Adventures In Motherhood

Ladies' night out proved rejuvenating last week. It was long overdue, and a chance to recharge before tackling a week of solo parenting with my "united front" man out of town. The Cadillac margarita on the rocks was just what the doctor ordered after a 95-degree day, and for a while I imagined we were in Tuscany, perched on an elevated terrace overlooking a tiled courtyard. Better yet, there wasn't a child in sight. "Son of a nutcracker!" Jessica's outburst jolted me to 1935. It reminded me of my late father-in-law, who favored expressions like "Jiminy Christmas." I can't remember what prompted her to blurt out such an old-fashioned phrase. I only know that, in the days that followed, it made complete sense. I'll admit I was a little spoiled last week. The following night, my husband and I headed to the new Ford Amphitheater for an O.A.R. and Gavin DeGraw concert before he caught an early-morning flight overseas for work. I wasn't t...

Author’s Note: Some details have been changed to protect the guilty, the innocent, and the mother's creative craft. It had been eerily quiet for a solid two weeks. After six months of teen antics that had me hopping like a Secret Service agent, the sudden calm made me uneasy. With my teen’s busy schedule of skirting rules, asserting control, and riding hormone fluctuations that rivaled my own pre-HRT era, I knew better than to relax. In fact, it was so quiet it was literally sus. My spy antennae went on full alert, and I caught my teen yet again. The red flags were everywhere, and my husband was none the wiser, so I moved the beer key cache yet again, because motherhood calls for protective measures every time. It started on a Tuesday afternoon, when my teen asked me to transfer $20 from their checking account to their savings account, because, as a minor, they don’t have online access to their savings. Twenty dollars on a Tuesday was clue number one. Clue number two? They claimed ...

January 30, Phuket, Thailand Beach day. We lounged at Patong Beach as paragliders floated overhead, each one with a local guide suspended behind on a wire, somehow steering them into safe landings on a crowded strip of sand. Jet skis roared past like buzz saws. A year earlier, I’d been in the same Indian Ocean, in the Bay of Bengal off Chennai, where the waves rose and crashed with such force I’d thrown my arms wide and ridden them like a child. Thailand, by contrast, looked almost tame. The water lapped at the shore like a kiddie pool.  I would soon learn there was nothing G-rated about Patong.  The beach was pristine, with white sand glistening in the sun, while beachgoers of every nationality carefully laid out towels. Bending over to expose a side of diplomatic relations I didn't care to engage in, I tried to focus on my sunscreen application - not the fact that half the crowd appeared born for thong bikinis. The Russians with tattoos, cigarettes, and Speedos, were first i...

“What’s up with the Easter Bunny this year?” my 15-year-old asked, fishing a latex condom from his Easter basket. Its black wrapper read Lifestyles, vanilla , and sat between the Sour Patch Bunnies and Reese's Pieces, nestled inconspicuously in the Scooby Doo basket. Then he pulled out two more: strawberry and fantasy. Feigning surprise and a hint of embarrassment, I couldn’t help but add, “Who knew the Easter Bunny practiced safe sex? Have you seen all those rabbits hopping around?”  I took a quick sip of coffee to conceal my smirk. Admit nothing, deny everything, and make counteraccusations has always been my tradecraft, former CIA operative or not.  “Where’s the Magnums?” my son asked, as he fished for more loot at the bottom of the basket.  Shock at the size of his vocabulary, not the girth of his imagination, made me up the ante.  “Guess the Easter Bunny doesn’t want you screwing like rabbits!” I said deadpan, which was more G-rated than the profanity-laced rema...

No Mom! You're such a Boomer. Don't be a Karen. You have negative aura.  The sighs. The eye rolls. The tea-kettle escalation from being asked to pick up their shit to full-blown screaming. I’ve heard it all as a mom of four. Nothing prepared me for motherhood, but having teen children has definitely prepared me for rejection.  For five months, I parked my ass in a chair and ground out the chapters of Grief, Grace, and Garlic Naan, a travel memoir with a CIA hook I was sure would land a literary agent in weeks. Instead, I learned what every debut memoirist without a celebrity platform eventually learns: the market is not exactly a feeding frenzy. An agent is more likely to drink from the Ganges than devour buttery, delicious garlic naan. Still, the writing made one thing clear: I’ve never felt more alive on the page, and I’m no quitter. Motherhood already trained me for that. This week, between delivering consequences to my teen for sabotaging coaching relationships, and unpack...

Tuangtip, a petite woman in her late 50s/early 60s, was our gracious local guide for the longboat and tuk tuk tour of Bangkok.  “No, you may not call her twin tits,” I told my youngest, acting in his typical obnoxious form with his audience of two college age brothers back in tow. “Behave or I’ll make you drink the brown water from the Chao Phraya River,” I smiled. “And dad and I would like each of you to think of a question to ask her.”  “Are we gonna meet any femme boys?” My 20-year-old asked, eyeing his brothers. “It’s lady boys,” I interrupted, “and no, you cannot call her twin tits if you ask five questions.” My youngest was relentlessly trying to bait me.  Tuangtip managed to teach us about Buddha’s unique to the day of the week you were born, Buddha blessings and Thai street food in an afternoon. After two hours on the river, we docked and hopped into a tuk tuk.  “Does anyone know why they are called tuk tuks?” Tuangtip asked.  “Because of the sound they ...

24 hours on a plane Thursday, and we flew two days into the future overnight, arriving Saturday afternoon. Unfortunately I picked up a pair of cankles in Hong Kong - the only casualty so far.  Day 1 we opted for the Bangkok Backstreets and Hidden Gems Bike tour , managing to avoid Patpong and Soi Cowboy streets where the flashing neon Pimp Club, Spanky’s and Dollhouse clubs light up the night. We pedaled narrow alleyways and drainage ditches, while averting street vendors, motorbikes and wall pissers in every direction, all while navigating the left side of the road and fist bumping beaming children yelling “HI”, The best kind of Forced Family Fun cultural immersion unplugged in my book. Proving even my 15-year-old can crack a smile in a picture. Besides, who can complain when poverty, garbage, shanty shacks and pungent smells overwhelm, only to be interrupted by swirls of jasmine and sandalwood, while precarious loops of electrical wire are dangling dangerously overhead? Lucky me...

You'd think I'd be ecstatic to travel to Thailand this week for Forced Family Fun and to see my daughter, our responsible Fulbright Scholar, teaching English in the north. Temples, tuk tuks, tea gardens, and pedicures. Truth? Two weeks in Thailand and I'm terrified I'm gonna lose someone. Traveling with four adult-ish boys who all agree Die Hard and Gladiator are Christmas movies is like herding cats. Bruh, 6 7. Honestly, I'd rather solo recon than rangle this pack. Serenity now. Matching t-shirts made for easy surveillance when they were shorter than Mom at Disney. Now? We’re doing this in full ’80s Griswold Thai Vacation style, cutting costs and screen time with no international phone plans for navigation, except for my husband and me, because, well…he's my sugar daddy. Next week, I'm either gonna lose my husband in a street market in Bangkok (like Taste of Chicago when we were first married, but with more Typhoid fever and fewer brats) or my 15-year-old t...

My kids messed with the wrong mom. Further proof that their prefrontal cortices are still under construction. I applaud them, however, for testing the boundaries as normal teens do, as well as testing my bona fides as a former trained CIA operative, because now, they've given me a chance to prove my skill set. With more eyes on the prize - empty-nesting in t-minus three years - the stakes have never been higher to prove my children can, and will, achieve their goals, if it's the last thing I guide them to do. Despite my menopausal mania, tradecraft proved effective and Operation Buzzkill a success.  "You get in less trouble if you tell the truth," has always been my mantra.  At times when they were younger, I swore by the old lie-detector test - the one where they'd place their palms down on mine and I'd ask them questions while locking their eyes. Behavior assessment and elicitation, now less effective, probably because their pupils are frozen from too much s...

'Twas the day after Christmas and all through the house,  not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.  Tucked under the covers 'til 10am without spouse,  I had finally woken alone in my house! Six am, my family set off for the slopes, bittersweet.  My recent knee surgery forced me to kick up my feet. Not before I thrift-shopped my legs off Christmas Eve, for ski pants, gloves and coats fit for teens.  My husband begrudgingly purchased the tickets, complaining the effort, was less worth the beans. You see Forced Family Fun is not for the faint of heart.  Though absolutely better when you can take part! The whine of the child who hates skiing, or apply for jobs, or for that matter, reading,  falls on deaf ears to wise 'ole parents of 4 teens. We may look exhausted tho we are resilient,  We insist on life skills and believe less screen time is brilliant. My daughter in tears her boyfriend had parted,  hadn't realized the fun had only just sta...

I let him hit the curb. Hard. I braced myself for impact and it felt good. I'm not sure I've read 'allow your kid to crash the car' in any parenting books, but I'm here to say I finally got his attention. He was driving me crazy! If I had a dollar for every time my 15-year-old expert with the driver's permit said, "I know how to drive MOM," I'd be able to pay for a full tank of inflation-priced fuel for my minivan. Regardless of his expertise, I insist on silence in the car so he can focus, and I can breathe. Unfortunately, that night, there was no greater distraction than two brothers in the backseat begging to turn on the rap music. We had gone out to dinner in a Friday night attempt to steal some family conversation that didn't consist of bathroom banter while my husband was out of town. I was at my wits end from the testosterone overload of parenting three teen boys. Bruh.  Rap music took center stage after devouring the bread and first rou...

I thought I'd done everything to protect my kids during the pandemic, from quarantine, to vaccinations and face masks, until Santa came to town. Apparently he wanted to offer vaccinated children who were dating an additional barrier against infection this year!  It was 7 am on the nose Christmas morning and the kids were throwing Schnoodles on us in bed. Like the rousing cup of coffee every parent needs, it was pitch black outside and I could hardly believe it was morning. Grabbing our robes, we hustled downstairs before we missed the destruction of stockings and gift wrappings. Regardless of age, our children were equally excited by the Pez dispensers, Lifesavers and foil wrapped Santas in their stockings, and eager to find out which Schnoodle earned a lump of coal for puking on the carpet or stealing someone's dinner off the table. Board games were to be expected, as Santa enjoys 'Forced Family Fun' as much as we do as parents, despite the teens; but it was the last b...