Anyway, I’m slightly peeved at having to tape and double tape the triceratops. He’s on the heavy side. Why am I doing this when we should be brushing teeth and get ready for bed? Ah, right, because a little foresight is simply lost on me and usually ends with an expired CVS coupon in my purse. If I may, I’d also like to throw my daughter’s teacher under the bus for a moment. It can’t possibly all be my fault, right? Although I’m also the one to fight for front-row access to Party City’s crummy backroom storage come late October, when the flock of short-tempered Halloween procrastinators like me overwhelms the kids who work there.

So with a 30-minute window to shop for Valentines cards before dinner is ready, the countdown is on. My husband is a precision chef, so he gives us the green light to head out quickly for the cards, and we are off! As life would have it, purchasing a crowd-pleasing, seasonal anything is ill-fated when you head out after the retailers have already given up on that season.

My daughter wants cards of the Monster High variety.

How hard can it be?

Let me tell you.

Unless you bought them right after Christmas, you’d better settle for Disney’s Cars or princess posse. Seriously?

Okay, let’s try Target’s seasonal goodies corner in the back and try to bypass: (a) Starbucks, (b) super-cute spring collection plates, (c) deal on shampoos, and (d) cool triceratops toys. Even if you think you’ve got the merchandisers’ tricks all figured out and take the other loop around the store to get to the back, you’ll still be wooed by all the new DVDs, the super-fun spring sandals, and the oh-so-sweet straw handbags that remind you of your own childhood. Darn you, Target designers.

Well, once in the back of the store, we can’t find a single pink heart beyond the rows of Easter bunnies. But wait, there it is! A single box of cards left alone among the cleared shelves: Disney’s Cars and princesses.

Off we go to another store, and then another, and then to Giants, because Giants has, at the very least, yummy pastries that would be a perfect closure for the dinner Dad is preparing at home, and that’s about to be done.

We find the entire Valentine merchandise cleared off the shelves. There are plenty of Easter eggs though.  There’s an abandoned shopping cart full of Valentine stuff in the back. Taking advantage of the clerk’s potty/coffee break, we dive right in and yank merchandise out of the cart.  Bingo – the Valentine cards are at the bottom. It seems like there’s a little love going around after all.

Alas! There’s the car and tiara assortment. We also find puppies with disturbingly large eyes. Ugh. We are outta here.

On our last stop at the local pharmacy, we hit the jackpot and find peace-sign cards. To tell you the truth, we would have settled for things with four wheels, blue ball gowns, and puppies by now, but we lucked out.

Back at home, my husband greets us at the door, slotted spoon in hand.

“What took you so long?”

“Ugh.”

“What’d you get?”

“A bag of dinosaurs and peace signs.” I tell him. (And a hissy fit as I briefly entertained the idea of a retail boycott, but I hold that one back.)

So we have spaghetti, and afterwards, write the cards, tape the dinosaurs, and head to bed.

Once upstairs, my daughter reads a book to her little brother. As my little guy snuggles up to her, he hugs his hippo and wishes him a happy ” Valenstime,” and I want to eat them both.

My Days (llustration by Melissa Jefferson)

A structural engineer I’m not. My Lego Sears Towers are never as sound as my daughter’s. My Lego bridges miss trusses that even my preschooler had already built into his. Okay, I can admit it. I suck well at stacking colorful plastic pieces. Pirate Pete is more my forte, or shark, or helicopter-caterpillar illustrator on a whim and drive-through illustration request. “Mommy, can you draw me a___ [insert applicable dissident critter]?”

Oh, did I mention that I work? Yada, yada, yada…

“Sure I’ll work Sunday night on that deadline.”

“You need to go to bed, hon, so mommy can study for a professional exam.”

“Sign me up for macaroni salad at next week’s swim meet.”

If you have ever said these things in a single 24-hour period, then you deserve a pat on your back, and someone cutting you some bake-table slack. Poetic pun not intended.

But I have since gotten over myself, worked last Sunday night to meet my Monday deadline, studied exactly 30 minutes before passing out on the sofa, and scribbled the words “macaroni salad” on my palm so I wouldn’t bypass Redner’s en route to my daughter’s next swim meet. There! Don’t I feel accomplished walking into the Y’s lobby with my little pasta bucket! Best of all, I only complaint once (not counting the five other mumbled times) out loud about balancing the juggling act.

Boy, do I make it look easy.

No, I didn’t prepare the macaroni salad from scratch.

That’s where the slack-cutting comes in – a “get out of Betty Crocker expectations free” card. Thank you.

“But where is this going?” you might ask. Back to basics and balance, I might say, if I had time to actually think about it for a moment. Balance. Yes. Those elusive Zen Moments we have all heard of, those fabled instants where we look up from the laptop, Lego table, or laundry basket and decide to go off on a tangent.

My Moment of Zen was sponsored by a lunch ‘n learn seminar at work (free food? awesome!). It was actually a really amazing class about setting goals, improving one’s attitude (ha!), and leading a more balanced life. Shortly after the seminar, I was bursting with eagerness. I became a walking exclamation point, all UPPER CASE, all the time!! And I decided to join a local chapter of a worldwide civic organization to help my community and to define another aspect of myself that didn’t come with a cubicle, Legos, or macaroni salad. Instead, it came with a stuffy backroom at the local fire department, wallpaper that rivaled my age, and kitschy Holiday Inn-worthy oil paintings.

The local chapter’s secretary, bless his heart, greeted me at the door to introduce me to my new adventure. As the guest of honor, newbie, and all around fish out of water, I was seated next to the club’s president, who kindly introduced me to a room full of men roughly 40 years my senior. Okay, let’s say 35, but still. Ah, wait. There was another woman! Before I could look at her for a friendly hello, nod of understanding, or silent plead for a life line, I overheard an announcement about a blue Jetta parked in the wrong spot. Only a newbie could possibly drive a Jetta, park in the wrong spot, or otherwise defy decorum, so I held my head low as I headed out with VW keys in my hands.

Way to make an entrance and exit in five minutes. When I returned, the other woman turned out to be a guest speaker. Great, there goes my buddy.

I couldn’t quite decide if using my inhaler to offset the stale cigarette smoke would be inappropriate during my reluctant buddy’s presentation. So I sucked it up and engaged in polite, wheezing conversations with the president after my new friend concluded her speech and promptly left. How come she knew where to park?

I started daydreaming about a black hole I’d rather be sucked into or a wardrobe portal to my backyard. Somewhere between the drapes, wallpaper, and cliques of lifelong friends, I started to miss my guys at home. Maybe I wasn’t such a lousy Lego builder after all. Maybe the macaroni salad is as much of a contribution outside of my local zip code that I can muster for the time being. 

l left, sent a thank you note, and focused on the many plates I had already spinning in the air. I have to admit, they wobble at times, but when I check on my guys at midnight, right before going to bed, I know I have found a pretty good balance.

Dark and Stormy Morning...with Silver Lining (Illustration by Melissa Jefferson)

I’m not a writer but a mom, wife, hard worker, neighbor, obligatory volunteer, legal alien, cautious optimist, idealistic pragmatist (I’m sure there’s therapy for that), Target shopper, and latte aficionado (which, by corporate design, pairs up nicely). I’m also balancing family time and a career, while paying the mortgage on time.

Phew! With that off my chest, I’m free to go all out and write my debut novella—sans sense and sensibility. So proceed with caution and never mind the heap of adjectives I’ve succumbed to; it’s liberating. You should try it.

Synopsis: An overlooked appointment reminder causes a working mommy’s morning to change dramatically before her coffee gets cold. A swift strategy—sans attitude—adjustment holds unexpected turns and surprises. Will she make it out the door on time, and will her shoes actually match?

Pre-Epiphany: It was a typical morning in my house. I got ready for work, woke the kids, and lollygagged for a bit, then frantically barked orders at everyone after receiving an early office-meeting reminder via my phone. Spasms ensued in which some coffee was spilled, but we eventually headed out the door without much drama. Our shoes matched, the superhero capes were flying, and we were off to our respective, constructive universes: building Lego towers, compound sentences, and technical proposals. We all returned at the end of the day, shared hugs, rinsed, and repeated the next day.

Post Epiphany (proceed with caution): It was a gloomy and frosty day in Berks County, with feathery snow spackling the picturesque Monocacy Hill’s pristine morning glow, bathing the neighborhood in a curious radiance. A flock of Canadian geese flew hastily overhead, signaling the season’s end like the passing of guards at Buckingham Palace. My heart was aglow amidst the formidable clouds that signaled trouble as dense as my brain on that dull winter’s day. I flounced upstairs swiftly, oblivious to the clock, with time hastily slipping away in perfect harmony with the coffee dripping into the thermos down below in the family’s sanctuary the kitchen.

My kids begrudgingly navigated the stairwell that led to their future, one dreamy step at a time. The percolator downstairs lazily signaled the end of the brewing cycle and the dawn of a new era, one in which we’d have to eat toast and brush our teeth quickly and in harmony with the ever-flowing tide of time to catch the school bus.

I was standing in my kitchen and taking in the dramatically bold aroma of PB&J sandwiches when my cell alarm urgently rang in the distance. Wedged deep into the darkest corner of my purse, I pensively unearthed it while still holding on to the delightful bouquet of Folgers and Jiffy.

The horror! I had stupidly forgotten an early morning meeting that was greatly significant and began hectically spinning like a water funnel in the Schuylkill River.

I perilously sprinted back into the kitchen and surveyed the languid scene that had unfolded, one where my children were eating toast while lazily gazing at the TV screen. I strenuously barked at them and turned off the plasma connection to the outside world to signal once more a changing of guards. A mad scramble ensued where I briefly misplaced my figurative supermom cape and nearly forgot to securely pack the PB&J in the colorfully illustrated lunch box. Time had sneakily slipped away.

As the morning rush hurriedly came to a vigorous close, I took stock once more of what began as a dark and stormy morning. Then I took off on another adventure framed by overlooked Jiffy on my sleeve. Onward I went, not looking back once more. A hero’s welcome awaited in vain, I returned home non the more celebrated after a day at the office to repeat the drama the next day.

When we planned for a second child, our school district’s eligibility guidelines briefly factored into the equation: summer babies, at least those born before the kindergarten deadline, equal thousands in saved daycare expenses. Of course, if life has taught us anything at all, it’s that unpredictability is often the only reliable constant. We overshot our wishful, budget-friendly deadline by a few months and one school year.

When Time was a Luxury…and Missed Opportunity

When my daughter was a toddler, time was a luxury, albeit an onerous one at times. My early bird would be ready to go at 6 a.m. Our only structure on most weekends was breakfast, “one more cup of coffee for mommy,” and an early walk. Then we played, and played, went to the grocery store, and played again.

When you work full time, you don’t always question the rationale of combing a pink pony’s glittery mane or hastily retrieving a Littlest Pet Shop’s head, which had popped off for the tenth time and rolled out of sight; instead, you try to enjoy the moment. Then you daydream about more structure, and somehow, once you are on your second cup of coffee, you have missed the moment.

It’s one of those inevitable things. We love our guys so much, but we plan, and rush, and prepare, and list, and move on and on.

“Let’s watch a movie this afternoon.”  

“Tomorrow we are going to the museum.”

“Next week is your play date with Alex!”

“Oma is coming to visit in five months!”

Before you know it, the little pony in your hand is just a prop to move you to the next act.

 And for My Next Act…

I’d love to be more Bohemian and snap out of the “what’s next?” mode, but it’s hard. Fast forward a few years, and my son is counting down the days until he turns four. He really has no discernible concept of time, so “sleep ten more nights” is as solid a birthday countdown for him as “it’ll happen within this millennium.”

A while ago, I told him, “After Christmas comes your birthday!” Instead of taking in the season and baking some cookies for good measure, I had once again skipped ahead to the next thing on the horizon. Did the five remaining hours until bedtime really require a future point of reference?

Truth be told, there’s little structure in this onward rush and “what’s next?” mantra.

It’s easy enough to see why we follow this self-imposed rush: in summer, retailers remind us to purchase new backpacks long before the beach towels have dried; the beginning of the school year is accompanied by a burgeoning Halloween catalog assortment; orange and black decorations quickly give way to green and red ones as we skip Thanksgiving in lieu of Christmas layaway.

Miffed about the lack of real snow this season? Don’t despair. Easter is a hop, skip, and Valentine candy box away from spring anyway.

Wait, Steep, and Enjoy 

Admittedly, January is a bit of a downer where we welcome the thought of having another event on the horizon. All that changed when we had a January baby. Now I try to make time go by a bit slower before my little guy gets any bigger. I love every single milestone and birthday, of course, but I don’t want to rush toward those moments either. Why the rush? For the same reason we download snazzy couscous recipes and end up making Hamburger Helper for dinner. We are always busy and on the move.

Enjoying life’s special moments like a good cup of tea often seems like a luxury we forget to afford ourselves.

While I can’t promise to do better, I will certainly try. Many parenting moments are inevitably dull, of course. But the sum total of these events makes up our memory of their childhood. And that’s something worth celebrating—one moment at a time.

Masters of the Moment

(Luftschloss: n (idiomatic) castle in the air, pipe dream.)

What I saw was a pink castle perched on top of a construction crane, perfectly balanced, and my son, beaming with pride, beside it.

My little guy snubs at engineering probabilities and conventional wisdom.

Gravity?
Get over yourself.

Loosely connected Lego pieces won’t hover in mid-air?
Ugh!

Geometric foam shapes won’t fit at absurd angles?
Argh!

My “Gaudi-in-training” prefers caterpillars that function as helicopters, pirates that give haircuts, and huge basement spiders called Myrtle, which makes sucking up the hairy things in the vacuum cleaner an act of piracy.

As the little brother in the house, he’s been the recipient of several recycled toys from big sis. There’s plenty of pink going ’round. While my daughter’s winged fairy and princess collection comes fully equipped with its own fortress, the Disney stronghold has lavender battlements and sticker-frescos. Prince Charming didn’t even bother. Too much girliness.

Things have evened out over the years, of course, and zebra stripe patterns have woven their way into her room. Cinderella has once again been dealt the dirty end of the stick. When I found the disheveled princess under my daughter’s bed the other day, a brief bout of nostalgia instantly gave way to reality as I muttered, “suck it up, buttercup,” under my breath.    

After retrieving the lost fairy tale soul, I took stock of her ever after: a pink castle, a flowery clubhouse, a pastel-colored dresser. My daughter’s room featured more Art Deco design than even Miami Beach could handle. Time to clean up and enter little brother into the equation.

My son is more of a Bauhaus kind ‘a guy. Streamlined. No nonsense. Toy trucks lined up in a row.

Prince Charming would love his room. It goes from chaotic construction site to neatly lined-up corporate fleet in the same afternoon – the best of both worlds.

So when it was time for a toy inventory assessment, my son selected several nuggets from big sis’ room, one being the pink castle.

The castle set up shop on the traffic rug in his room, next to the construction crane. The hot pink now neatly clashes with the signature “Tonka” yellow – it’s South Beach all over again, but with more vehicles around than a Saturday night’s worth assortment cruising along Ocean Drive.

My husband and I don’t promote stereotypes, so when the lavender-trimmed burg became Handy Manny’s new digs, we congratulated ourselves on taking recycled toys to a new level. Sustainable toy-swap practices become particularly interesting if you have a boy and a girl, so it’s always fascinating to see how things play out.

My son stacks; that’s his philosophy. If it’s in his room, it’s stackable. So when he decided to lift the castle and balance it on top of his crane in the two minutes I turned my back, I should have been more nonchalant, saying “of course.” Instead, I marveled at his lofty ambitions and unrestricted engineering feats.   

I’m a lucky mom. My kids are naturally curious and not always bound by common sense and conventional thinking. Those things will taint their explorations soon enough, so I’m enjoying the freedom for now (with a close worrywart’s eye, of course, and a cup of coffee in hand).

I did end up taking the castle off its precarious perch, but not until after I took a picture, as I have done dozens of times for my guys’ other original, untainted messes.  

Das Luftschloss

"...aaaand ACTION!"

I have been The Littlest Pet Shop’s cow since my daughter was three. After honing my skills in the craft for years, I’ve become accustomed to the short end of the stick, the overlooked side in the Pet Shop’s clubhouse, where the other pets hang out.

Many times, I’d vie for the pretty butterfly character or the adorable kitten, but my daughter was determined to typecast me as a bumbling cow with a larger than life head and an oversized bell dangling from a scrawny neck.

Bessie, my character, consistently scored last in impromptu talent competitions and, worse, was forever overlooked by Prince Eric, a charming, handsome, snooty, pet-patootie bulldog who only had eyes for the mascara-donning variety. Even skunks fared better under this questionable character. No “happily-ever-after” for my bovine.

Of course, I tried to teach my daughter that beauty comes from within, and that Eric wouldn’t recognize character, even if it were to hit him over his bulbous head. But I must admit the play-acting was too cute to interrupt with lessons in disposition and tact. Besides, my daughter ran a pretty tight ship. There wasn’t much room for improv. She fed me every line, and I often failed. Accurately translating unrequited love wasn’t an easy task. (See “Lost in Translation” blog).

After my son was born, he often became part of Pet Shop’ville, a natural side effect and hazard of being the little brother to a girly-girl sister. Now that he’s almost four, we have ditched the pets and their pink clubhouse happiness and moved on to grittier pastures – a construction site at the foot of his bed. It’s a site where mobile cranes hang out and Disney’s handy superintendent has hung his hardhat.

But even guys with tool belts come fully accessorized. I think my son held a secret audition some time ago, and I won first billing in the screwdriver department. Not wanting to throw a monkey wrench into the script, I’ve obediently accepted the part. Heck, I play a pretty darn good screwdriver, one that repeats almost every line verbatim and doesn’t question the sudden scene change after Act I, where screwdriver goes from swashbuckling buccaneer to recycling truck driver in less than 60 seconds. My script changes from “walk the plank!!” to city dump in less time than it would take to navigate said piece of timber.

Admittedly, I have strayed from the script or even fallen asleep in mid-arrr! on occasion. It’s not always a walk through Neverland or the recycling plant to stick to the firmly enforced script while holding a two-inch screwdriver with bulbous eyes attached to its head. My rogue seafarer/environmental steward tool often wonders out loud if the timesheet at work was actually signed before leaving the office, or if we could sneak a five-minute nap into the script to recover from time at the office. I’ll even admit that the circular reasoning of a buccaneering Craftsman replica can at times be a bit mind numbing, but I haven’t been able to sell my little screenwriter on the idea that fake-chrome plated tools need to check emails occasionally.

The Ghost of Pet Shop Past

While on an unscripted excursion the other day to clean up my son’s room, I found Bessie and promptly fell apart. Hasbro and Disney would have a field day with saps like me in a focus group, or maybe they’d politely show me out of the room. This silly little toy made me miss the script, the hours of sitting on the floor with her, the impromptu beauty pageants, the silliness of Prince Eric’s dictatorship, the unplugged quality time, the spontaneity of  her imaginative flip of the script, and my girl being little again.

It takes few reminders to realize a special moment, and I’m very aware of that when screwdriver hops onto the “garbage truck” and my son looses himself in the next adventure. I’m back on the floor, wielding Manny’s right-hand tool.

When my son says, “you be screwdriver,” I’m on. And I love it.

Illustration by Melissa Jefferson

The dishes were stacked in the washer with care, the homework was completed without much fanfare. My husband was ready, with clicker in hand, to find us a Christmas-y TV event. When what to our wondering eyes he would find, was George Balanchine’s “The Nutcracker Ballet” - perfect to unwind. The kids on the beanbag, the dishwasher rumbling, my husband and I over Lego pieces came stumbling – to catch the performance live on TV, from the Lincoln Center, complete with coughee.*

The backdrop magnificent, the dancers a joy, we were swept away by the nutcracker toy. The Sugar Plum Fairy, the snowflakes, the glitter – when suddenly our preschooler gave us lots to consider:

“What are they doing, mommy?”

“Dancing”

“What are their mouths saying?”

“Nothing, they are dancing.”

“How many are there?”

“There are…”

“Let’s count. One. Two. Three. Four. Five…”

“Seven. There are seven. Please be quiet now and enjoy.”

“How are they going to get out of the forest?”

“They’ll dance out.”

“Is that real snow?”…”Or is it rain?”

“Snow.”

“No, it’s rain.”

“Okay. Rain.”

“No. I think it’s snow, mommy.”

“Please be quiet.”

“But why is the mouse wearing a crown?” …”Is it a king? Is he little?”

“Please. I’ll tell you later.”

“Later gator.”

“What?”

“Is it starting yet?”

“Is what starting?”

“The Nutcracker.”

“You’ve been watching it. Shhh.”

“Oh.”

(Argh)

“Is it done soon?”

“Shhh.”

“Schlaf schőn!” (sleep well)

 (Where the heck did that come from?)

“Where did I get that from, mommy? From Oma?”

(For the love of God. Please.)

Intermission was blissful, a time to rejoice, with toothbrush in hand and a commanding daddy voice:

“Go potty, brush teeth, and upstairs you go, so big sister and mommy can enjoy the show.”

Act Two was marvelous, despite my dismay at my daughter staying up late before her test the next day. But there’s no harm in watching, however late on TV, a classic performance with commentary and glee.

My kids may be wondering why we sometimes shout out: “It’s bedtime. Hurray! No more mumbling about.” Curious minds are, of course, the most wonderful thing, and before passing out on the sofa, we take it all in. As the Lego pieces lay in a cluttery heap, and the children are upstairs and finally asleep, the house is too quiet and no fun at all, so let’s do this again soon, and all have a ball. 

*I made that one up, but let’s just say, it’s the one person in the theater who always manages to cough during the quiet moments. Ricola, anyone?

Ugh. Good Morning, Sunshine!

I was off to a promising start before dawn. That is to say, I moved exactly an inch to hit the snooze button that, by precarious design, is a clumsy finger’s width away from the off button and the domino-effect consequence it has for everyone in our household. I repeated this process for another thirty minutes, slightly peeved by the need to hit anything but the pillow every five minutes, until dawn gave way to a frosty morning glow.

My one hour of “me time” reduced to thirty minutes after shower, makeup, and wardrobe, and miffed once more by the loss of time, I briefly entertained cutting myself some slack and going back to bed, but that would have required reprogramming the alarm, and what’s the fun in that?

So I went downstairs to boot up the computer before I had to wake up the kids. Voila – I stared at the blank Word document, cursor and eyes blinking, with twenty minutes left until hullabaloo. I put my good intentions to work and started to formulate an anecdote about coffee, a busy mom’s invaluable accessory. After typing in exactly one word, and feeling neurotic about writing so much about coffee, I convinced myself that this process would be much more productive with a cup of said Joe. So I abandoned ship and headed for the kitchen, where I hesitated for a moment and considered clearing up some late-night snack morsels on the counter. The blank screen in the other room called me back to my senses though, especially since a fresh idea had just popped into my head, and I was eager to put it in writing. But before returning to the desk, I opened the canister, scooped out some coffee, and promptly made a considerable mess. Somehow, I managed to trip the scoop in my right hand over the left arm that held open the coffee maker lid. Sleep deprivation, coffee making protocol dyslexia, or a subconscious writing sabotage – whatever was at play, somehow those extra thirty minutes in bed sounded like a completely missed opportunity. 

Here I was, with coffee grounds on the counter, floor, my shirt, pants, and bare feet. I spent the next ten minutes on damage control, but couldn’t shake or wash off the gritty feel that lingered between my toes all day. Folgers eau de toilette. Nice.

I did eventually enjoy another cup of coffee, scooped under careful supervision, while having breakfast with the kids, ten minutes later.  

What have I learned from all this? Improved scooping skills and a vague ambition to do better on time management. I’m a busy mom, like all of us, but there’s always a bit of downtime if you look hard enough. Carving out a few minutes for myself makes me a happier mom come 7:00 a.m. I love nothing more than seeing their disheveled, bed-haired, snuggly faces in their respective French poodle and Lightening McQueen pajamas. And having Folgers between my toes this morning was the only thing that kept me from crawling under the covers with them to borrow the ultimate moment of mommy time.

Not too long ago, I was getting ready to leave my toasty backyard in Berks County to travel to the Big Apple to renew my passport. Of course, you can’t just go to New Yorkto meet an embassy employee for your 15 minute appointment. You have to do the wholeNew York thing. For me, that means a mandatory trip to the MoMa and a quick-stop at Century 21 for a new pair of jeans.

The embassy gave me a “convenient” time slot smack in the middle of the day. I also had to provide the exact amount (a passport costs how much?!) in euros, which my bank, of course, doesn’t dispense from the ATM. Neither does it “store” such amounts in cash (my perplexed look at the cashier elicited zero sympathy or even tolerance for my snarky snort. Huh? No euros available? It isn’t exactly an oddity, is it?). A week later, with my long-awaited euros in hand and specific instructions on where to get my passport picture taken in the city (CVS pictures weren’t on the list of approved vendors. Maybe “my” people have particularly odd-shaped heads that chain store pharmacies can’t quite capture?), I set off on my journey through the Lincoln Tunnel. I found parking a few blocks away from the embassy, after skipping the first, slightly more expensive parking lot to preserve my MoMa/gift shop/jeans fund.

The embassy-approved “photographer,” working out of a hole in the wall, was easy enough to find. It was a particularly hot and sunny September afternoon, so I was temporarily blinded when I stepped into the poorly-lit store. A clerk came right up to me and correctly guessed my nationality and my reason for being there (the head shape thing?). Before I could oppress the high-humidity-induced mutiny on my head or re-adjust my summer blouse, I was directed to stand against the only merchandise-free wall. The clerk said something I didn’t quite catch, and I smirked politely. The flash went off. Done.  

I was led to the counter, where the photographer gently waved my Polaroid to dry.  I paid the 10 dollars, careful not to reach for the apparently rare euros, and waited. The clerk/photographer handed me the picture and said something. I instinctively understood what he wanted; he recommended a redo.

“Oh, no, no, thank you. I’m fine. Thanks.”

Why spend another 10 dollars on a lousy photo I will never look at again? Especially if I can put that money to good use at the MoMa gift shop!

The rest of the afternoon went as planned. I chatted with the pleasant embassy employee during my allotted 15 minutes (punctuality is something of national pride where I come from), soaked up every single Jackson Pollock in the museum (is that a bottle cap in there?), bought over-priced souvenirs for the kids, and skipped the jeans deal in lieu of driving through Times Square in my little Jetta and out the Lincoln Tunnel before the rush-hour tsunami would have swept me out of the city either way.

It wasn’t until six weeks later, when the FedEx arrived, that I realized with horror how much of a difference an additional 10 bucks could have made.

My hair was frizzy, my skin shiny, and my collarbone was visible, giving the impression that I’m naked on my passport picture.

It’s only good for 10 years, right? And aside from every customs agent at the airport, ticket counter clerk, and random security officer in the terminal, who will ever see it? It’s only seared in my mind, no big deal. Who knows where I’ll be in 10 years. Maybe I’ll actually look like the person in the passport picture two Summer Olympics from now. One thing’s for sure, I’ll gladly trade currency on the street if need be, forgo bottle caps embedded in oil paintings, and wait for more forgiving weather conditions next time. Vanity is a terrible thing, I know, but so are misguided priorities and saving an extra two dollars on parking.

I had just sent off my swimmer into the unknown – gently guiding her toward the packed pool deck with instructions to find her coach. Parents aren’t allowed poolside, so I made a quick exit, eager to follow the parents’ handbook instructions. The week before, while attending a parent orientation, I had already made an unfavorable first impression by snorting too loudly through my nose at the idea of becoming a certified official at future meets so I could spend additional time volunteering, beyond the already expected commitment. My poor attempt at disguising my snort as a mild cold symptom did little to aid in my backpedaling.

Just as the season started, my daughter also signed up to learn an instrument and join chorus as her elementary school. I was immensely proud of her musical endeavors and pictured stellar SAT scores from my well-rounded future scholar; and I was just one orientation away from learning the ropes. During the orientation, I kept a much lower profile and only gasped once, under my tactfully held breath, when the instructor discussed finance options for the instruments. Everything was clearly outlined for the parents, so I left an hour later thoroughly confused, hoping that another trusted parent handbook would guide me once again.

A week later, the results came in. Coaches, communication directors, chorus instructors, and band teachers emailed all the vital statistics to live by.

Flute 2, Day 2

Band, Day 4 – Yellow Schedule (nobody said anything about a color code)

Chorus, Day 2

Rehearsals, Day 4

Swim Level 2 White Team (more color codes)

 Jefferson Team (why throw a president’s names into the mix?)

Practice Day 1, 3, and 5

Meets every other week at 7 a.m. (don’t forgot to bring coffee)

Sign-up for 5 dozen bake table donations, no less

The numbers have become my new mantra, not that I had a previous one, other than my slacker “go with the flow” approach. Two months in, I’ve gotten the hang of it. I may gripe about the tedious structure of it all, but the alternative might not be so pretty. Not that I would pack the bathing suits for school and the flute for the Y. If I can handle hair-raising deadlines at work, managed by Microsoft Outlook, I can certainly handle this. So I have put complete faith in my refrigerator, where the days and respective numbers to live by are posted for anyone to see…and occasionally ignore. My son is only in preschool, so we have a little loafer cushion for now.

By the time he needs his own space on the fridge, we’ll manage his activities like pros and with an overhauled attitude, applying lessons learned. I’ll leave the passive-aggressive, cynical snorts to the new slackers, while I work meets, practices, and other gatherings like a networking pro, the numbers neatly stored in my head. And I’ll pick up a few new fridge magnets as a contingency plan in the process.

My trusted, plant-covered master schedule.