Philly Moms

Playing "Mommy" a Little While Longer

I just couldn't leave her alone.

My daughter finished her sophomore year at college last week and wanted to get started working right away at her summer job, which, I know, is a good thing.  Any time your kids want to work, a mom should be launching fireworks

And I was certainly thrilled by her work ethic.  The problem?  Her job is at the Jersey Shore in the summer.  Again, the problem? 

Every Philly kid dreams of working at the Jersey Shore during the summer.  Nothing seduces a young person like dreams of the beach, and friends and, of course, romance.  The working part?  A necessary evil.  Yet again, working at the shore, no matter the job, is a lot less like work than any other job they'll ever have.

For Mother's Day, Let Them be "Settled"

It used to be macaroni picture frames.  Then we graduated to flowers and chocolate.  In recent years, it's been a night off from cooking.  And all of it was lovely.

But this year for Mother's Day, I want one thing.  I want everyone settled.  

"Settled" doesn't sound like much.  In fact, when the kids were little, getting everyone settled was a nightly occurrence.  After dinner, homework and baths, I tucked all three kids into their beds, eventually followed with my husband and myself, and there we all were--settled.

Now, however, with two kids graduated from college and living at home again, while the youngest completes her sophomore year at a local university, settled is the Holy Grail of metaphysical states in our home.  An illusion to be pursued, but elusive in its attainment.

A Good Friday Dilemma

 I'm not supposed to be doing this.

I'm writing on Friday.  Not just any Friday, mind you.  It's Good Friday, one of the holiest days of the Christian calendar.  The day on which Christ was to have died. 

I was raised a Catholic, and on Good Friday, doing anything aside from remaining in a prayerful state, especially between the hours of noon and 3 PM, was verboten.  Forbidden.  Not allowed.

Needless to say, I struggled with that over the years.  However, during my childhood, I was sufficiently afraid of the horrors of Hell to comply.  Now, I'm still not too keen on Hell, but sometimes it seems like that's in the here and now, so the threat has lost some of its sting.

The Blessings--and Curses--of Spring

Ah Spring.  The arrival of the season of rebirth last week mercifully brought an end to one of the ugliest winters we Philadelphians have had in a very long time.  And I'm grateful; really I am.

But as much as the signs of new life sprouting all around are downright inspirational in so many ways, the extra daylight hours, warm breezes and thawing ground can make me miserable in equal doses.

There's something to be said for stumbling through cold winter days with eyes only half open.  Schlepping around bundled in sweaters and jackets is comforting.  And huddling together with shades pulled tight, swaddled in throw blankets while watching the idiot box can be, well, peaceful.

Spring has Sprung at the Philadelphia Flower Show

The thesaurus left something out.

I looked up synonyms for the word "miserable" on thesaurus.com and came up with the following:  "contemptible, deplorable, despicable, detestable, godforsaken..." and so on.  All accurate, I suppose, but there was one glaring omission.  If you really want to get a feel for the word "miserable," simply substitute the phrase "Philadelphia in the winter."

Philly winters stink.  Especially this one.  We've had 85 feet of snow, trash hasn't been collected in weeks, entire city blocks have disappeared.  It's been ugly and spring is still weeks away.

Which is why, every year in late February or early March, the Pennsylvania Horticultural Society gifts we winter-weary Philadelphians with a true balm for our souls--the glorious Philadelphia Flower Show.

Finally Witnessing the Best--But Over Way too Soon

This time tomorrow night, I'm going to be going through withdrawal.

For the past two weeks (including right now, as I write this post), I've been glued to my television set, watching the Vancouver Olympics.  This is no small admission for me; I'm well known for my antipathy towards anything that smacks of a sporting event.

But these are not just any sporting events.  These are the Olympics, where the world comes together to do so much more than play mere games.  The whole spectacle of the past two weeks has all but brought me to tears nightly.  Even the incredibly lame and tacky closing ceremony show--saved in my mind only by the presence of the glorious Michael Buble--has been worth my undivided attention.

Taking a Swing at the Truth

I watched Tiger Woods’ mea culpa the other day, impressed by nothing, really.  The golfer’s thirteen minute speech contained multitudes of apologies, to his wife, mother, fans and anyone else his many indiscretions may have offended.

And he offended multitudes, no doubt about it.  I’m no sports fan, but I always admired Woods, for his focus, skill and achievements.  I bought the package of goods Woods was selling, like so many others did, and his spectacular fall from grace underscored the fact that no one is exempt from the rules by which we are all held accountable.

A Sick Day to Soothe Mom's Spirit

The plaintive call came from the bathroom.

"Mom!  Mommy!  Can you come here?"

No call of "Mommy" coming from a bathroom ever bodes well for either the caller or the callee--in this instance, me.  Every mom who has ever heard that cry, and we all have, knows one of two things is going on: your kid is sick, or they've just found something on themselves that's freaking them out.

Usually, these frightened bleatings emanate from younger children, the ones who need to be carried around and ministered to because they're too young to take care of themselves.  But in my case, we're out of younger children.  We have a nineteen year old at school with a twenty-three and a twenty-four year old living at home.  And despite their ages, they still call me from the bathroom, though usually it's because we're out of their brand of shampoo.

This time was no shampoo run, however, and I knew it as soon as I heard my daughter's voice.

Making the Call--No Cell Service or an Ugly View

I find myself caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

Imagine life without your cell phone.  Now imagine holding your perfectly functioning cell phone in your hand while staring out your front window at the vision of a cell phone tower standing five stories high across the street.

Like most folks, there have been hundreds of times when I've been tempted to throw my cell phone out the window, flush it down the toilet, run it over with my car...but I digress.  As much as the thing drives me crazy, the fact is that without it, I'd lose my primary means of communication with the four people most important to me--my husband and three kids.

For better or worse, our cell phones have become our way of keeping track of one another.  In the last half hour alone, I texted my husband and daughter at college while fielding a phone call from another daughter at work.  My son checked in earlier.

Looking Deeper on So Many Levels

Most of the time, my choices for entertainment tend towards pretty standard stuff.  Movies, dinner and a glass of wine at a local restaurant--nothing that requires too much thought as by the time I get out of the house I'm too exhausted to put forth any effort.  The outing is usually a no-brainer.

Not so this last week, when my daughter and I opted for two-plus hours of examining body parts and entire cadavers at The Franklin Institute during the museum's Body Worlds 2 exhibit, running through April 18, 2010.  (The show's just been extended; it was originally slated to close at the end of January.) 

For the better part of an afternoon, Megan and I read about, studied and explored the wonders of the human body while viewing a display that can only be described as jaw-dropping.  And I do mean that literally, as human bodies are dissected in ways which peel back skin, muscle and bones.