stay to make sure I capped the bottle afterward, which would have proven that I understood the instructions. Obviously, I had not because I certainly would not have given my slender son too much medicine! I was pissed and doubly so because it was Charlie's birthday-party day. Speaking of which, the party would be starting shortly, and we still hadn't picked up the veggie and fruit platters, candles, cake cutter, and Batman cake!

ARGH.

The pharmacist said he really didn't think the overdose would harm Charlie. Um, "really didn't think?" You mean, maybe it would? Charlie had taken TWICE the dosage! "Really didn't think" didn't give me a lot of peace of mind! Maybe I'm just naive when it comes to medicinal matters -- this is a very real possibility, considering I grew up a Christian Scientist, for Pete's sake -- but double the Rx seems to me to be something legitimate to worry about! The pharmacist asked Charlie's weight. I told him fifty-two pounds (or was it forty-eight? I wondered to myself). He read from a paper: "If eighty-eight pounds. . . ."

"He's not eight-eight pounds!" I interrupted. "He's FIFTY-TWO pounds!" (Or forty-eight.)

"Would you like me to call the Poison Control Center?" Duh. Other customers had appeared by then, causing me to wonder how it would feel to listen to our frenzied conversation right before placing their own orders. As the pharmacist and his assistants began tending to these customers who arrived AFTER us, it took a while to get through to the hotline. Apparently, accidentally overdosing your six-year-old child under the negligent eye of a pharmacist was not reason enough to make us the top priority at that moment!

Needless to say, I was growing increasingly frustrated and furious on this Manic Monday. Finally, when I was able to speak to a woman on the hotline, she echoed the words of the pharmacist: the administered dosage wouldn't cause Charlie any harm. Phew! But he might experience nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, and dehydration, she added. Wonderful. While I was grateful he wasn't in any danger, I was going to have to watch him like a hawk at his own party in case he upchucked into the gutter or pooped into his pants. As I repeated the side effects back into the phone, someone handed me a bottle of cold water.

I hung up and handed the pharmacist the antibiotic to refrigerate. So much time had now passed that I couldn't stop at home. We needed to make a beeline for Market Basket. Amazingly, we found all the items on my list, purchased them, and were ready to go by the time guests arrived. I diligently fed Charlie water for the duration of the party. He had a great time (as did everyone else, from what I could tell) and experienced no ill effects whatsoever from the double dosage. We returned to the pharmacy after the party ended to pick up the Cephalexin. The pharmacist acted unnaturally nice, as though apologetic for what had happened (or nervous to hear my updated report on Charlie). Nevertheless, the ordeal was over. Charlie was safe and not inconvenienced by any discomfort.

Now it was time to relax.

The Great Gabby

Pixie face, sweet sixteen,
fuchsia leotard, sparkles and sheen,
lithe physique, milk chocolate skin,
and the widest, toothiest grin.

Olga Korbut-like joy: a twirl,
a magnificent and elegant whirl
then a powerful tumble,
yet she remains ever so humble.

She lived with a white family
and was homeschooled, you see,
while training with Coach Chow
in West Des Moines, Iowa, and how!

Sent away by her mother,
older sisters, and one brother
living in Virginia Beach,
she brought a goal within reach

to become an Olympian --
a history-making gymnastics champion.
Her dad left home when she was nine,
causing family finances to no longer be fine.

Thus, sacrifices became key.
Still, her mother needed to file for bankruptcy.
But the world now knows the happy
girl, Gabrielle Douglas, as simply "Gabby" --

a member of the winning women's team
and the gold medalist in the all-around: beam,
vault, bars, and floor ex combined. Criticized hair?
That just lays the media's racism bare.

Like our president,
she has set a thrilling precedent
as an African-American hero --
a young yet accomplished leader to show

that anything a person dreams can be done
with much hard work, perseverance, and fun.
She will be America's role model for many a girl.
Here's to you, Great Gabby, "The Flying Squirrel!"

Rediscovering My Inner Swimmer

After the birth of a baby, a new mother finds herself so busy that she can't keep up with the activities she enjoyed as a childless woman. The gym visits, the trolling of Saturday morning yard sales, the book group -- they all fall by the wayside. It might be quite some time before she "gets her life back," or perhaps her husband, partner, mother, or sister pitch in with free child care so she can resume these activities that formerly made her happy.

But if you are like me -- a single mother by choice with no built-in support network (i.e. immediate family) to offer you help you don't have to pay for -- it will likely be much longer before you can feel like your old adult self again. Of course, if you have deep pockets then all bets are off. You can do what you want when you want to do it. But come on! Who among us can really afford that?

The reality is: whether you are married, partnered, or completely on your own, you probably have not been able to take back up most of your favorite hobbies . . . unless your children are old enough to be fairly independent and to not need you to help them with the basics, such as driving them places, making all their meals, picking out all their clothes at the store, etc. Even when your kids are older, however, your "me time" will be limited by needing to attend their sports competitions, dance recitals, and other events.

It is a juggling act, to be sure -- a matter of finding balance and a seemingly neverending battle to try to reclaim the aspects of your childless life that you've (hopefully, only temporarily) lost.

For me, getting back my life has been a very gradual process . . . and I am not nearly done. But I am thrilled to say that this summer, at age fifty, I have awoken a part of myself that has lain dormant for far too long: I have rediscovered my inner swimmer.

It came about in the most surprising way. My oldest son had an audition for "Grown Ups 2," the Adam Sandler comedy now filming, at a community center in a town nearby. Afterward I was given a three-day family pass to the center, which happens to house terrific sports facilities including a large outdoor pool with two lap lanes. Since I had canceled my membership at a very costly athletic club in my town several months earlier, I was excited to have the opportunity to use another facility's amenities without charge. So, following the audition, we walked straight over to the pool to check it out. As I expected to hit the beach later that day, I had brought along the boys's swim trunks. No surprise, they were eager to go in the pool immediately. I couldn't say no since I had just been handed the pass. But having forgotten my own suit, I was forced to sit and watch while they played in the water for HOURS.

I was psyched to have access to this pool (well, only three times) yet miserable not to be able to enjoy it that day myself. SO miserable, in fact, that I didn't think twice about driving another seventy-four minutes round trip the very next day . . . because I needed a swim in that pool so badly!

I haven't looked back since. After using up the pass, I finagled a tour of the whole community center with Christopher while Charlie attended a birthday party some twenty minutes away. Lo and behold, didn't I score another three-day family pass! With each subsequent visit, my desire to swim in that pool increased exponentially. It was like dating a new, exciting man: I was becoming very attached to that pool and wanted more and more of it.

I was fairly out of shape when I first slipped into the second lane, having only recently exercised by means of walking to and from the elementary school where the boys' day camp is located, hiking and mountain climbing only occasionally, and canoeing just once. Still, I swam 14 consecutive lengths that day. I felt winded but immensely gratified. (For the record, I am now up to doing thirty-four lengths at once at a pretty good clip. Watch out Missy Franklin!)

Swimming laps outdoors for free is a luxury I have not enjoyed consistently since I was a child growing up in Darien, Connecticut, at a beach and tennis club on Long Island Sound. As a member of the swim team (and tennis team), I wasn't crazy about practices. However, I loved to race and just be in the water -- particularly in the club's outdoor pool -- doing dolphin dives, handstands, and bobbing up and down pushing off the bottom.

Does that make me a pool snob? I suppose it does . . . because indoor lap pools just don't cut it for me, though I have tested out the community center's indoor pool and liked it quite a bit. (That's a promising sign for my post-Labor Day lap swimming.)

I raced all the way through high school and seriously considered joining the team in college but decided against it in the end because I went to school in Vermont and didn't care to be cold and wet all the time in those harsh winters. (Wimp, right?!) Instead, I became a lifeguard --occasionally at the college pool and regularly during my college summers at the outdoor pool of a ritzy Southampton, Long Island, beach club.

While traveling in 1990, I learned how to scuba dive and later became certified as an advanced diver -- racking up dives in Southeast Asia, Australia, islands in the South Pacific, Florida, Mexico, Cozumel, and the Caribbean. Being a good swimmer has made me feel confident in ponds, lakes, and the ocean (handy since I live in a seaside town); while sailboarding (I owned the original Windsurfer One Design); jet skiing; sailing, which I learned at the Darien Y as a child; slalom waterskiing and canoeing, picked up at sleepaway camp in Maine; and sea kayaking, taught to me by a dear, now-deceased friend when I lived in Seattle. (I presently own a small, flat-water kayak).

Indeed, swimming has served me extremely well over the years. And now, having joined the reasonably priced community center after my second three-day family pass got used up, I have returned to my roots: outdoor-pool lap swimming.

And I couldn't be happier about it.