Friday, October 26, 2007

Good Friends

You can tell someone is a good friend when you hardly notice you’ve just run/walked 3 miles around a lake in the rain.

For starters, it would be much simpler to call for a rain out with a lesser friend. They’d say, “No problem. I understand. We’ll do it another time. Yeah – rain in Seattle in October – who would have known?” Good friends have a way of not letting you off the hook quite so easily. They can discern if you really are, in fact, under the weather or if you just woke up, saw the rain and decided to eat a cinnamon roll. Good friends are dialed in when we offer up lame excuses. And they know just the right mix of persuasion, guilt, and the silent treatment to get us up off the couch.

The other thing is that the run/walk concept would not work so well with just an acquaintance. You have to know someone well to be totally at ease in saying “I…NEED…MUST…WALK!” at any moment and not be self conscious if those moments happen frequently. A good friend also knows how to read your hyperventilation cues -- when it’s time to pick up the conversation baton and when it’s OK to pass it back. What’s more, good friends get when it’s important to be doing the “run” part of the run/walk. Like when you have an opportunity to pass large groups of people. Or when someone over 60 passes you. Or when a Starbucks is within line of sight. Lesser friends might make the mistakes of suggesting a second lap around the lake to continue talking. But friends who know you well understand that’s what Starbucks or next time is for.

Conversations just flow with good friends. You could be talking about you child’s sleeping habits, in one moment, skip over to the grave water shortage in Atlanta in the next breath, and then jump to the topic of a new diet idea that involves more sex. All done completely seamlessly. No awkward transitions. No need to explain how or when topics shifted. And, because you’re not talking to husbands or children, repeating yourself is also not necessary. Time is precious for all people, particularly mothers, and so the best friendships are the ones where you can skip over the niceties, get to the meaty stuff, and then rapid fire through as many topics as possible in 90 minutes. The best moms can also do this while making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

I think most Moms would say there are days when you wish you could switch your role as a work-at-home or work-out-of-the-home Mom. Having a good friend for honest discourse about this never-ending internal debate helps a lot. That debate has a way of quieting down – at least momentarily – when you share in the successes and failures of a friend living your opposite life. On the last run/walk, my dear friend Cory was able to vicariously live through me as I shared some recent office successes. Because of her eagerness to hear all the details, I didn’t feel the need to self edit or tone down my enthusiasm. And just like your own Mom would do, she stroked my ego -- telling me she wasn’t surprised. And then asked me what my plans were to ask for a raise and promotion.

Likewise, I was able to live vicariously through her as she shared her and her husband’s strategy for teaching their kids about some core family values. The “5 Star Plan” is reviewed regularly at dinnertime and even has some visual aids posted around the house. (Overachievers can find a use for Powerpoint skills both in and out of the house.) Instead of feeling immediately inadequate about my own core value family plan, I was 100% inspired to shamelessly copy the idea.

It’s also great to have a friend that is hip enough to want a pair of “f**** me” shoes (um, just repeating how they’re known in fashion circles). These shoes I learned are basically heels with an ambitious arch, a hellacious heel (I guess you could say – heelacious), and preferably in a can’t-me-miss-color like red. Until my recent trip around the lake, I had no idea what they were or when one would find an occasion to wear them. Since my dates nights with my husband are infrequent and I’m challenged already with a mini boot heel, I don’t think I’ll pursue a pair of my own – but man do I respect having a 40 year old friend that could totally pull it off and look good doing it. And, if I’m ever brave enough to change my mind – if even just for practice around the house, I know where to find a pair to borrow.

Thanks to all my dear women friends for making life that much more than it already is.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Middle School is Coming



What do you drink before a marathon?
Lots of running water.

Why did the ghost go to the game?
To boo the umpire.

What happens to a quarterback who eats too much?
He becomes a fullback.

Which of Santa’s reindeer is a track star?
100-yard Dasher.

Which baseball team also takes care of sick animals?
The New York Vets.

That’s 4th grade boy humor in a nutshell. Simple. Pure. 100% Family Circus. Slightly over the head of a 4 ½ year old desperate to understand what’s so funny but more than willing to accept that it is. Somewhat painful to anyone past puberty, particularly those living under the same roof with the 4th grader and his jokebook. Chuckling at the punch line however is critical; otherwise, it will be repeated until confirmation is received that you’ve actually heard it. Or without a laugh, you might be inviting back the “poopyhead” days where reactions were guaranteed.

If the truth be told, I remember getting excited when I started to understand that words could have double meanings. Excuse me a minute as I think of a good excuse for why I am up so late writing this post. It’s just that I’m not yet content with the content of this post. (I’ll stop that now.) As I have aged, I realize that the universe of words with double meanings is even larger than I had originally imagined. Take for instance the word, shop (v). To a female, to shop is to browse, try on, purchase multiple items, try on again, and finally return something. To a male, to shop is to enter and exit a store in under ten minutes.

So why was the baseball player’s mother happy?

So why was the baseball player’s mother happy? (second attempt)

Because her son reached home safely! And because her son was not the one overhead during a recent carpool saying, “Say rubber buns and liquor fast after everything I say …. What did you have for breakfast? What did you have for lunch… What do you do when you see a cute girl?”

AHHHHH!, middle school is almost here! And middle school is NOT 100% Family Circus. I’m so not ready for this. I’m not ready for crude jokes that my son doesn’t yet understand, particularly ones that are at the expense of another person. I’m not ready to make more judgments about when to speak up, and when to simply let things run their course. I’m not ready to be unpopular with his friends, or worse yet, an embarrassment to him. I know that there will be more whispered voices, private chuckling, and closed doors in the future. The iPod will leave it’s docking station and move into my son’s ear. I know that we will soon be entering a stage when my advice will be sought less often, and my opinions challenged more frequently. Other voices will start becoming louder in my son’s ear, and so my hope is that we’ve said and done enough that the voice he attends to most consistently is his own.

Until then, I will try to laugh even more heartily at Santa’s track star reindeer, 100-yard Dasher.

Sunday, October 21, 2007

A Happy Home Needs Kleenex

My parents take care of my nephew Josh one day a week. In preparation for their weekly visit, my sister likes to stock her house with some of my parent’s favorite goodies. It’s her way of saying thank you. My way is to move the dishes into the sink and find the TV remote just before they arrive for babysitting duty. Both are appreciated. As is the on-time “Happy Anniversary!” card from my sister compared to my four-days-late phone call. Not surprisingly, only one of us has any idea when “Grandparents Day” is.

Recently my sister told me that my Dad had made one small request for their next visit. He wondered if it might be possible to get a box of Kleenex. Like me, my sister has embraced toilet paper as a completely adequate tissue replacement. With special provisions allowed only for the most severe of colds (repeated blowing and raw skin variations). Paper towels could also be used in a pinch. But a regular everyday supply of Kleenex? Never.

It hadn’t dawned on either of us that maybe it was slightly uncouth to send our family members and house guests to the bathroom to blow their nose. It certainly wasn’t a targeted effort to exhibit boorish manners, or even a veiled attempt at conservation – more like a complete oversight on WHAT NORMAL PEOPLE DO. The typical home that plans to have visitors should include running water, heat, a bottle opener, maybe a grill, but certainly a $1.59 box of Kleenex. Some chairs would also be good. [The normal home probably also doesn’t have condoms lying around under every seat cushion, but my husband maintains that the desire for spontaneity coupled with the need to prevent a fourth child is more important than just about anything else. So if you visit our home, please don’t go looking underneath the couch. That might be even more awkward than sending you to the bathroom for scratchy toilet paper.]

I digress, but it still defies expectation how both my sister and I have maintained a Kleenex-free home. We grew up in a home with a never-ending supply of Kleenex. It was a staple. Found in every room. And not just the cheap stuff, but the good multi-ply super soft kind. I’m sure we were one of the first to get Kleenex with Lotion when it came out. So, either my sister and I share an uncommon insensitivity to sandpaper on our nose or this represents a twisted form of repressed rebellion against a lifetime of an overabundance of tissue.

Regardless, we are now committed to making Kleenex a part of our happy homes. I plan to include it on my next stock up (actually purchased a 10 pack today at Costco) and hope that my Dad notices and tells me he is proud. In spite of this, I have no plans to stock up on Rueben sandwiches or Ding Dongs. Because that would mean I was trying to compete with my sister for my parent’s affection. I would never do that – at least not so brazenly. I also have questionable self-control where Ding Dongs are present. In fact, it’s a long and sordid history with the Ding Dong and the rest of the Hostess family.

While happy to be on our way to tissue recovery, I fear that my sister and I have much more work to do on our “half-pour” habit. Most commonly observed when pouring orange juice, my sister and I learned at a young age that orange juice was expensive and therefore not to be squandered and that full glasses of anything had greater potential for spillage. So began our years of pouring only a half a glass of juice – for yourself or anyone else. That was something we definitely got from our mother – probably even passed down from her mother - and so it’s difficult to overcome. It may also explain why all the women in my family are challenged with finishing a full bottle of water. Although we are exceptionally good at carrying half drunk water bottles from room to room. Our brother on the other hand took a different path. He took the 7-Eleven road which says that every pour should be at least 32 ounces.

Observing habits that you share with your siblings is intensely amusing. It reminds you of years of bonding and shared experiences, some of which are deep and others just a little whacky.

Monday, October 15, 2007

A Change in Plan



One of the things that most parents learn early on is that only bad things can come from abrupt changes to the game plan. Unless it involves a visit to see baby elephants or Ben & Jerry’s, most kids - particularly ones that are less flexible and slightly deficient in frustration tolerance - really don’t like to be taken by surprise. Preschoolers especially seem to have a knack for locking in on “the plan.” Any hope to shift their thinking requires a great deal of pre-emptive parental intervention and patience.

The same kind of patience it took to grow out your bangs for the first time. Only now, it takes repetition not barrettes for reinforcement. Creative thinking in place of hair gels with mega hold. And when things get really ugly (and the headband used to be your only fallback solution) use this instead: “ASK DADDY WHY THE PLAN CHANGED!”

Brett recently missed the pre-emptive parental intervention step. Instead of the normal routine of dropping Colin off at preschool at 9am, Brett had to change up the plan. The new plan involved dropping Colin off at his BEST FRIEND’s house at 8:30, heading across town to drop Lawton (and all his stuff) off at Grandma’s house by 9:00, and then busting it downtown to make a 9:30 meeting (showered and not in shorts for a change). Way more coordination than is required of me by 9:30am at the office.

So conventional wisdom might expect that a bonus 30 minutes at one’s BEST FRIEND’s house would be the cause of great delight. But then you would not be thinking like a focused preschooler who missed the all important parental set-up. Kind of like a computer who has trouble working with more than one application open at a time.
So the car meltdown ensued and Colin refused to get out the car. First there was wailing. Then there was prodding. Then there was pounding on the steering wheel. No baby elephant could have moved this boy. And so Brett waited. But the tears did not stop and so Brett did what we often have to do as parents, he got out the hair gel with mega hold.

He drove around to kill time until school opened. After several laps around a traffic circle, making grunting noises in lieu of profanity, he arrived at school roughly 7 1/2 minutes before 9am. Just early enough to say with surprise "Oh, we’re early today" but not too early to reveal the true desperation for early childcare assistance. After that, he raced across town to make the Lawton drop. Managing the drop off in ninety seconds, he made it to his downtown meeting by 9:32 thanks to some strategically timed speeding and a visitor friendly parking lot.

So when our friend Ellen mentioned last week that she was suggesting a change to our regular Sunday Supper kid routine, we knew that we needed to take immediate action. Instead of the normal routine of feeding the 9 kids first, then plopping them in front of a movie while the 8 adults ate (a very reliable and grown up friendly routine) … Ellen decided to mix up the plan with an after dinner craft activity that involved hammers. Hammers and lots of boys.

We sat Colin down on Thursday to explain the new plan – a plan that did not involve Scoobey-Doo or an animated talking animal. It was immediately met with some resistance, until hammers were mentioned and we confirmed the dessert plan remained intact. The luminarie project turned out to be a great success for all participants last night. The only slight issue that came up had to do with Colin wanting his luminarie on "all night long" in his room. Baby steps.

As I’ve been considering this whole issue of warning, I’ve actually been thinking about how much we as adults still require it ourselves. And, how even with it, it still often isn't enough to keep the crankiness at bay.

For example, even though I’ve had many life experiences to tell me that laptops not plugged in to an electric socket will, in fact, use and drain my battery and even though Microsoft was kind enough to put a batter indicator in my system tray for status, I still curse my laptop every time it shuts down “unexpectedly”. Doesn’t it know when I’m right in the middle of something very important?

Or, even more illustrative, I have gotten no less than a dozen emails over the past several weeks telling me that my 2008 benefits are changing. While I have acknowledged this truth, I guarantee that when I finally log in to enroll this week I will freak out about my new premiums. Because even with the warning, I can't stop long enough to really grock the inevitable disappointment and hit to my pocketbook that I know is just around the corner.

And so, I fully expect to not get out of the proverbial car for awhile -- or click accept on my new benefits enrollment -- without first doing a little dog and pony show in the privacy of my office. After that, I just may treat myself to a little Ben & Jerry's.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Smart People

I thank God for the mind he has given me, but more and more I’m starting to see what sets the truly smart people apart from the rest of us.

For one, I don’t think the smart people are tempted to click on links that say: “Singer Bobby Brown has heart attack.” Because why on earth would someone who’s intelligent care about a man who was never fit to be Whitney’s husband in the first place. (For those who do however, it was a mild heartache caused by stress but he is home now resting and in great spirits.) I know for myself, celebrity and entertainment news has taken up some of the space that could have potentially been used for quantum physics (or at least the capacity to spell it all by my own self.)

I also don’t think that smart people flip through an issue of “The Economist” looking to read as many of the short articles as they can get through in twenty minutes so that they can feel “productive” with their reading time. I fear that I have instilled in my own son the drive to quantify one’s reading. When asked about the book he’s currently reading, his typical reply is “I’m on page 112, only 40 pages left.” The difference however is that he can sustain his reading without the need for potty, chapstick, or snack breaks to stay awake. The last time I read more than 100 pages in one sitting I was on vacation fueled by twelve hours of sleep and several cookies.

The other thing I’m realizing is that smart people think deeply much of the time. I was noticing this recently getting off a plane. There was a man in the row next to me who had spent the entire flight earnestly studying a thick document that was a) clearly work related, b) in a font size that doesn’t agree with me and c) absent of any pictures, graphics, or cute emoticons. Totally not my kind of document. I on the other hand was doing serious work on digesting my texas barbeque lunch without giving myself away. Once my gastrointestinal track was clear, I managed to make it through the last 50 (!!!) pages of my David Sedaris book. Pleased with the accomplishment of having finished my 10th book of they year (because I am totally counting), I rewarded myself by taking a snooze.

While we were waiting to disembark, this same man – now with aforementioned thick document packed away – still looked deep in thought. He had the kind of expression on his face that said “not only are the two hemispheres of my brain interconnected and communicating, but they are also operating at full capacity and should not be interrupted by needless airplane chatter or conversation.” To ask “So is this your first time in Seattle?” seemed like it might threaten all of our chances to find out if time travel is physically or logically possible. Because this was a brain that was clearly working on something that important.

As I considered this man, I reflected on what was had been going on in my own mind. The predominant thought was whether or not the man in front of me was aware that his hair was completely sticking up in a million different directions having slept the entire flight – and then guessing the odds of whether he would notice and take action or if he didn’t what his wife might say when he got home. My mind then drifted to thinking about where on earth I parked my car and then remembering that I didn’t actually drive my car and then wondering if cab drivers took credit cards and then debating on whether I should just stop and get cash but then realizing that I wasn’t sure I remembered my bank pin code and then worrying that if they didn’t take credit cards that maybe I would be stuck unless the cab driver was nice enough to drive me home and then let me write him a check and then my Blackberry buzzed and I thought about not checking it because I really needed to focus on how I was going to ask the cab driver this question but then I am completely addicted to my Blackberry and I couldn’t resist it’s call and it turned out to be a good idea because I got an email from a colleague who was on another flight that was arriving at the same time and who unlike me had remembered that I didn’t have a car and offered to drive me home which was so great because then I could stop thinking about the whole cab dilemma and get back to the important business of the man with the unfortunate hair situation.

Watching this man was a signal to me that maybe I could use these “downtime moments” to better exercise my brain capacity. So I started to run through multiplication facts to get the synapses moving and pledged to read and ponder more. Even to read the stuff in small font. And especially the stuff I don’t understand or agree with entirely.

Tonight I did a google search on “smart people” and found a link titled “Why Smart People have Bad Ideas” and another that said “Smart People Believe Weird Things.” It was getting late and so I didn’t want to take the time to actually read the articles (I was already all filled up with my reading quotient for the night), but just seeing the headlines made me feel better. I’m sure if I looked further I would have found something about intelligence and wisdom – and about how much better it is to be wise. I also bet I might have stumbled on an article about a man who was sitting on an airplane runway who was close but did NOT actually solve the mystery of time travel due to an inopportune distraction regarding a seriously messed up head of hair.

Sunday, October 7, 2007

Reunion



Half of the 1992 grads. I failed to get a picture of the other half. Or a picture that didn't chop off the heads of the top two rows.

So Brett and I recently went back to the Chicago area for our 15 year college reunion. My writing about the weekend has been a bit delayed because of a work trip last week that immediately followed the reunion. One would think that one would have more time to write while on the road, but my work trip involved long hours as a booth babe at an executive offsite meeting. There are many perks to being a booth babe – like the all you can eat mints and not having to decide what to wear (the up side of the company sweater) – but extra free time is generally not one of those perks. So when off the booth clock, I was either catching up on my day job, hanging out with my fellow booth compatriots, or sleeping (quite well I might add) in my heavenly bed.

The reunion was a blast. Brett and I had a fabulous time seeing old friends, making new ones, and traversing the paths where our love first bloomed. (I can’t wait until Brett reads that line.) So by all accounts it was a complete success, but here are a few of the things that didn’t happen:

1) I did not get mistaken for a student. And for the record, neither did my youthful looking husband. Not that I expected that to be the case, but I also didn’t think that the college students would look so shockingly close in age to my nine year old son. I know the math suggests that college students are in fact closer in age to my son than to me, but he is still my baby and not able to walk more than three blocks away by himself yet. Naturally, the thought of him thousands of miles away living in dorm squalor with a mind entirely his own is much more than I can bear at this moment.

2) I did not feel guilty about leaving my children at home. They were happy, we were happy. We were actually deliriously happy. We had no one tugging on our sleeves to hurry up a conversation, no one asking us when we could go play baseball, and only one person who still wanted more real food after the dinner was over.

3) I did not run. Though I did bring three running outfits anticipating a Friday, Saturday, and Sunday early morning run. I love the hope that I had in myself that without a child waking me up at 6:30am that I would actually choose to get up out of bed and start my day before I had to. Instead, I got up at 10am every morning and felt completely at peace with my slothfulness.

4) I did not revert back to my freshmen year habit of ordering the chili and cheese nachos followed by the mint chip ice cream as my afternoon snack. My roommate Julie and I are still recovering from the horror of hearing that the basketball team used to call us the “freshmen fifteen duo.” We know this to be factual because Brett was on the basketball team and because we spent large amounts of time in the cafeteria lamenting the fact that nobody was asking us out.



Brett and Julie talking over the "freshmen fifteen duo" comments.

5) I was at the football game, but never actually saw the football field. The infield was buzzing with people to talk to that by the 4th quarter I was all done talking and needed someone to start tugging on my sleeve so that I could go take a people break. Thankfully, my friend Sarah came to the rescue and we ventured to the bookstore to use the new 20% discount we were now eligible for as fifteen year grads. So although I didn’t see any of the football game, I did see the $400,000 new video scoreboard that was apparently funded by some generous parents. These must have been the same parents who had missed the fact that the crumbling down football field restrooms looked to be months away from mandatory closure due to hazardous conditions. The Wheaton THUNDER sound effects sure did sound sweet on the video scoreboard, just plan to hold your pee.

6) I did not call anyone by the wrong name or make any known inappropriate comments. I had a doozey of an inappropriate comment at the ten year reunion which I was intent on not repeating. It turns out that bringing the eight pound yearbook along with us (me) to study before the Friday night event paid off well in the name department. I did accidentally mistake one women’s daughter for a boy, but it was from the back and so by all accounts would not be deemed a faux pax.

7) I did not even try to compete. You hear that people are often trying to one up each other during reunions with their personal and professional accomplishments. Yeah, well, given that some of my classmates are CEOs, others are championing causes around the world, and others are doing things like giving a year out of their lives to work as a nurse in Iraq – you start to understand just how small your own contribution is. While in some situations that realization might discourage me, I actually felt energized just hearing people humbly share about their life’s work. Besides there was probably only a handful of people that wouldn’t have fled the scene immediately had I started the conversation with this, “Well, I recently put together a really great marketing plan for a new wireless product ….”

8) I did not scold my husband for being a lame Reunion committee member. Turns out he wasn’t the only one. The Reunion committee was actually two women – Shayne and Katie – who managed to pull off the entire weekend without a hitch and without much help. I did however scold my husband when he failed to remember that not only was I involved in an on campus organization during our senior year, but that I was actually the Chairwoman of the organization. “Ohh, sorry, he said … I guess you were.” I wonder how that would play if I told him I momentarily forgot that he was on the basketball team. I got over it quickly though because we were enjoying rekindling our college romance.



Brett and his basketball coach, Coach Harris, and friend Nate

9) I did not get any good pictures. For as much as I love taking pictures, I completely failed in capturing the moments of the weekend. And not for lack of having my camera handy – I lugged that thing around with me the entire weekend, but I rarely used it and when I did, I seemed to miss the whole idea of candid shots. But for the record, here are the few photos I did get …



Becky thinking about whether her tube top needs to be pulled up again or not



Tess, Sarah, and Steph at dinner looking radiant



Me, Steph, and her new son Johnny!



Crowd of people + Steph who sees my camera!



Me, Janna (who had just done a triatholon!), and Julie at dinner



A good shot of the backs of people + Carolyn listening intently



Me and Julie + Katie and daughter Phoebe in the background

Jelly Bellies


A couple of Christmases ago, I splurged and bought Quinn the Playmobil Airport set. Not because he had been jonesing for it or because he loved Playmobil or airplanes, but because I had determined that he needed to work on his building skills. (It was also in a very large box that would make for an impressive Santa delivery.)

Within this box contained a movable elevator, baggage carousel, control tower, passengers, staff, even a customs officer and dozens of tiny plastic potted plants. I’m not sure what the piece count was, but I do know that it was significantly more than the number of the pieces included with my Cuisinart. It also looked like enough pieces to occupy several hours on December 26th so that I could enjoy some pleasure reading. What I didn’t anticipate however is that this new *fun* building project would require not just the full time involvement of an adult, but also the dexterity of a dentist and the patience of someone who is not me. By the time the airport was finally put together and ready for play, Quinn had lost interest and it was time for dinner.

We kept the airport assembled on the dining room table for several days (I wanted to make sure that this labor of love was on full display), but there’s only so much you can do with a play airport that for all it’s hundreds of pieces didn’t actually include any airplanes. Since then, the $60 Playmobil Airport has largely remained in the toy cabinet. I’ve insisted that all the pieces stay together and have even bought a special plastic tub from Storables to make that possible. I continue to hope that someone, sometime will enjoy snapping tiny plastic potted plants around the check-in counter. I tried to resurrect it when Colin turned four because he loves airplanes. While I was wrestling with where to attach the computer terminal in the control tower and throwing in a couple of expletives for good measure – Colin had already built his own multi-room runway with pillows and cardboard boxes and was busy flying his fleet of airplanes to Boston and Hawaii. So no need for the customs officer?

I now think of that Playmobil set every time I set foot in a toy store. I remind myself that my kids don’t need all the plastic stuff to have fun, that sometimes/oftentimes it’s the small things that bring them the greatest joy. And a little sugar doesn’t hurt either.

On a recent trip to Costco, Brett happened down the candy isle and decided to pick up a $10 super sized jar of jelly bellies. At first blush, I thought this was a mistake. After all, my husband
hasn’t had a carbonated soda in decades, nor has he ever shared a box of Hot Tamales with me. He’s the guy who knew about high fructose corn syrup before Dr Oz, and who is visibly burdened by white flour and anything other than plain non-fat organic yogurt. So the jelly bellies were naturally a surprise, but one that has brought incredible amounts of delight to our boys.

In addition to being the perfect after dinner treat because of the inherent ability to ration (look like a hero on a 15 jelly belly night!), do you know that there are 49 different flavors in this jar of jelly bellies? And do you know what mystery there is in trying to figure out just what jelly belly goodness awaits with each one that is popped into your mouth? Or what kind of trades you can make with your younger brother to try to pawn off a buttered popcorn jelly belly? We have spent hours laughing and ribbing each other during these jelly belly evenings. We have played games. We have ordered and reordered our favorite flavors. And we have found uneaten strawberry cheesecake jelly bellies (the least favorite on everyone’s list) throughout the house.

My favorite moment was when Colin ate his first Licorice jelly belly and exclaimed, “Mom, mom – this one tastes like FENNEL!” That’s right people, my four year old knew the taste of fennel before he knew the taste of licorice. I felt incredible pride at this moment knowing that I had shaped my son’s palette to know a vegetable before a candy flavor. What a good and righteous Mom I am, I thought.

As I was basking in these thoughts, the conversation somehow turned to college. A couple of minutes into the conversation, Quinn looked over at Colin and said, “Colin, do you know what college is?” To which Colin immediately replied, “Of course, Quinn … college is where people play basketball.”

Maybe not so righteous.