Chicago Moms Blog

Olympic Roundup

Under-age gymnasts, bikini-clad cheerleaders, exotic locations, arcane sports . . . bring it on! I love the Olympics. For 102 weeks, I disdain sports, then for two weeks I can't get enough. The Olympics: pomp, circumstance, spectacle, politics, scandal, international circus and, oh yes, there are a few games thrown in, too.

My favorite part is the opening ceremonies, specifically the Parade of Nations. Unfortunately, the commentators rarely talk about what interests me most: what are they wearing? I submit my recommendations for medals in the Best-dressed Nation at the opening ceremony. Few recognize the difficulty. From pixie gymnasts and beefy weightlifters, all the athletes have to look good in the same uniform.

The fashion medals for the 2008 Summer Olympiad are:

Gold-Gambia. Sky-blue dashikis with matching skullcaps. Fabulous!

Silver-Sweden. The Swedish women wore traditional Chinese cheongsam in the colors of the Swedish flag, blue with yellow piping. Clever and stylish.

Bronze-France. They're French. They always look good.

Chinese officials deemed a seven-year-old too ugly to sing on TV, but permitted a whole contingent of Hungarian female athletes to appear wearing hideous, loud, dowdy schmattes and dopey hats.* Go figure.

Second worst, the Russian team, whose male athletes wore traditional high-necked peasant blouses under modern blazers. Traditional, modern, hot and unattractive.

Keeping Up

Sigh! I love to travel. It's healthy to get away now and then. But it never fails: I can be gone for a week, a month, a mere weekend, but upon my return I fall into a major funk.

When I get home, I feel pathetic. Other people have busy lives and uncluttered houses. They have jobs, high-achieving children, well-tended yards, up-to-date photo albums and appliances that work properly. Their lives appear manageable.

This time, I was only gone for four days, but I felt like a sullen teen-ager during the duration. "How are the boys?" Fine. "Will you go back to work?" Shrug. "Are you dating anyone?" No. "How does it feel to be child-free for a few weeks?" Weird.

News of "the Arm"

Consider this: Jeff's summer camp offers unlimited one-way emailing AND the camp website posts at least two hundred photographs daily, plus a daily newsletter. When I first heard about these services, I scoffed. My parents got a few letters during my annual camp stay and they never complained!

My derision has come back to haunt me. I have become a web junkie, eagerly checking the site every afternoon to check out the pictures. The same faces, day after day. I feel like I know those kids, but none of the photos are of MY KID.

I cannot expect Jeff to write home. I supplied him with four self-addressed, stamped postcards to fulfill the weekly letter-writing obligation. Two are addressed to me and two to his brother. Not only that, but I composed the text, too, so that he would only have to fill in the blanks for such statements as "My counselor's name is __________." "My favorite camp activity is _________."

I Miss Heart

Mom, can I ask you a question? When can I come home?

Heart-breaking question, of course, but not unexpected. Now that Hart has been away almost a month, the honeymoon period at his residential school is over.

What has been unexpected is how much I miss Hart. Not Hart's behavior, oh no! I do not miss the crazy rituals, the parties in the wee hours, the unexpected tantrums and meltdowns. I miss Hart, the person, the sweet, sensitive boy. Sadly, Hart the boy and Hart the whirlwind of catastrophic behavior are inseparable. That knowledge hasn't made it much easier though. I have gotten through the past twelve years with an emotional menu of rage, mortification, and gritted-teeth determination. Now the unfamiliarity of resignation and occasional sadness has caught me unawares.

Wag of the finger for Aunt Jodi

Aunt Jodi, what the hell were you thinking? Jodi is Kate Gosselin's sister-in-law. Kate is the TV show "Kate" of Jon & Kate Plus 8. The Eight refers to her brood of a set of TWINS and a set of SEXTUPLETS. I am not a regular watcher of the show. For me, it's a bit like watching a train wreck in slow motion, but that may be the occasional appeal. The Gosselins have our family well out-numbered, but in terms of volume and mischief, my autistic twins Hart and Jeff could easily give that family a run for the money.

Watching the show, I am amazed and impressed by Kate's organization and her energy. Then I remind myself that she is nearly two decades younger than I am. She is also infuriating*, but she does have sextuplets, SEXTUPLETS, and I cut her some slack.

New Chapter

In our family lore, there are a number of historical tales about before you came to us. The boys like these stories: they know the characters and the settings; me, their dad, our pet cat, this house, Chicago. There is just enough novelty to keep them interested. "You only remember the kitty when she was old and sick, but she was a frisky kitten once, before you came to us." "That's a picture of the Coliseum in Rome. Daddy and I were there together, before you came to us." Whenever we are in Wrigleyville, I point out our apartment. "That's where Daddy and I lived when we were first married, before you came to us."

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Further back in the mists of time are another set of tales, those about when I was a kid. These are much like scary stories told around a campfire, outrageous enough to be scintillating and just barely believable. These stories take place in the exotic setting of Ohio, not in Chicago.

Good Night

I have sleep apnea. At least, I think I do.

Every few months, without warning, I'll jolt into consciousness, gasping and gulping for air like some strange undersea creature washed ashore from Dreamland. The third time it happened I realized, in my bleary and confused state, that this was possibly "something wrong."

Sensible humans would have hied themselves to a doctor for consultation, but unless my ailments are unsightly or of a digestive nature, I don't bother. Instead, I mentioned it casually to my friend who is an EMT, a Red Cross instructor and  certified for civil disasters. Should there be an earthquake, plane crash, or bloody nose, M is the go-to guy. I asked slyly, "Can someone die of sleep apnea? Like, if they don't actually wake up to breathe?" "People certainly do."   

But it seems so unlikely.

Me, paranoid?

Maybe I really am losing my sanity. It could be happening so subtly and gradually that I am not aware of it. It's a sad side effect of being single: there is no other adult around to provide a reality check. No one shouts at me to "get a grip" anymore, whether I need it or not. I am so preoccupied with being a good, sensible "therapeutic" parent, that my sense of self is possibly gently ebbing away.

Occasionally, I have episodes where I hear myself speaking and I realize how unhinged and hysterical I must appear, but I cannot stop. No amount of internal screaming to "get a grip" seems to help.

A few months ago at Jeff's school play, I watched almost the entire show with my eyes fixed on one of the other kids who was slowing and methodically shredding a silk scarf . . . . my silk scarf, in fact, intended as part of Jeff's costume. No amount to sensible self-talk could dampen the rising anxiety I felt. I had to leave the auditorium.

Last June, our local block party. Every summer on a nice Sunday, traffic barricades appear on either the block to the south or the block to the north. I never pay much attention. I am invited, I suppose, the same way all the third graders in one class are invited to Bobby's birthday party. Invited, but not welcomed.

My impression of the block party's purpose is that adults move their lawn chairs from the lawn into the

Lost Landmark

The "Dragon" at Old Orchard Mall. Hart's column is on the right.

Our Chamber of Commerce has yet to develop the Visitor's Guide to Hart-and-Jeff High Jinks, but it certainly could. There is the Edens overpass where the boys were once found throwing their shoes off onto passing cars below. Our local parochial school principal found the boys in the bushes, after seeing two naked butts outside his office window at 6am on a cold January morning. In front of Walker School, a good Samaritan stopped to summon police after noticing a barefoot kid running down the sidewalk. (He was supposed to be a winter day camp during Christmas break.)

The best-known of these historical landmarks is affectionately known as the Hart Memorial Column at Old Orchard Mall. Mall management is probably still marveling at this one. Old Orchard Mall, now Westfield Shoppingtown Old Orchard, is one of the earliest malls. Built in 1955, it was novel because of its suburban location, its size, and, get this--it was outdoors. By the time we bought our house less than a mile away from the mall, Old Orchard was in decline. It had become a utilitarian collection of nondescript brick buildings. To get from store to store, shoppers traversed poured-concrete walkways. There was the prerequisite Paul Harris, Casual Corner and Spencer Gifts. Two venerable Chicago institutions, Montgomery Wards and Marshall Field's, had anchor stores there.

About fifteen years ago, Old Orchard underwent a significant renovation. The signage was modernized using a fruit theme. (orchard=fruit, get it?) The whole mall was beautifully landscaped and spruced up. Latticework cladding camouflaged the unsightly structural pillars. Restaurants added outdoor seating in nice weather. Loewes cinemas came. Welcome additions were architectural features for kids: a maze, playground, AND the "Dragon," an undulating, hilly, climby-thing with concrete serpent heads at the ends. In short, Old Orchard became a "destination," not only for shopping, but for cultural events, restaurants, movies and just strolling around.

Don't Ask

Last winter, when I went on a cruise with my mom, brother and Hart, my mother and I made a pact when we arrived in our stateroom: I would not criticize her appearance (as I am wont to do) and she was not to ask me questions (as it seems everyone is wont to do).

As a result, it was a delightful holiday.With apologies to Bill Clinton, I would like to adopt this policy: Don't Ask, Don't Ask. Why? I feel besieged by questions, all kinds of questions from all kinds of sources. I may blow a fuse at any time.

I have to answer medical questions; questions from teachers and therapists, and I must do so accurately and to the best of my ability. There is no evading it. How old were the boys when they arrived? Did you know they had disabilities? What is their medical history? What is their current diagnosis? What medication do they take? I have

 

Passover

I love Passover!," I told Jeff's tutor when I saw her a week ago. She sighed and I immediately regretted my words. For Orthodox Jewish women, Passover is an enormous undertaking, requiring weeks of house-cleaning and shopping, not to mention the onerous task of changing over every single utensil, dish, cup and cooking surface from those used the rest of the year.

I did not always love, or even like, Passover. The Passover week of my childhood was fairly tortuous. In the small Midwestern city where we lived, there was minimum of Passover goods available and even had there been more, my mother would not have purchased them. We bought a box of matzah, a can of macaroons, hard-boiled a few eggs and called it a day, or rather, a long week.

It occurred to me that this attitude is completely contrary to the spirit of the holiday. While everyone does a fair amount of complaining after a few steady days of matzah-eating, this week is about freedom and redemption, and not at all about deprivation. There are vegetarian seders, feminist seders and chocolate seders. It's humbling to imagine historical seders of American abolitionists, Spanish conversos (Jews "passing" as Christians to avoid the Inquisition), World War II gatherings and so on.

Techno Tuck-In

At fourteen and a half, the boys think they are too old for me to read them bedtime stories. Their reading skills are very low, but I refuse to give up on exposing them to joys of leisure reading. So their bedrooms are equipped with a boom box and a few "high-interest" audiobooks from our local public library.

Yes, I know that some parents use the recorded books in tandem with the print versions. I suppose they assist, or insist, on having the child follow along with the narrator. I know my boys would immediately suss that out as "educational": I am delighted if they can listen attentively enough to follow the story. In this way, Hart and Jeff have "read" the entire Harry Potter canon and A SERIES OF UNFORTUNATE EVENTS (read magnificently by Tim Curry), age-appropriate books that they could never read on their own.

Don't call me Blanche!

I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.
....Blanche Dubois, A Streetcar Named Desire by Tennessee Williams

My boys do not "run away," the professionals inform me. What they do is called "elopement." It's a fine semantic difference, but running away implies leaving with intent to get somewhere, while elopement as I see it is joyriding in sneakers. Impulsively, they blow the joint without regard to the danger, or the time of day or night. As I often joke, a burglar can get in to my house, but is unlikely to get out again, with all the internal security measures here.

No more. Once again, for no apparent reason, the boys took off . . . through the front door, with impunity! After a less-than-dramatic capture and the police, paramedics, fire fighters, their vehicles and sniffing dog had left my house, I was left to make phone calls and rearrange schedules. Over the next few days, I told friends about the boys' late-night adventures and the aftermath. 

D**b

Regarding the corollary difficulties faced by special education kids, we have been very lucky.

Over the years, the boys have been to a negligible number of birthday parties and had few play dates. They have hosted or attended zero sleepovers. But they care not one whit. In fact, I don't think they have noticed the lack of social opportunities. They have never complained of loneliness or wishes for more friends. They have each other.

Since neither boy has ever been in a mainstream classroom or, in recent years, even been in a school with mainstream children, they have never felt stigmatized. Neither has been teased, bullied or taken advantage of.

Well-heeled

The Zamboni shirt, the skeleton skater shoes, the Texas t-shirt . . . these are a few of our favorite things! Funny how these came to be beloved articles of clothing, considering that Hart and Jeff have never actually shopped for clothes, in an actual store. The clothing fairy provides all their clothes and shoes. Luckily, she has a good idea of what they like to wear: pants with elastic waistbands; cotton shirts; nothing in "clown colors" yellow, orange or purple; athletic socks that are NOT white.

In fact, the clothing fairy has strong preferences, too. As a guiding principle, she hates to see disabled children who look like their mother, or worse, their grandmother, dressed them. Is there an IEP ruling that says these kids must wear shirts buttoned to neck, high-water pants and NOTHING that remotely resembles what their peers are wearing? The clothing fairy cares, even if the kids are indifferent.

Winter is almost over, isn't it?

Chicagoans hate February and March. With good reason. The crisp winter air has turned into an incessant biting, arctic blast. January's white blanket of snow has long become a filthy gray mass of ice and slush. While we are carping about dry skin and cold feet, shoveling out the driveway again, we are resigned to two more months of this.

I have an additional seasonal complaint. Right around this time, as the stores are displaying shorts and sandals, the boys' winter gear gives out. Last year, during the first major snow, I trekked to the Lands End Outlet in Niles, the only place I thought actually might have boots in January. (Thank goodness for catalog returns, Not-Quite-Perfect and overruns!) The boys' boots from the previous season were now two sizes too small. Twelve months later, those boots are beyond snug. The calendar may say spring is on the way, but here it's boot-wearing weather well into April. Back again to the Lands End store in the blizzard!

I didn't see that one coming!

R is a tireless PTO mom. I am always amazed at her energy and humor. While ostensibly talking today about our upcoming fundraiser, but mostly lamenting our sons' "adventures," she said, "Y'know, sometimes it just sucks to be me." R, I hear you. I swear I could not make this stuff up.

Memo: to school behaviorists, social workers and teachers

Since there is never a dull moment here, we have a new problem behavior. I hope you social workers can address this individually with each boy, since I am sure it will only escalate from here. Today, after school, Hart peed on Jeff's bed, while Jeff was in it! Jeff reports that this is not the first time, but it's the first time I have learned of it.

Bah, Humbug!

I do not feel particularly festive this year. In fact, I feel downright surly and uncharitable. I am all for a modest, "heimish" Hanukah celebration, but does the entire burden of supplying eight little treats fall solely on me? My job, year-round, is supplying toys, clothes, ice skates, vacations, summer camp and unconditional love to two less-than-grateful recipients!

The week prior to Hanukah, I drove back and forth to the hospital. Nothing puts a damper on holiday shopping like frequents trips to the psych ward. Now we are all back together, back to the usual high jinks, but with some new jinks thrown in. Hart and Jeff have always been extremely hyperactive, impulsive and socially inept, but now they are extremely hyperactive, impulsive and socially inept, aggressive and argumentative, too.

New Rule

I have been abiding by the "no white socks" rule for some time. Many pairs of blue jeans passed through the closets, brand-new and unworn, until I just gave up buying them. The boys will not wear jeans. Period.

Now Jeff has made his new preference clear: white underwear only. It was only a matter of time, I suppose. I have had my fun. I have purchased underwear in all manner of boy-friendly, clever patterns--cars, trains, dinosaurs, airplanes, soccer balls, baseball caps, basketballs, sneakers, snowmen, snowboards, ski equipment (winter), lobsters, palm trees (summer) and bats, ghosts (Halloween). In recent years (and larger sizes), there have been stripes and manlier solid colors; maroon, gray and navy blue. Jeff is a teenager now and, apparently, anything but the traditional "tighty whities" are too childish, so I have no choice but to comply.

I have a three-year-old nephew and he thinks the surf board-patterned big boy underpants are just the thing. Note to self and sister-in-law: this too shall pass.

Reader's Dilemma

When Hart was in first grade, his school psychologist told me that he would never read for pleasure. At the time, I was quite indignant. There are picture books, easy readers, adaptations, comic books, TV tie-ins. Anyone CAN read for fun. Her pronouncement seemed like that of the Bad Fairy at Sleeping Beauty's cradle.

Now years later, her prediction seems quaintly optimistic. It appears that Hart will never learn to read at all. It certainly isn't for lack of trying. There have been efforts with well-known curricula for learning disabled kids; Wilson Reading, Explode the Code, LiPS. Tutoring, reward systems, computer games. Periodically, his team gets together to re-evaluate his program. More phonics, sight words, less phonics, high-frequency word drills, creative writing, reading for comprehension, reading for fluency, high-interest texts, pre-reading texts and on and on.

It is a mystery. Children with much greater intellectual impairment than Hart learn to read. In fact, using all the efforts and strategies that educators have used with Hart, pods of dolphins could have been taught to read by now. What is very clear is this: nothing has been written to the hard drive in Hart's brain. There is faulty wiring somewhere.

The Writing on the Wall

Good penmanship is more than just a quaint skill. A new study shows that it's a key part of learning.

I know a number of adults with beautiful handwriting, all my age or older, and an equal number of adults who either never learned cursive or are more comfortable "printing." All of those are younger than I am. We who were in 2nd and 3rd grade in the mid-60s were the last ones to be taught penmanship rigorously.

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I learned cursive with the Peterson* method. The letters themselves are the same as the familiar Palmer cursive alphabet which hangs above most classroom blackboards today. Peterson was revolutionary at the time because of the method of teaching it. In 2nd grade we learned "slant print," to prepare us for the exact approved angle of Peterson cursive. In 3rd grade, we spent one half-hour daily learning the strokes. I have vivid recollections of pages covered with eggs and sticks and the chant, "Round, round, ready write!" as we made ovals in the air. We continued the exercises and were graded on "penmanship" until leaving for 7th grade and junior high.

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Feeling Icy

"I have to skate with a RETARD?"

At last Sunday's speed skating meet, three categories of skaters were combined to race together; three boys, one girl and one special needs skater (namely Jeffrey). Evidently, not everyone was delighted with the arrangement.

I happened to overhear this because we were sitting right next to the competitors. Jeff was unaware of the minor drama occuring within earshot: Jeff is generally oblivious to all conversation that isn't about cars or Pokemon. However, I felt compelled to gently tap the dad on the shoulder and say, "This is my son, Jeff. He is a special needs skater." The kids didn't hear and Jeff didn't hear, so what does it matter?

Scary

Last year at this time, Hart and Jeff were still sweet-faced little boys, eligible for trick-or-treating. In the past twelve months, they have morphed into sinewy young men with broad shoulders, six-pack abs and bass voices. Hardly candy-begging material. The question is: do they feel they have outgrown Halloween?

Can they go cold turkey on the candy? Will they be happy doing a "big-kid" job of being treater, instead of treatee? In my youth, sixth grade was the trick-or-treat cut-off. A few fifth graders foreswore the practice a year early, but that was tantamount to being a show-off. Junior high kids going begging? I have had high school students come to the door for candy!

In past years, the boys have been pleased to wear whatever homemade costumes I put together for them. But I can't get excited about outfitting 14-year-olds. They haven't mentioned costumes yet, but they have talked about candy. Maybe I will be a witch this year, and just tell them that they are too old to go trick-or-treating.

Halloween 2006

Also posted on RAISING ROMULUS AND REMUS

Goodbye Kitty

It's been several months since Inky the Cat stayed with us while her "parents" were in California.

Inky's temperament was perfectly suited to our household: she made her presence known, but had her own schedule and preferences. Princess that she is, she only deigned to allow us to care for her. She had her agenda and plans, and if her path happened to cross with ours, she permitted us to pet her or play with her.

After months of warning the boys not to get too attached,

Little Deuce Coupe

I feel the same way about cars as I do about dogs: very nice . . . for other people. I have just never had an interest in either. I like my pets and my cars to be practical and low-maintenance; e.g. cats and Hondas. Then I fell in love.

Every year I have taken the boys to the Chicago Auto Show.  In 2001, we have heard about a coming attraction: next season BMW is to reintroduce that icon of London's Carnaby Street swinging 60s, the Austin Mini. There were a number of prototypes around the booth. (That's a very young Jeff trying 'em out in the photo.) I was smitten.

Love, Valor, Groundhog Day

Parents go to extraordinary lengths for their children. It is an evolutionary prerogative, of course, but what of people who have tubes retied to produce a second child as a marrow donor for the first child, those who donate organs, those who find themselves in dire poverty to pay for a child's medical or legal needs, people who DIE for their children? These news-worthy heroes always astonish me . . . people who undertake an act of amazing love, valor and compassion.

Luckily, I am not in such a situation. My life with Hart and Jeff calls for heroics, no doubt, but of the smaller, more modest sort. It works this way: I force myself to be patient most of the time until the 32nd occurrence of some behavior, then I explode. No matter, the boys are always up for number 33, 34, 35, 36. They never tire of aberrant behavior, even if they know that it is abnormal.

Koan

A year or so ago, Jeffrey took strange delight in harassing a classmate who had similar sensory issues, by creeping up on him and making a ringing sound. This was very distressing, and Jeff got a big kick out of the boy's reaction. Then Jeff went off to junior high and I never really thought about it again. In fact, I haven't seen this particular kid in over a year.

The reason: This boy has developed an irrational panic disorder about Jeff. He has not been able to attend any event or school program that Jeff may or may not be attending without having a complete breakdown. His friends and classmates have taken it upon themselves to act as lookouts so that they can warn this boy if Jeff is in the vicinity. Jeff is blissfully unaware, and I was, too, until his mother told me so she can implement an intervention with the help of a behavioral therapist.

How crazy does a kid have to be to make another crazy kid even crazier?

Fourteen

I am, by now, familiar with all the signs of teenagerdom: the ennui, the eye-rolling, the sassy answers to basic questions, the polysyllabic "No-ooo-oh." What took me by surprise was the abruptness, the almost-instant change from chubby-cheeked boys to angular, broad-shouldered young men.

End-of-summer shopping has born this phenomenon out. No more brightly-colored school supplies for us. I didn't realize I was so fond of swim trunks with adorable shark, dolphin or palm tree motifs, until I became conscious of the fact that those don't come in "big boy" sizes. The Gymboree-type clothing that makes any mother's heart beat faster; dress shirts with puppies over the pocket, matching socks and shorts with race car appliqués, anything in primary colors (all of them at the same time). Alas, long outgrown.

Jeff has declared T-shirts in yellow, orange or purple to be “clownish.” Heather gray is the new preference. Dinosaur PJ’s? Forget it.

This summer, both boys' feet grew suddenly from size 6 to a men's size 8. It was a transition from the colorful world of the children's department to the monochromatic adult aisles. From Oz, back to Kansas. Rows of navy blue, brown and black shoes. Oh well, we had a decade of the colorblock sneakers. Jeff's object of desire was a pair of black skateboard slip-ons with skulls and crossbones. Trés cool for eighth grade.

Campfire Tales

On the long, long drive home from Michigan, Jeff was chatty and forthcoming about his week away. The veracity of his account is highly suspect but, like his mom, Jeff knows that a good story is all in the telling.

He was eager to tell me all about his amazing constructions. Using a glue gun, Popsicle sticks, sea shells and found objects, Jeff created a ship, a wishing well and an airplane, which by all accounts, were quite the hit at camp. Carefully packed in a computer box, they took up nearly the entire back seat.

Hart, Criminal Mastermind

Offense: unlawful breaking and entering of parental bedroom for nefarious purposes.

Vandalism
Evidence: Original first-issue Beanie Baby found with tags removed. Toy unharmed. Tags found in perp's bedroom.
Defense: Perp claims brother is responsible.
No charges. First warning. Toy eventually sold.

Theft
Evidence: Expensive diamond engagement ring missing. Recovered in basement clothes dryer.
No charges. Ring removed to bank safety deposit box.

Fraud
Evidence: New toy car bearing original price tag of $26.99. $30 simultaneously missing from dresser.
Witness (babysitter): Perp claims permission to spend the money.
Defense: "It's my money."
Toy returned to store for refund.

Vandalism
Evidence: Perp discovered at scene of crime.
Arresting officer inquires what perp is doing. Perp claims to be repairing broken shoe rack in closet. Officer asks how rack was broken.
Defense: Perp takes 5th Amendment rights, requests legal counsel.

Heart of Glass

Although born twenty-five years too late, Hart is a punk rocker at heart. He especially adores the rock group Blondie. He worships Debbie Harry. We keep the "Best of Blondie" CD in the car, because it is Hart's favorite. He knows all the songs, and sings along.

Hart has asked me many times if I ever saw Blondie perform. (I have not.) He also asked many times if he could see the band perform. I have explained that these songs were recorded over twenty years ago. Debbie Harry probably doesn't look like her photo on the CDs anymore and she might be a grandmother even, and too old to tour. We have to content ourselves with her recordings.

Last summer, when Ravinia Festival announced its season, what do you know? Blondie was the opening act. I immediately ordered tickets. I did not even tell Hart until I had the tickets in hand. It seemed too good to be true. So off we went.

Midway through the concert, I suggested we go close to the stage, so we could see Debbie Harry. We crowded close to the pavilion with the other members of the lawn seat proletariat. We danced. We took turns watching Debbie through our opera glasses. During the encore, Hart blew her kisses. He swears she saw him and blew kisses back. It was an extraordinary evening.

Under the groupie exterior that is Hart lurks a fragile soul. Hart's story is one of great loss: loss of his birth family, his country, his language, then his father (due to divorce) and our geriatric cat. These cumulative losses have created a hole in him that cannot be sealed or filled. Hart constantly feels slighted. He worries that he will not have enough food or toys or money. No amount of love or friends or attention ever seems to be enough for him.

Our evening at Ravinia revealed a different boy. Hart was entirely in the moment. I anticipated complaints about the crowd, our seats, the noise, the bugs. Nothing. Hart even declined ice cream, for fear of missing any of the music. Is it possible that one evening replaced even a tiny bit of what is missing from his heart? I imagine the adult Hart saying long after I am gone, "As a kid, I loved Blondie. It was my fondest wish to see Blondie in concert. One summer, they performed at Ravinia Festival. And, you know what? My mom took me!"

READ A REVIEW: Atomic Energy of Blondie Rages at Ravinia

Camp Conundrum

Back in January, I sat down with a number of program brochures, summer calendar and school schedules to figure out how to keep both my boys amused and out of trouble during the summer. Since Jeff has loved his previous one-week overnight camp experiences, I foolishly assumed that it was a sure thing: All I had to do was send the check. Wrong.

Jeff was suddenly coy when I mentioned it. "I don't want to go this year. It was too long away from home." That was such a transparent lie that I wondered what was really behind this pronouncement. "Six days is not very long," I offered. "You classmate Amy's camp is four weeks, but I think there is a two-week session." "Two weeks is fine." Pause. "Four weeks is fine, too." A few days later, I ventured my hypothesis on Jeff's change of heart. "I know a lot of the campers there use wheelchairs or don't speak or run very well. Is that it? Would you rather go to a camp with 'regular' kids?" Bingo.

So I looked at web sites and talked to other parents. It turns out Amy's experience last summer was not great--it's hard enough being a teenager, much less one with special issues--so her mother was camp shopping, too.

All four of us trekked to the outer 'burbs on snowy Sunday to attend a Camp and Summer Adventure Fair. Was that an eye-opener! The Fair was set up like any other trade fair and the presenters were just as subtle. I have had more success fending off perfume-wielding women in shopping malls. Girls-Only camps! "No, just boys here!" I announced without breaking my stride. Christian camp? Get thee behind me. Summer programs with computers, chess, foreign languages. Don't make me laugh.

Jeff was completely sold on a Wisconsin YMCA camp whose representative brought along a live rabbit. Amy was quite taken at a booth whose camp program includes a field trip to BUILD-A-BEAR Workshop. But her mother and I were listening skeptically. We were waiting for the code words, "diversity," "inclusion," "accommodation." While there are many camps for disabled kids only, it appears that regular camps who are proactive in providing staff and welcoming kids like ours . . . well, not so much.

We mothers had a visit to the twilight zone at one booth. I had phoned ahead of time to describe Jeff and the director had offered to meet with us at the Fair. Amy got the full treatment of the delights of this particular camp, her mom got the sales pitch, while I, simultaneously was told that they would not take Jeff. Yes, I think that was what the director said. It was hard to tell, because every time I tried to extricate myself with a polite, "I won't take up any more of your time then," he wouldn't release me since he had Amy, a live one, on the line.

Strolling down the last aisle, I stopped at another YMCA camp booth. While Amy admired the photo display, I asked directly, "Do you accommodate children with special needs?" The rep’s eyes lit up. "Yes, we do. We have a behavioral specialist on staff and we provide a one-on-one if the camper requires it. Our camp is committed to integrating these kids and making their camp experience successful." Oh, really? I tried to sound interested, yet non-committal. "May I have your card, your address, your email and an application? Would you like a check now?

Jeff leaves tomorrow. He joins a cabin of 'regular' teenaged boys somewhere in the wilderness of Michigan. I want this week to be a success, but there isn't anything I can do. I am under strict orders from Jeff to "just drop him off." That's normal, right?

Chicago Moms Blog . . . par-tay!

And the goodie bag! Wow! Jeff claimed the adorable mini colored pencil set from Yahoo! Hart got the Vox t-shirt. He presented his baby-walking charge, Emily, with all the cool baby-related items. Her mom was pleased. I gave sitter Tahra a t-shirt of her choice . . . .

Plans

Many of my friends have been shepherding their first-borns, now high school juniors and seniors, through the college application process. These parents fully understand the import of such a decision and the huge financial burden they will incur. To a one, they are being driven to distraction by their sons' and daughters' indecision and inaction.

I can watch neutrally from the sidelines (Jeff and Hart are entering 8th grade), secure in the knowledge that I will never have to go through this. Frankly, for myself, I can envision a more likely scenario of periodic appearances at parole board hearings than I can imagine campus visits.

However, at Jeff's annual IEP* meeting this spring, the school district official asked what consideration had been given to mainstreaming experience for Jeff next year. I looked stricken. Hart and Jeff have never had any more mainstream experience than an occasional lunch in the cafeteria when they attended public school, and that was not a success. We, all three of us, are quite comfortable in the caring, nurturing milieu of special education, thank you very much.

She must have sensed my surprise. "Next year when we meet, we will be discussing high school, and that will be another major transition." Hardly comforting. The wisdom of her words was irrefutable. Time marches on, swiftly and relentlessly, for both the college-bound and the vocational candidate alike. We may not be making the traditional post-high school plans, but we do have to make PLANS.


* Each public school child who receives special education and related services must have an Individualized Education Program (IEP). The IEP creates an opportunity for teachers, parents, school administrators, related services personnel, and students (when appropriate) to work together to improve educational results for children with disabilities.

Extraterrestrials

I read an interview with noted animal behaviorist and autistic, Temple Grandin, where she described herself as feeling like "an anthropologist on Mars." A common theme in writings of autistic adults is the stress and anxiety they feel trying to fit in to "our world."

I understand and sympathize. I have spent too much time in Jeffworld and Hartworld not to. But that does not mean I like it there.

I prefer the "neurologically typical" world, where people make eye contact, speak to me in English words and sentences, and modulate their voices depending on the distance between themselves and the listener. In this world, some experiences are interesting and exciting, and some are boring or mundane.

I have no choice but to navigate in the boys' world--where life is loud, fast, daring, unpredictable and thrilling all the time. Social conventions are irrelevant. Impulsivity reigns supreme.

However--true confession here--the bizarre worlds of other impaired kids are just too much for me. I have tremendous appreciation and respect for adults who choose to work with these children: There isn't enough money in the world to pay me to do it.

Since both boys are in specialized private schools, I am frequently called upon for volunteer duties. Of course I participate, but that doesn't mean I like it.

I used to carpool another boy after school. Bright and gregarious, he had a sole passion in life: oceans. To communicate with him, you had to talk about oceanography, and if you didn't feel like it, it did not matter. He carried on a nonstop monologue for the entire ride. When it got too distracting, I would say, "Jason, stop talking now." After making a left turn or merging into highway traffic, I would say, "Go on," and he would pick up mid-sentence where he left off. Once, when all three boys were talking loudly at once, I bellowed, "Everyone, be quiet now!" A moment later, a voice piped up, "You can't stop me from talking about oceans." True enough, but that does not make it any less annoying.

At dinner with another family, their daughter told she me she was thinking of a song she knew, which she proceeded to sing throughout the entire meal, until her dad gently said, "Please sing in your head. I am having trouble hearing the conversation."

To the classmate who was screaming and jostling Jeff at a school function, I barked, "Our family rule is no touching other people. And if you can't use your inside voice, you can't sit with us!"

Although I am impatient, I understand, really I do, how difficult it is for these kids. I have two aliens of my own.

The Devil Wears Prada

One of my earliest jobs when I moved to Chicago was in the rarified world of contemporary art. And, in my career since, I have had a number of devil-bosses. So the film "The Devil Wears Prada," was tremendously enjoyable and hysterically familiar.

However, the filmmakers have taken pains to demonstrate how competent boss-from-hell, Miranda Priestley, is. She is shown at an editorial meeting, gala events, working late hours on her computer, and nightly reviewing her upcoming magazine at home. She is blunt, arrogant, opinionated and imposing, but she is unmistakably competent. This is surely a Hollywood conceit, because my devil-bosses have been, to a one, astonishingly incompetent. If they have shown genius, it is at deflecting responsibility, claiming credit for ideas and projects that they attempted to undermine, and unabashed cluelessness.

Miranda's coat-tossing is imperious, but it's also a shorthand for "I'm here. Let's get to work and make fashion news happen." I knew a coat-tosser in the art world (really), but it was all about making an entrance. The only message was, "I'm here. One of you little people, fetch me some coffee." Later, my boss' boss, the actual real-life model for Martha in Edward Albee's Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, only deigned to come to meetings if food was being served, and then only if she was able to choose the restaurant. Six or seven people participated in this charade monthly; the real meetings took place informally without her. The boss-from-hell's presence inspires stifled sniggers more than creative ideas.

Miranda Priestley knows what is going on in her organization and in her field. Although she doesn't engage in small talk or traffic in personal confidences, she KNOWS what everyone is doing. In fact, her proteges are quite loyal to her. At the finale of the film, Miranda makes an unsolicited phone call to recommend the hapless heroine for a new job. Now that is real movie magic. The devil-bosses I have worked for do not know what their co-workers and subordinates do, nor do they care.

We regularly kept our boss busy for weeks criticizing the copy for donor solicitation letters through drafts 6, 15, 20 . . . draft 3 had gone to the printer and into the mail, weeks ago, on schedule. Once fearing the worst, I asked a friend to phone a former boss to ask for reference for me. He told her that he remembered my name, but could not remember what job I had had with the organization. (I had left two months before.)

Supervisors are unlikely to attend charm school any time soon. However, an amazing supervisor once told me, "When you have a good boss, you learn about yourself: when you have a bad boss, you learn about other people." Though I would not relish having Miranda Priestly for a boss, the employees of fictional RUNWAY magazine are on their best game in both fashion and people skills.

Passports

Since I have planned an exciting vacation this summer--a cruise, we need passports. I dutifully appeared at our township clerk's office, laden with folders of documents.

As it happened, the passport clerk was training an apprentice, presumably for the summer passport rush.

"Have at it," I said. "This one should be more complicated and unusual that most."

Dutifully, I produced:

A notarized affidavit from the absentee parent to permit Hart to get a passport.

Proof of citizenship--immigration and naturalization papers. (I also have a congratulatory letter from President Bill Clinton, although I wasn't asked to show it.)

Certificate of Foreign Birth, in lieu of a U.S. birth certificate

Adoption Decree, in Russian, with signed and notarized English translation.

Even so, there were plenty of questions:

Who is this? His father.

What's this name? That's the given Russian last name.

I thought his name was Alexander. No, that is his middle name
now.

Do we need his Russian passport? No, it has been invalid since
1996. It’s a souvenir.

Who is Jeffrey? His twin brother.

Who is Anatoly? That is his brother's Russian
name.

Where does it say "twin birth?" Dunno, I can't read
Russian.

Your last name is different from his. Yes.

As for my passport, I needed only my birth certificate and my driver’s license.

Four checks later, and swearing that the information we had given was true to the best of our knowledge, we were done.

It made me wonder how adoptive parents in a less-enlightened time handled this. If you were keeping the adoption secret from the child, surely teachers, doctors, government officials and family members would have to be complicit in the charade. I can’t imagine how (or why) people tried to pull it off.

I tried to entertain Hart while we waited by showing him his old Russian passport, his green card photo and documents hand-written in Russian. He was not interested in the least. Now it turns out that passport requirements for Caribbean travel have been loosened anyway. Grrrrrrr.

Auto-Motive II

"I've brought some friends over to play," Jeff announced as he returned from the Port-a-Potties, at last night's 4th of July festivities. Two little blond boys eagerly grabbed a few of the three dozen Hot Wheels that Jeff always has on hand.

I was slightly taken aback. "Does your mom know you are over here on our blanket?" I asked. Moments later, a tall blond man squatted down beside our encampment.

"Jeff, did you ask the dad if these guys could come over and play?" Evidently not.

This hardly qualifies as public mortification that I am used to with my boys. Still, I know that a teenager making overtures to a 3- and a 5-year-old is odd. If the dad was alarmed by his preschoolers being shanghaied by a much older boy, he did not show it.

Without formal preliminaries, the four kids dug into the cars. "How did you know these boys were interested in cars?" "We brought a few ourselves," the dad told me. How to explain that Jeff easily can smell out toy cars in a dense crowd of 12,000 people?

We adults made general small talk while the kids played. And then Jeff summarily dismissed them, "It's getting dark. You have to go now."

Auto-Motive

When Jeff and I walked into the restaurant, he immediately spotted the model Corvette and rushed over. Of course, there was a little boy attached to the vehicle, so the two of them immediately began talking about their shared passion--CARS. Hard to believe that there is another boy as passionate about automobiles, but there is, and as inevitably happens, they found each other. I introduced myself to his parents and sat down at the adjacent table while the two boys admired each others' models.

We mothers discussed activities for car-obsessed boys. Have they been to the Petersen Automotive Museum in Los Angeles? Yes, and what about that Hot Wheels Hall of Fame exhibit? Have they been to the annual Chicago Auto Show? Not yet, maybe this year. California Legoland's driving range? Yep. Seen the Pixar movie, CARS? Six times already. Does your son like the TV shows, OVERHAULING and RIDES? Never seen 'em. What channel? How about getting the boys together to play? You bet.

The boys were already planning on a toy car swap. Andy is less than half Jeff's age, but it does not matter to either of them. He is conversant about all makes and models of cars. "Awesome." His dad once let him sit on his lap and steer the car in a parking lot. "Sweet."

We have had one dinner together at the same restaurant where we met. Both boys brought their flashiest and newest toy cars to show. Andy had a portable DVD player with a Hot Wheels movie. Andy's mom and I had our own dinner conversation on the other side of the table.

It was extraordinary. Jeff is not much interested in talking and he does not generally respond to conversational overtures. His restaurant M.O. involves shoveling down the food and asking when we will leave. I kept glancing over to see him holding forth on his favorite topic. Andy seemed equally enthralled.

I once heard a parent of an autistic child say how demanding and stressful it is for her child to be in "our world." "We know we have to allow him time in relax in his world." I never understood that so well until I saw Jeffrey find a normal, regular kid who loves his world, too.

Chevy Bel-Air by Jeff at age 12

A Good Heart

Three sheepish eighth grade graduates were honored, and the additional ten or so Yeshiva students in Hart's program each were recognized for their accomplishments this year. This will be the last such ceremony for us here. Hart's therapists, teachers and I have been preparing him for his transfer to a new school this fall. (Of course, Hart is unaware that we adults have been working on the transfer for months.)

But, five years in one school with the same group of classmates and teachers is a long time in the life of a 13-year-old. As I looked around the gym at the usual gathering of staff, pupils, and parents, I realized that five years has been a long time for me, too. Over the years, I have attended weekly meetings, formal staffings, numerous assemblies, a number of Bar Mitzvahs, social events and holiday programs, with this same cadre. I have grown to know these kids and their parents, and to appreciate the tireless staff beyond measure.

The principal made a short speech. The graduates got diplomas, handshakes, and made their remarks. Classroom teachers handed out certificates for "improvement in reading," "love of mathematics," "excellence in science." For Hart, an award for "art and creativity."

Hart's academic growth these past few years has been minimal, despite everyone's Herculean efforts. This has been a subject of endless frustration. I can only wish that he will make greater progress in the new school.

Rabbi, who teaches religious studies to these young scholars, also distributed awards. Each was accompanied by a short d'var.* "Lamp of learning." Not Hart. "Listening attentively." No way. "Asking insightful questions." Hardly. "Excellence in Hebrew." Hah. And on through the alphabet. Until, "Lev Tov*--Being Good-Natured." [You are] sensitive to the well-being of God's creatures, you are friendly and good-hearted. You are willing to help out with a minyan* and fair in play.

I feel much despair over Hart's academic limitations of course, but suddenly I realized that a lev tov is an extraordinary achievement. It cannot be taught.

* Religious explanation.
* Literally, a good heart
* Having become Bar Mitzvah, Hart can be counted in a prayer quorum, which requires ten people.

Off to camp

. . . offers a range of recreational activities for your child to enjoy including: tennis, archery, softball, volleyball, gymnastics, biking, arts and crafts, outdoor living, skills, ropes courses, instructional and free swim, fishing, canoeing, pontoon boat rides, scavenger hunts, and cookouts, special outings including bowling and miniature golf. 

Hart leaves tomorrow for a week at overnight camp. This is his second year. Some kids go to sports camp, some to music camp or science camp: Hart goes to social skills camp. Last year, I was thrilled to hear about this new program:

"a week-long, overnight summer camp experience for boys and girls who have been diagnosed with Asperger's Syndrome, Non-Verbal Learning Disorder, Learning Disabilities, ADD, ADHD, High Functioning Autism, or related disorders that have a significant impact on social skills development."

Overnight camp is the ultimate social experiment for children. They fly away, lose all their belongings, try a bit of independence, then come home. Unlike the progressive Jewish-Zionist camp that I attended and loved as a kid, Hart's week away is a more controlled social experiment.

"The Camp provides a unique camp experience designed to foster friendships and positive social interactions among campers in a supportive, safe, and structured atmosphere."

Hart is excited for another week away--from me, school, his brother. If only there was such a thing for parents to escape their annoying offspring for a week of social skills-building.

Summer Visitor

Now I can add a gray fox to the list of wildlife visitors to my house. This beauty has been lounging around in the backyard (in broad daylight) for a few hours daily this past week. We have grown quite fond of "Foxy-Loxy" in the week since he moved in. His first visit, I thought, was an anomaly, but he seems to like our backyard with its supply of fresh, ripe bunny babies, and the next door neighbor's koi pond. I suspect he is not a stranger to our neighborhood, since he appears to be wearing a handsome tracking collar.

Quest for Socks

 

Black socks, they never get dirty

The longer you wear them, the blacker the get

Sometimes they long for the washer,

But something inside me says,

DON'T SEND THEM YET!

________________________________ camp song

I troll the aisles of Big Lots, Gap, Old Navy, Target, Marshalls, The Children's Place. I am on the eternal quest for socks. Socks develop holes, get eaten by the dryer, and the boys outgrow them after a wearing or two. I am looking for stretchy athletic socks, but THEY MUST NOT BE WHITE. For some reason, both boys hate white socks and will not wear them.

Unbeknownst to them, I do not like white socks either. Nothing says "dork" to me quite like a pair of bright white socks, and nothing says "uber-dork" than white socks worn with blindingly pristine white sneakers. Unless the wearer is playing tennis, baseball or soccer, white socks are, well, dorky.

Clearly we are in the minority, since stores are filled with every size, shape and style of white athletic socks. There are the "no-show" variety, low-cut, crew, calf-high. Grippy soles, ribbed soles, smooth soles. They come plain or with a designer logo of choice. The ones I really hate are those with gray, black or navy soles which excite me until I discover that they are really . . . white.

This is my method. Occasionally, some manufacturer introduces the socks in a different color. They do not sell, so they are marked down. At this point if I find them, I buy lots of them. By the time they get to the discounters like Amazing Savings or Big Lots, I know this is the last chance so I buy all of them, then ask the stock guys to check if there are more in back. In this way, I cornered the market and hoarded all the Hanes black low-cuts, which had been discontinued after a single season. Nike has black athletic socks, but I suspect it will not be for long.

Hair Apparent

As a mid-life treat for myself, I have decided to have laser hair removal. I know I don't look like a werewolf to others, but hair is a life-long preoccupation of mine. As a child, I craved long chestnut locks, then long straight blond hair. No wait. Curly--curly and auburn, that's what I want. However, I have nondescript light brown hair which I have worn short most of my life. First the 60s Pixie, and then the adult versions; with flippy bangs in the late 70s, mullet-y in the early 80s, then short and spiky, moving on to the early 90s horizontal shelf in back and finally casually disheveled in the new millennium.

I also have what a friend termed "terrier hair"-- hair so straight, thick and coarse that, if it were longer could string violin bows. This texture provides my hair with its own force field. It repels foreign objects. No bobby pins, barrettes or doodads for me. I could feel the force of gravity on my Farrah Fawcett bangs, before the pssssssst sound of the curling iron died away. In my brief high school years with long hair, I once tried a ponytail. It was about the circumference of my wrist for a nano-second, and then, sproing, the rubber band broke under the strain and shot across the room.

Additionally, I got the whole genetic package: the Hobbit feet; the upper lip which up until now cried for regular waxing, sugaring, bleaching; the eyebrows like two separated lovers, reaching to embrace across the bridge of my nose. So now I am taking extreme measures.

Still, I hadn't reckoned on life with two adolescent boys. "Look at my arms!" Jeff exclaims after swimming. "Wow," I agree. "Fur." I look closely at his face with what I hope appears to be a fond maternal gaze. I am scrutinizing him for signs of nascent uni-brow.

Hart gingerly fingers his upper lip. He is dismayed by the faint shadow there. "See, I have it, too. Everyone does." I console. "It looks much better on you."

Alas, it gets even worse. A friend who shares my birth date confided, "I am really going gray." "Yeah, me, too." I said, thinking of the dozen silver strands that I occasionally notice in the rear view mirror (IF I have the sun roof open). "No," she said, cocking an eyebrow meaningfully. "I am going gray EVERYWHERE."

Rabbitting on

My suburban home is a wildlife refuge. Of course, there are the boys, feral animals that they are, but additionally every summer our yard teams with creatures. In addition to the raccoon in my bathtub, there have been a number of opossum who have fallen into the window wells to be rescued and set free by Animal Control. I see skunks gamboling on the lawn at dusk. Chipmunks scamper across the patio. Three baby raccoons were born in a nest in one of our chimneys, the chimney which did not have a cap at that time. Once, I saw a pair of coyotes . . . coyotes, in suburban Chicago . . . right on the front curb.

And always, lots and lots of rabbits. I do not garden so I don't think of them as pests. Now that our cat is gone, they are the closest things to pets that we have.

At the moment, we have a burrow at the back of our yard, under the hedge. From the kitchen window, I have a clear view of the family's daily lives. It appears that there is one large one and two smaller ones. It amuses me to imagine a parallel bunny family out there. Our largest annual rabbit visitor is always called One-Ton-Bun. So we think there is One-Ton-Bun and her two bunny boys. The two little ones often play together while their mom placidly eats.

To One-Ton-Bun, maybe we are a source of endless interest: the inhabitants of the human burrow at the back of her yard--a solitary big one and the two smaller ones. "See, children," she tells them. "They are looking at us. The humans are strange, but fascinating."

An Old-Fashioned Girl

My elderly aunt still refers to Memorial Day as Decoration Day, and to the Museum of Science and Industry as "ze Rosenvald Museum," as if a member of the founding Rosenwald family might actually greet visitors at the entrance.

I don't say "filling station" and "five-and-dime" but I do catch myself saying, "record" and "album" when referring to music. The gesture I know for "dial a phone" is making a clockwise circle with a forefinger. My Chicago references are archaic, dating from my arrival here in the early 80s. I know the "el" lines by their terminus stations, not by their colors. The Bishop-Ford Expressway, what's that? Marshall Field's had long ceased to "give the lady what she wants," but calling that building Macy's sounds foreign, if not downright pretentious.

I astonish the boys with tales of the "olden days," before cell phones, videos, email. We watched black and white TV. (No!) There were only three channels. (The horror!) If you were out and you needed to make a phone call, you had to find a pay phone booth. (Huh?)

A few years ago, I inherited my dad's 1947 portable Remington Corona, a relic from college. I was eager to show it to Hart and Jeff.

Me: Can you guess what this is?
H & J: No.
Me: It belonged to Grandpa Paul. It's an old typewriter.
H: What is it for?
Me: Before there were computers, if you wanted to write a letter or a report, you used this.
H: No games?

Eight Legs Up

Summer movie season is upon us. We love movies. Who doesn't? We have seen every single Pixar production multiple times, and every Harry Potter film a dozen times. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix is coming, yippeeeeeee. Even if the film isn't my cup of tea, but remotely suitable for the boys, we go. I slept through Chicken Little and Spiderman II. Though I was eager to see The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, I closed my eyes when Lucy met Mr. Tumnus, the fawn, and when I opened them, Lucy was at her coronation. Unless the movie sounds completely repellent (The Cat in the Hat with Mike Myers), we go.

Jeff's all-time favorite movie is none of these films that I've carefully vetted. This film is known, familiarly, in our house, as "The Spider Movie." We discovered it on cable one weekend when I was trying to do some housework and Jeff had run out of toy car-related activities. "Wait," he shrieked, "Turn back!" Hmmmm, I thought, that looks like Scarlett Johansson. (It IS Scarlett Johansson.)

I have not seen the film all the way through, but generally it is campy horror send-up about a small Arizona town menaced by gigantic arachnids. I checked in on Jeff in the TV room to see half dozen huge spiders jumping down an abandoned stretch of highway. "What happened to them?" I asked. "Somebody potioned them."

I was concerned about possible onscreen violent encounters with enormous spiders. There is no blood. The spiders attack by quickly spinning the human victims into webs and sticking them onto walls and ceilings to great comic effect. Bullets glance off larger spiders, but the smaller ones explode with a gooosh of green goo, which Jeff finds hilarious. On my second tour through, a huge tarantula was crushing a camping van. "That's the biggest one, Mom. He's the king."

Now that Jeff knows the film, he summons me for the good parts, so he can tell me what happens next. "Uh-oh, the spiders are going to get the dog and the grandma," he warns me.

I am under strict orders to let Jeff know whenever Eight-Legged Freaks is on. Frankly, I am happy to see him engrossed in anything for a sustained period of time. For a long time, I did not know if Jeff understood the whole movie idea, namely, that it is one story. I wasn't sure if he just perceived it as a long series of unrelated images. So it is with some strange delight that I can occupy myself for 90 minutes only to hear Jeff periodically laughing, explaining the plot to no one in particular, and indulging that age-old horror film tradition of yelling admonishments at the characters. "Get to the mall! Now! Take the guns with you!"

Dealing with the Etiquette Vigilante

On Mother's Day, I took both boys to Sweet Tomatoes in Glenview. Taking both boys out together is generally a major production with numerous admonitions and much preparatory discussion about proper restaurant behavior. (Not that it necessarily helps.)

The three of us made our way through the endless salad bar without incident and were shown to our booth when I noticed that I had forgotten silverware. Swimming upstream, I made my way back and waited for an opening in the line. As I reached for the forks, a women several feet down the line bellowed, "Excuse you!" Momentarily stung, I turned, but gathering my wits, I immediately demanded to see her Etiquette Vigilante credentials and when she could not produce them, I made a citizen's arrest on the spot for verbal assault and impersonating a civil human being. Of course not. I skulked back to my table and seethed.

You see, I am a very mannerly person. I say "please" and "thank-you." I say "bless you" when strangers sneeze. I let people with two items in front of me in the grocery line. I wasn't always as conscientious as I am now, but since I have children, I have to be.

With special needs children, I frequently ask for accommodations, rules to be bent or dispensed with, policies to be reconsidered. I run interference with irate parents. I have taken on a posse or two of enraged teenagers. There may be parents who storm and bellow and know their rights, but I don't know if they get their way. I do know that camp directors, recreation supervisors, and school administrators don't dodge my phone calls . . . yet. Menacing teens haven't done anything worse than roll their eyes at me.

"It must have been annoying to have some little kid butt in." "It would be so disruptive to have him stay backstage until intermission, may I pick him up early?" "I know I've passed the refund date, but the guitar class just isn't working out. You'll pro-rate and refund the rest! Gee, thanks."

I have also learned that despite my best efforts, there are adults in the world who just don't get it. Some of them are even teachers, counselors and doctors. A coach had Hart spend so much time sidelined on the bench that I realized she had no other idea how to deal with him. I approached the recreation supervisor with a number of suggestions: "Could we come a little later and skip the warm-up?" "Could one of the coaches accompany him during the warm-up and free play?" "Is there a 'helper' job he could do during the unstructured time?" I went on and on while they listened raptly. At the end of my monologue, the supervisor asked, "Well, but do you have any ideas for us?" As the old song says, "You gotta know when to fold 'em." I guess I will take that refund after all.

Back at the table, I entertained malicious thoughts. "I'll key her car." "I'll find out her email address." "I'll kidnap her baby." But I had my revenge. On the way out, with both boys clutching my hands, we detoured past her table. With my most winning smile, I announced, "We just want to wish you a happy Mother's Day, too." Leaving her and her husband gaping, we swept out of the restaurant with what I imagine to be a dramatic exit.

In the car, I tried to debrief the boys. "That lady was mean to me in the line," I explained. "When someone is rude to you, what could you do?" "Hit her." "Grab her food." "Smash her car." So much for the "teachable moments" of parenting.

I told my friend Joan about this incident the next day. In addition to being smart and sensible, Joan is six feet tall, with a look about her that indicates she probably doesn't suffer fools gladly. "This was an angry person," Joan said, "It had nothing to do with you." Joan was altogether too sensible about the whole thing. I wanted righteous anger, or at least indignation on my behalf. I told her about my retaliation ploy. She smiled, "Of course, she must have said thank you." Snort.