Why My Boys Don’t Need to See Me Naked

Did you see this floating around the interspaces?

Rita Templeton and her adorable brood.

Rita Templeton and her adorable brood.

Did you marvel at the loveliness of this honest, conscientious, nice lady who wants her four little boys to be accustomed to a “real” body before they are inundated with perky cantaloupe boobs and thigh gaps? Did you applaud her and share her article and feel a tinge of guilt that you aren’t quite broadminded enough to use your own baby-ravaged body as an edifying tool?

Not me. I recoiled faster than my deflating pocket hose.

The message to her bathroom-barging boys is a good one, but the language saddened me. Look at her in the photo, surrounded by adorably healthy children she clearly adores and enjoys. This woman–this goddess who birthed four times and still has the energy to pen ten paragraphs about raising them to appreciate women kindly–she can only describe her own body with a jumble of smushes and jiggles and marks and sags and flab. By her own admission, she is lying through her teeth to fake a positive body image. And then, even though she is “dismayed” by her post-baby body, she’s putting it on display for some sort of greater good? Blech. I couldn’t read this without fantasizing about a warm, thick terry robe and doors that lock.

Me, I don’t give a shit about ensuring her boys will become sensitive men who shun silicone or tolerate ass dimples. Whatever, little dudes, you’re going to see movies and find dad’s Playboys and meet TriDelts and develop your own ideas of Beauty no matter how many times you’ve seen mommy poo or reposition a leaky breast. What I want is for your mom to know she’s stunning, to feel it in her bones, to own it in her sometimes-too-squeezy jeans. And I want her to know it NOW. No more stretch mark explanations and false bravado. Kids smell phoniness more keenly than sharks in chummy water. A far more challenging task than feigning pride in our muffin tops is to assert an honest confidence… which, for me, would be impossible to attain while allowing an incessant, pinching reminder of my jiggly bits by chubby little fingers.

Gorgeous Mommy has earned her privacy. Beautiful, lively, full-of-love and giver-of-life Mommy also deserves her right to modesty. If that is what she chooses, of course. I marvel at any number of Naked Families who don’t mind open doors and full frontal-ness. But these homey nudists seem comfier than Rita, who eschews personal boundaries to personally champion the ptotic breast and poochy belly so that her sons won’t be duped by Photoshop someday.

My dear friend Nicole has four children, too. They’re girls. When they tumble out of her minivan and skip into my house, they transform it into a bouncier place peppered with songs and stories and hair and accessories and tears and cheers and dancing. All of them are psychically–and often physically– tethered to their goddess mommy whose actual body is still their safe place, their re-charging station, their home. I hope her girls overheard her when she dropped this gem:

“Ugh. Aren’t we just too old to not know we’re awesome?”

At the time she was probably exasperated with the petty grumblings of a perfectly perfect mom who wasn’t feeling up to snuff. Nicole’s children (and her lucky, lucky friends) are privy to this sort of confidence that hails from deeper places and has a much stronger effect than an exposed belly roll flapping over a c-section scar.

For me, there was something sort of demeaning–something that made The Goddess Mommy somehow lesser—in her exposure. Certainly, Rita handles it well, and it’s easy for the reader to imagine the cacophony of cuteness that surrounds her every day. I already like her so much, I want to peel the small boys off of her, send them outside, pour this gal a Prosecco, and remind her she’s awesome. And because she’s awesome, her boys will be, too. And they’ll turn out that way without seeing all of her bits and pieces.

My boys know I’m off limits behind a closed door… and I protected my privacy long before my body was transformed into a different shape plumped with silicone and marred with scars. I still look great naked, and the only one who is granted the privilege of audience is Bernie. The kind of beauty I want my little boys to appreciate right now is that of a girl with great posture in a pretty dress, a young woman who would rather swim than maintain her perfect ponytail, a mom who respects her body enough to protect its exposure (if that is what she honestly would prefer), a lady who knows she’s awesome.

Me and my little guys (photo cred: http://drewkids.com)

Me and my little guys (photo cred: http://drewkids.com)






Prom Dress Luncheon

I haven’t made many devastating sartorial missteps, if you overlook my prom dress and, well… the ‘80s. But when April invited me to a fundraiser luncheon yesterday, I chose a summery garden ensemble only to find myself at a couture-and-stiletto event. So while all of the other lunch-y ladies were perfectly molded into their au courant fashions, I was wearing a tablecloth. It was a pretty tablecloth… maybe even a sort of adorably blue doily of a dress. But in a room dotted with Chanel bags and pointy, pointy pumps, my outfit called for a picnic basket and hair daisy accessories.

Certainly I’ve misjudged an outfit choice or two in my time. But aside from wearing jeans to the fancy school Book Fair (everyone else in fabulous skinny leather things or wretched-but-appropriate pantsuits), I’m usually the over-dressed gal. Pearls in Gross Anatomy lab. Lily Pulitzer at the soccer field. Jimmy Choos at Church. Fur at the Star Market. I have a deeply ingrained twirly girly sensibility. But when I found myself surrounded by sleek Robert Plant ladies baring yoga toned abs under crop tops, suddenly a dress with a crinoline (just like my prom dress!) seemed more ridiculous than whimsical.

Damn you, Anthropologie, with your moody photos depicting ambiguously French stunners wearing un-place-able period costumes as formalwear! I will not be duped again!

To be honest, I didn’t really dwell on my window-treatments-as-outfit gaffe. I had a delicious cold salmon lunch with lovely people who appear to make gobs of money for the obvious joy of giving much of it away. I’m drawn to do-gooders as much as I am to gorgeous clothing, and this event had both in spades (cards, not Kate… this was couture, friends). And when I got home, it was time to meet my true and trusted fashion critics at the curb. There was no time to change, so I was still wearing the ersatz prom dress when my little boys dismounted the big yellow bus.

“Where were you? You look like Cinderella!”

I can’t wait to wear that dress again.

I'm the one in the doily.

I’m the one in the doily.

 DP Challenge







The Bullshit Requirement, by Steve Safran

Personally, I love Stevie when he’s in a mood. And maybe we should all take a beat before we get all huffy or encourage our friends to re-post dreck on the Internet.

Hi. We need to chat for a moment, because we have a problem you and I. We need to believe in a lot of stuff that isn’t real. We are being asked to pay attention to and prioritize stuff that we don’t actually have to worry about. We are required, and possibly really need, to believe in bullshit.

And what a season of bullshit it has been! Just look at what we’ve had to pretend is important lately. We’ve weighed in on our right to recline our airplane seats. We have to express an opinion on whether a gay football player will bring down sports altogether. We have to opine on how you give to charity: ice bucket drenching may earn you accolades or derision depending on your audience. The fact that you actually are donating isn’t really our focus any more.

Me, I’m a bit exhausted from all of the pretending to care.

These days, we’re asked to show our support or share our outrage about something every goddamn minute. I’m not being hyperbolic, either. Thanks to Upworthy, Buzzfeed and other clickbait sites, we need to repost or “like” cloying, misleading stories on Facebook, lest our friends think we’re total jerks. Remember the boy who cried wolf? Even the wolf is calling bullshit:

“What did I ever do to you? So, I ate a boy. At least I’m not re-posting a long status in an ugly font because ‘…I know 99% of you won’t.’ I may be a wolf, but I’m not a dick about it.”

When I was 22 and not four weeks out of college, I landed a job at Disney Home Video Public Relations. In June of 1990, there was a serious plague of bullshit among Serious Parents. It was as follows: on the cover of the video for “The Little Mermaid” there appeared to be a castle spire that was a little more phallic than the rest.

Yup. Freud would have seen it, too.

Yep. Freud would have seen it, too.

But where you and I would have chuckled and made some immature joke about tower envy, The Serious People wrote to Disney. Because… well… penises. And outrage. And whatever.

The people at Disney took the matter seriously. They decided immediately to do two things: 1. Change the artwork and 2. Give all the complaints to me. So it was, in the summer of 1990 that I found myself receiving all of the mail addressed to the heads of Disney. They were forwarded to my new desk so I could answer each one personally. I still have the interoffice envelopes (yes, kids… interoffice envelopes, we’ll wait while you google it) that read as follows: MICHAEL EISNER / JEFFREY KATZENBERG / STEVE SAFRAN.

As a new college graduate, my delight was immeasurable. Or so I thought. Because as funny as all of this was, my next task answering the mail of the higher ups reached paranormal levels of absurd.

People, it seemed, thought they were seeing a ghost. That is, they thought they saw a ghost in a scene in “Three Men and a Baby.” An urban myth quickly materialized about the ghost of a boy who died in the apartment where the scene was shot and WHO GIVES A SHIT I CAN’T EVEN FINISH THIS SENTENCE…

A G-G-G-Guy!

A G-G-G-Guy!

The “ghost” was actually a cardboard cutout standee for Ted Danson’s character. It was positioned low in the frame and the scene goes by faster than you could yell, “Norm!” So yes, if you blink, and you’re a gullible idiot, then you might be persuaded you saw… Hell, anything, I suppose.

Do most of us believe in ghosts? I don’t. But I think we can all agree that they are unlikely to reveal their otherworldly presence briefly through a Steve Gutenberg vehicle.

Outrageously, my job was to write back to the ghost believers. They replied to me, in turn, accusing me of a sordid Disney cover-up. And their belief in this bullshit sent them to their desks to craft paragraphs and find stamps—a whole process that took much, much longer than a re-blog or share. In 1990, you had to commit.

I never thought that, in retrospect, I’d respect those people for their commitment to the complaint, or for their pen-and-ink belief in anything. But outrage is so easy now. We can submit our bullshit from our phones. We can apply some sort of app to float our complaints and harrumphs. Of course, there are apps to answer those, too. So, really, we can be indignant with each other now and never have to exchange an un-virtual word. Convenient.

I realize I can’t stop this problem we have. I love gossip and I’m not above it. On the contrary– I was on the morning news for seven years, reporting it gleefully with my usual tagline: “Don’t pretend you don’t care.” But I never believed it was all A Big Deal. Today, I worry that all of our pretend caring and overblown outrage has made the line between opinion and journalism blurry. The news shouldn’t be about bullshit.

And with all that’s going on in the world… it should make you bullshit instead.



Fire and Ice

My first wish was that the kids would forget all about the sky lantern. But my sweet, sweet niece was too, too excited for me to make a wish on her magical fire hazard birthday gift. After putting off the conspiring cousins for a few days with vague excuses, the last evening of their visit had arrived. “Let’s go light the lantern! It’s time to light the lantern!” and what kind of bitchy aunt shuns the thoughtful, wish-making gift of a 13-year-old girl? Not this one.

Sensing my reluctance, my brother-in-law accompanied us to a clearing and helped me prevent the fire-filled globe from getting caught in overhead branches and setting our own yard ablaze. Standing on dry grass, in the dark, lighting matches… I waited for Smokey the Bear to lope out of the woods and maul us for our stupidity. But finally, the paper thingy caught fire, the lantern transformed into a bluish floating orb of loveliness, and we let the thing go. Up and up and up until finally there was nothing left at all. Nothing… except, you know, the belly-churning worry over errant embers falling to earth to torch the golf course and murder my neighbors.

“Did you make a wish, Aunt Britt?”

“You betcha.”

No one die no one die no one die no one die.

I didn’t sleep that night. I spent hours googling the shit out of fire lantern safety and errant ember property damage probabilities. I offered up dozens of bargaining prayers to the Big Guy that I would make it to first light without hearing sirens. I was angry with myself for agreeing to anything involving a release of uncontained, floating flames into a residential area, I cursed the pyromaniac bozo who invented these things, and I felt guilty that my sweet, sweet niece probably sensed that her lovely gift had turned me into a googling, insomniac weirdo. My Cool Aunt cred plummeted as I proved myself to be just like all other worrywart grownups.

In the morning, a quick scan of the local news assured me that no lives or properties were lost. Only then, I was finally able to make fun of myself for getting all panty bunched over a completely legal toy when I spent hours of my own youth launching lawn darts, riding helmetless, and eating batter. And like everything, daylight bleaches the scary out.

Last night, I lost another few hours of sleep over the Ice Bucket Challenge. You’d think someone who is absurdly afraid of fire lanterns would be grateful to douse a potentially flammable yard. You might also think someone whose life has been touched with disease would be a cheerleader for this kind of awareness-raising. But for me, and possibly for my sisters in the Shitty Sorority, this echoes the Pinking of October wherein a crap disease gets tarted up for Fun. I’m actually thrilled that everyone is accepting the Challenge and raising MILLIONS of dollars for a horrifying, incurable disease. I love watching the videos of you gorgeous people being silly for good causes. It’s heartwarming to see social media being used to make us One Community during a time when the world seems like a terrifying shitstorm. I’m a sucker for Community. But here at the Lee’s, I don’t want to invite awareness for yet another illness that my boys might only process as one that has the ability to kill parents. (My quota for answering heartbreaking questions was filled after the opening scene of Guardians of the Galaxy… my boys have had enough “awareness” reminders for one summer.)

Also, selfishly and smugly and shamefully, I have strong, I-gave-at-the-office feelings about Raising Money for Diseases. I mean, aren’t beloved body parts and a head of hair quite sufficient to exempt me from more giving? Of course, Murphy’s Law will dictate that when you try to explain your personal aversion to this viral, feel-good phenomenon, you will not only sound like an asshole, but you’ll–of course– be unwittingly lecturing someone who lost a loved one to this extremely rare disease and just finished filming an ice bucket challenge with her kids and, you know, thinks it’s sorta great and all that. So you not only sound like an asshole, you sorta are one. And God giggles having set up this little scenario to prevent Haughty Blog Girl from composing five, navel-gazing paragraphs about why the Ice Bucket Challenge is complicated for the cancered… forcing the admission of a likelier truth:

I’m vain and un-pretty wet and probably an awful person and would rather mail checks than create and clean up an ice watery mess.

In the meantime, my sky lantern wish is that the money we are raising funds scientific breakthroughs to extend the life and increase the comfort of those with ALS. I hope that backlash against the Ice Bucket Challenge doesn’t erode the sense of Community we need right now. And I want you all to promise you won’t light and release a single fucking sky lantern. Like, ever.

Gorgeous, glowing wish ceremony will always look like the release of terrifying fireballs to insane Aunt Britt.

Gorgeous, glowing wish ceremony will always look like the release of terrifying fireballs to insane Aunt Britt.

Cool Mom

I don’t blog much in the summer… it being all gorgeous outside and whatnot. Also, I have a July birthday to commemorate with unnecessary shopping and enthusiastic drinking which leaves little time to assemble (coherent) thoughts into silly paragraphs. Also, I have Stevie to pick up the slack with his smartypants hilarity and thoughtful musings. But now that we’ve waved good-bye to visiting family and re-claimed the house to the quieter, lazier place we’re accustomed, I’m drawn to the computer to waste your time with ridiculous stories.

This week, shuttling the boys from the pool to a playdate, an unfamiliar 12 year old was assigned to my car during the divving of children. This is the kind of kid you love instantly: his humor is generous, his charm effortless, and his kind attention to your maybe-sort-of-dorky kids a blessing. His parents certainly could take a fair share of the credit for the likability of their kid, but they wouldn’t. Some things are just God-given.

Do any of you share a family affliction for singing in the car that cannot be cured? The Lees know no shame… nor, on occasion, the correct lyrics. Nonetheless, the situation found us subjecting the unfamiliar 12 year old to booties needing no explanations because that’s what we do. We sing in the car. Them’s the rules.

The tweenager beside me was initially surprised, then happy to sing along, and then this:

“You’re like one of those cool, Capri Sun moms, aren’t you?”

Giggles from the backseat, and then upon dismounting the SUV, my oldest dropped his voice an octave and said,

“Thanks for the lift, mom.”

Less kind friends have since forwarded me the juice pouch commercial wherein I am now likened to a dowdy mom in Capri cargo pants one-upping another for having provided chemical-riddled sugar drinks to a busload of children. (Thanks, STEVE.)

But this is one of those moments where I passed muster as a parent, and because it may never happen again, I knew it was worthy of a few paragraphs, or a tweet, or status update, or whatever.

Been around the world, don’t speak the language… but your booty don’t need explainin’!

Sing loud and often, friends… it’s never wrong. xoxo

All I can hear is my mother's voice saying, "would it kill them to wear a stitch of makeup?"

All I can hear is my mother’s voice saying, “would it kill them to wear a stitch of makeup?”

Willing to Pay, by Steve Safran

What do we still value enough to spend real dollars to acquire? What do we assume we can get for free? Stevie explores knowledge as a commodity in our Google-able world.


 “Irony: Telling me $10 is too much to pay for something I worked a year on, while drinking a $5 coffee the barrister spent 30 seconds making.”

Tweet, James S.A. Corey, author, “Cibola Burn”

My God, that’s about the most wonderful quote I’ve ever read about the frustration of being in the creativity business. We’re living in an age when it’s reasonable to slap a 99-cent price tag on an app that, in the very recent past, would have required a calculator, legal pad, un-refoldable map, $15, and hours of your time. People today think it’s a matter of principle that they will not pay for music. A t-shirt featuring my favorite band? Sure, I’ll buy that. Their songs? Screw that.

A good chunk of my career has been spent in the advice business. This is known as “consulting,” or as a Freudian typo I once made and came to embrace, “consluting.” The problem with knowledge being your product is that people are loath to pay for it. Drs. Britt and Bernie surely know this. No, it doesn’t cost me anything to tell you what I think about social media or how it might affect your company. No, it doesn’t cost Britt or Bernie to give you a medical opinion. But if you added up the price of all of that schooling, overnights at work, lost time at home, relationship stresses, ramen noodle meals, missed birthdays, and student loan interest… that sort of advice might be worth a bit more than 99 cents? But, I just have one, super-quick question. We’re friends, after all, right?

Argh. Sure. I’m all ears. I’m also a sucker… and want people to like me.

The Internet has changed expectations. I think it comes down to this: “I paid for this computer. Whatever shows up on it– that should be included.”

The stories of the Internet billionaires that everyone likes to cite?  They’re the outliers. Looking at them and deciding that it’s a good idea to start a website is like looking at a lottery winner and deciding to invest your money in scratch tickets.

Now, I’m not an Internet crank. Not at all. I like that it has changed the equation for so many. I like that it has given platforms whereby the previously voiceless can speak up. I love that new talents have emerged, that record labels no longer decide who should be famous (and then take all their money), that a few newspapers and TV stations get all the ad money and that we don’t need to kneel at the altar of the phone company to communicate with each other. I love that. Even as it put me, a journalist, kind of out of business.

So I’ve adapted. I recently became a partner in a video production company. I decided to get back to what I know best. There’s still a need for good storytelling done well by professionals. There’s a big demand for video online. People crave high-quality information they can receive quickly…

… and for free.

Lucy knew her value...

Even Lucy knew the value of her advice resided partly in the payment…

Shouting Into the Echo Chamber, by Steve Safran

On Monday night, Steve and I had a late, text-y discussion wherein we commiserated about the Angry Internet in the face of recent Supreme Court decisions. Our fingers typed less about women and their parts and protection than how social media was failing to provide grown-up discourse. My drafts folder holds similar sentiments, but Stevie’s here are smarter. And he’s braver than I am.

Shouting Into the Echo Chamber, by Steve Safran

One of the many wonderful things about the Internet is that it gives a forum for focused debate on issues of importance. It allows earnest and sincere people to have a platform from which to share their beliefs and learn from others. So, of course, we don’t use it that way.

Here is a sampling of the thoughtful statements and rejoinders that spewed forth from this past week’s Supreme Court rulings:

(SCOTUS) Wants to enslave women— all of us. How can they be so hateful. #ImpeachTheFilthyFive

(SCOTUS IS) Disgusting misogynistic racist scumbags. #WarOnWomen.

(The ruling is) against Hobby Lobby and now (the Supreme Court) hates the country. Laughable. F@UCKING LEAVE. (The ruling was in favor of Hobby Lobby. I hope he’ll F@CKING STAY.)

Oh– I should mention something. All of these were aimed at @SCOTUSblog – which isn’t the Supreme Court’s Twitter feed. How do I know? Two reasons. 1. It says so, right there at the top of the feed and 2. The Supreme Court doesn’t have a Twitter feed. I mean, come on. Does anyone think the Supremes would Tweet?

@RuthBG: h8 Scalia but <3 Bieber 2 much 2 deport.

But these comments are from just a handful of anonymous hatebags, right? Nope. Look at your Facebook feed, and you will see your perfectly rational friends get into reductionist lathers.

Here is my disclaimer: My opinion on the Supreme Court decisions this past week has no bearing on this column. I am not going to get into a debate over right and wrong, because the very idea that decisions are “right” or “wrong” is exactly the problem. We have opinions and biases. Too many of us seek information that supports our biases (“Confirmation Bias”) and reject information that does not.

That’s a shame, because within the lengthy Supreme Court rulings are some pretty remarkable works of legal prose. A dissent can often be the most compelling part of the debate. Witness Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s withering and wonderful 36-page dissent in the Hobby Lobby ruling. If you supported the outcome and aren’t interested in the dissent, you’re missing a master class in Constitutional Law. Taking a 40-page ruling and reducing it to “The Supreme Court Hates Woman” is like saying Moby Dick is about a guy who hates a whale. You can’t fit a ruling on a bumper sticker or a Tweet or an insult plastered over a picture of John Roberts. Even if he’s got that Mona Lisa smile thing going on and you can’t decide if he’s proud or just got the last donut in the chambers.

When the Supreme Court rules against us, they are fascists (“They’re in Bush’s pocket!”) and when they rule in favor of a cause we hold dear (e.g., gay marriage), they are wise and learned (“The Supreme Court is modern and progressive!”)

There were two especially fascinating rulings this week. I say “fascinating,” because within each the Court gave a remedy. Now that’s really cool. In the Hobby Lobby case, the court ruled that the store could indeed have health insurance that didn’t offer birth control, but offered that the HHS could pick up the tab instead. In the case striking down the Massachusetts buffer zone law, it suggested the state use existing law concerning harassment, intimidation, and obstruction. Massachusetts legislators are going to hammer out a new law that fits the Court’s recommendations.

Think about that. The Massachusetts ruling was a 9-0. This wasn’t an “Old White Guys Hate Women” decision. Every justice concurred that the 35-foot buffer zone was a violation of the First Amendment BUT, they demurred, “If you want to protect the women, here’s how you would do it…”

Compare that to the ruling against Aereo, a company that was– and here I will opine– blatantly ripping off TV stations with mini satellites and rebroadcasting their work via the Internet for a monthly fee. Here, the Court didn’t say “But Aereo could tinker with a couple of things and we’ll be cool, K bro?” When the Court offers a remedy, it’s like your dad saying, “You know I can’t give you permission to drink a beer. So I’m just going to put this can of Bud down and go work in the shop. But remember: I can’t give you permission.”

I like having my opinions challenged. Over the course of my adult life my position has changed on the following topics: gay marriage, guns, the war in Iraq, the death penalty, and the durability of the music of Billy Joel. Think about the college professor or the TED Talk you saw that changed how you saw something. Remember the joy you felt realizing it was time to rethink your idea on the topic. Honor that memory with a shot. Maybe with a chaser. Remember: Britt runs this blog. (Editor’s note: Britt recommends bubbles, and the general honoring of memories where a noted shift in thought leads to better conversations between us.)

We have to give rulings some time to breathe. And we need real outcomes to judge the prescience of our judges. In the 2010 ruling Citizens United v Federal Election Commission, the Supreme Court ruled that corporations could not be restricted in the size of their donations to political campaigns. The outrage was along the lines of “Corporations will buy elections!” But look what happened last month to Eric Cantor, the Majority Whip from Virginia. He got smoked in the primaries by an unknown, and Cantor had a more than 25:1 cash advantage. Funded by all sorts of interest groups, Cantor spent millions. Dave Brat spent $200,000. Brat won.

The Supreme Court may not always rule the way you want. That presents you with the marvelous opportunity to learn and discuss. Shouting into the echo chamber that “The Supreme Court should do its homework!” won’t change anyone’s mind. Debate. Agree your opponent has valid points. Engage in persuasive argument. These are the real tools of change. They may not change the Supreme Court’s rulings. But they will, occasionally, change the way you think.

Especially about Billy Joel. That stuff just doesn’t hold up. I’m not debating you on this.




Throwback Thursdays

Of all the things that are annoying about social media, Throwback Thursday isn’t one of them. Spare me not one single photo of your moussed bangs, rainbow suspenders, or stone washed jeans diving into gigantic white high tops. I want to see you sunburnt on the Jersey shore in your Bon Jovi fringe t-shirt, sweating in your plastic Halloween mask, posed fireside with siblings in matching sweaters, gawky and proud and acned and feather-haired at your Bar Mitzvah party. These pics are awesome. They’re always, always awesome. Because there are so many selfie, check-in, sharing, linking, uploading opportunities to let The World know how accomplished, funny, lucky, and attractive we are… on Thursdays we post pictures to remind us of our shared, dorky beginnings. I like that. Plus, we’re all adorable.

Stevie, irrepressibly cute.

Stevie, irrepressibly cute.

Also, I’m a junkie for the milestone moments. I go to all of the graduation ceremonies and parties. Every. Single. One. I’m one of the few spouses who continue to attend these three course dinners followed by umpteen speeches where everyone is honored and privileged to be there. (Next year, I may propose a drinking game to my table-mates for every honor-and-privilege uttered.) Bernie and I just wrapped the final party after a month of roast-the-graduates and fish-or-filet evenings in ballrooms and country clubs. Honestly, neither my liver nor patience for hackneyed toasts could endure another fancy dress evening with surgeons. But there are small moments that bring forth a tear or a giggle, and that makes the whole high-heeled night worth witnessing. Truly, the close of a near decade of brutal scheduling, test-taking, presentation-preparing, and paper-writing during the same years of weddings and baby-making and eking out some approximation of life for these graduating residents: this deserves to be witnessed. But when I’m not being Moved by the Moment, I’m also having great fun sitting next to Linda.

Linda is the ageless and stunning wife of arguably the most famous hand surgeon in the world. She’s seen it all… and she’s been to more than her share of these privilege-and-honor laden evenings. Unfailingly kind, Linda will also share sniggers over unfortunate formalwear choices (“Where was her mother when she put that on?”) or strategies to endure monotonous speeches (“Let’s go powder our noses… for a half hour.”) Linda is magical and mindful and has mentored me through some unpleasant, upsetting, and downright bald moments. And so it wasn’t surprising that over arugula salads and between goblet-clinking, Linda asked, “Are you… OK?”

Well, of course I’m OK! I never stop smiling and I have so, so much great hair. I adore my husband, my kids keep getting funnier, and I’m tan. But I knew why she asked. Linda remembers a Thursday exactly two years ago, when she sponsored a Day of Beauty before my wigless debut. Knowing anniversaries are powerful punchers of stomachs, Linda was checking in. And somehow, two years later, I don’t cringe when I see this throwback…

My Sinead Moment

My Sinead Moment

… instead this photo recalls a touching memory of kindness and love. With only an inch of hair and handful of eyelashes, Linda made certain I felt like me.

I think we post #TbT photos with more studied nostalgia than we realize, choosing moments that belie the hilarity of the hairstyles. Perhaps that’s why I love them so much. I mean, look at Debby here with her Daddy:

Debby could still pull off this look.

Debby could still pull off this look.

Ned Gammons is 80 years old today, and what Debby’s picture captures is the preppy perfection of their father-daughter-ness—a love as timeless and enduring and comfy and perfect as blucher mocs and fair isle sweaters. There are hundreds of photos she could have chosen… but when cherry picking the perfect post pic, we unwittingly choose the ones that shout LOVE the loudest. And it shows.

I really could go on and on and on and on about this cutesy social media fad. And I hope it endures… if only so Henry can post this himself in twenty years time:

When mom finds only one little boy bathing suit in the bag, she'll improvise.

When mom finds only one little boy bathing suit in the bag, she’ll improvise.


Although the website photos suggested lengthy spa sessions interrupted by warm swims, harbor cruises, and delicious food, it was quite a bit more like Kellerman’s. Dinner was family-style. Accessories for horseshoes and badminton were available. Mosquitoes swarmed and scoffed at the Off. And atop a crumbling staircase perfect for watermelon-carrying… a rustic game room with ping-pong, candlepin bowling, and video games that cost only one quarter. By 10pm, no further amusements or refreshments were provided. So we went… to bed.

It was charming to be so unplugged. Having just completed school, I thought the boys would want to marinate in unscheduled time (read: iPad games). They surprised me by enjoying a nothing-to-see boat tour (boys this age don’t appreciate breathtaking, evergreen-coast-meets-blue-ocean views), taking “polar plunges” into the “sun-warmed” pool, and playing hours and hours and hours of tennis on cracked courts sprouting wildflowers. It was quiet and simple and buggy and a bit shabby and all sorts of Frisbee fun.

Waiting to embark a humble vessel for the 90-minute harbor tour, I exchanged pleasantries and sunscreen with another mom. Her three boys were attached to electronics and she waggishly wondered if those would be sufficient to assuage the torture of forced nature immersion for 90 minutes. Luckily for those kiddos, the cruise was full, and so they toted their iThings back to air-conditioned spaces. But had they boarded, I’ll bet those kids would have abandoned their virtual warring clans to spot a seal or soaring eagle. At least, I hope.

The drive up to Maine was nearly seven hours back and forth in a hot SUV. To supplement the Summer of ’69 weekend atmosphere, the AC wasn’t working; so we opened windows and stuck to the seats and complained and whined and asked how much longer 154 times. Meanwhile, pink-cheeked boys were spied napping in the rearview. A weekend in the Great Outdoors left me with a keen nostalgia for long ago citronella-scented evenings as adults ignored us while we kicked cans and caught fireflies in safe spaces. This rustic resort provided two days of that sort of fun, and reminded me to create more opportunities for my boys to collect memories and mosquito bites exactly this way.

Happy Summer, friends. Go get bitten.

The pool was an algae-studded 60 degrees, but we went in anyway.

The pool was an algae-studded 60 degrees, but we went in anyway.


Third Grade

Because I recently wrote about Brodie, my second-born is now desperate to be the topic of a blog post. He won’t let it go, or for that matter, GO TO BED. He insists on reading over my shoulder at this very moment to prove that I am, actually, writing about him.

“OK, mom. I’ll go upstairs now.”

Having read the opening sentences, Teddy is appeased and off he goes… moonwalking to the stairs, then catching a glimpse of himself in the hall mirror, giving quick finger guns to his striped pajammied image. If I stop him now to remind him to brush his teeth, he’ll turn around with a raised eyebrow and say in his best Jackée,

“Gurrl… I was just going.”

Teddy’s never seen Jackée, and we have no idea where this half Asian third grader picked up the mannerisms of a sassy black woman… but that’s Teddy.

Yesterday, I eavesdropped on a gaggle of kids watching mine on the tennis court. They were wondering whether my boys were twins or brothers. Just last summer, Ran’s sweet little girl turned her blond-ringlet head toward me and asked in all earnestness, “Mrs. Lee, how can you tell them apart?” It’s true, these two Bernie clones are Pete and Repeat, nearly Irish twins, and often mistaken for each other. But they couldn’t be more different.

While I’ve been worrying about Brodie and the endlessness of Fourth Grade Torture, Teddy is cruising through Third with nary a care. Teddy is a good sport about his athletic shortcomings, knowing he’s destined for greater things: the fame of a multi-platinum rapper/zoologist. He dances without provocation or embarrassment, suddenly channeling Michael Jackson, but really looking more like a frenetic Bill Cosby. Teddy knows all of the words to a catalog of (inappropriate) songs, and few things are funnier than his sultry rendition of Beyoncé, “…surfboardt… surfboardt… grainin’ grainin’ on that wood.” Bernie and I are forever trading those oh, dear head-shaking looks as this skinny kid in a Star Wars t-shirt croons, “Oh, I’m drankin’.”

Teddy has an unquenchable thirst for explanations, and our appetites were curbed at the dinner table last night as he insisted on details about the spaying of animals and particulars of menstruation. Poor Brodie suffers through these embarrassing discussions, but I think benefits from the fearless inquiries of a little brother who Needs to Know. Fully debriefed on monthly female physiology, Teddy turned to me, aghast,

“Ugh, Mom! This happens to you?”

“Well, no… chemo kind of zapped it all out of me.”

“Oh, phew! Hey, high five!”

And then turning to his 22-year-old cousin, with grave alarm:

“You need to get a boyfriend NOW. And get married and have babies so you can stop bleeding.”

We didn’t take a moment to address all of those ideas, still snort-giggling about the inspired High Five for the awesome convenience of chemical menopause.

When asked in polite conversation, “How are your boys?” I light up with uncontainable joy. These are hilarious, touching, soul-warming days with my still-innocents who smell good and love me most and never lie. Teddy is right to insist I capture them now, particularly him of course, in all his glorious nine-year-old-ness. Teddy who doesn’t stop talking from the moment I pull him from warm covers until droopy eyes won’t let him finish just one more page. Teddy who occasionally swings his butt side to side doing his “supermodel walk.” Teddy whose tearful queries about why parents “get un-married” reveals a fear that rattles his belief in a safe world. Teddy who thinks anything below 94% is “failing” and wants to discuss tampons at the dinner table and wore a lion costume every single day for two years. Teddy who wants me to show everyone this ridiculous picture.

Teddy Tut

Teddy Tut

And this one.

This lion costume. Every. Single. Day.

This lion costume. For two years. Every. Single. Day.

And this one.

Lacking neither cuteness, nor confidence...

Lacking neither cuteness, nor confidence…


Personalities captured perfectly by http://drewkids.com

Personalities captured perfectly by http://drewkids.com

Delicious moments sit right alongside the heartbreaking ones. Brodie’s soulful introspection contrasts daily with Teddy’s infectious silliness. I’m astutely aware that I’m swinging in the sweet spot of parenting. It’s hard to imagine I could like and love them more than I do right now at these fun ages. And recording their blossoming personalities and peccadilloes and perfections here may be more valuable than what gets banked in my undependable memory.