Putting an End to the Nightmare that is Gym Class

Television, radio, websites and publications — in nearly every form of entertainment there is something that appeals to our individual interests, quirks and passions. There’s no reason to be like everyone else or even engage with anyone else when it can so easily be all about you. By immersing ourselves in that which fits our personality, IQ and emotional needs, we can be assured that no harm will come to our confidence, self-esteem or self-image.

With this in mind, three years ago in “Food for Thought,” I suggested that supermarkets designate lanes based on the kinds of food a customer buys. That way, those of us who purchase crap loaded with preservatives and artificial sweeteners won’t feel badly about ourselves when we’re in line with the organic health food buyer. I’m sorry to say that I have yet to see a grocery store implement this excellent idea. I can practically guarantee they’d enjoy an impressive customer base and strong sales.

Along those lines, today I would like to propose separate gym classes based on body type, athletic ability and basic level of fitness. And I recommend that these segmented classes begin as early as kindergarten so those of us who require remedial hand-eye coordination activities will not find ourselves ostracized during snack time. The reasons for despising gym class tend to vary from age to age and person to person, but the end result is always the same: emotional scarring, night terrors related to dodgeball and long-term aversion to anything physical.

For some, what they most loathe about the experience of phys ed is the actual performance part. Run a mile in 6:30. Finish 10 pull-ups. Catch this ball. Walk in a straight line. These requirements can be brutal and cause one to break out in tears hives at the mere mention. Others may not dread the activities so much, but find undressing in front of their peers is a fate worse than death. Are you as well “developed” as your classmates? Are you clean shaven? Did you forget today was P.E. and wear your Thomas the Train briefs? This is the stuff that keeps therapists in business. That, and our parents.

Personally, I still have nightmares about the choosing of teams in gym class. Who in the world thought it was a good idea to put a couple of kids (usually insensitive bastards athletes) in charge of picking teams? While you can try to blend in with a group of fellow gym class haters for the activities themselves, or disappear in a toilet stall to avoid comparing bra sizes, when you’re lined up against the wall for team selection there’s absolutely nowhere to hide. As each captain starts calling names and the wallflower lineup gets shorter and shorter, it’s basically the equivalent of someone shouting, “We don’t want Shimer! She’s the worst athlete ever!” I was usually chosen second to last, saved only by the significantly overweight kid or the one on crutches.  Good memories.

My simple solution, separating kids into appropriate groups, has the potential to be life-changing. Imagine no more…
• mysterious illnesses on gym class days
• terror at the prospect of playing dodge ball with the football players in your class
• standing alone against the wall like the girl who never gets asked to dance
• shame at wearing granny panties
• fear of ridicule when you fall over your own two feet at the starting line
• hyperventilating when you run out of air during those aptly named “suicides”
• concern that you’re overweight, underweight, undersized or oversized
• costly long-term therapy to address issues of self-esteem

With separate gym classes all kids can feel comfortable in their own skin. There will be no pressure to improve skills, get in shape, lose weight or talk mom into buying you appropriate underwear. Simply put, gym class, high school, and the world in general will be a kinder, gentler place. Now that's something worth cheering for!

Awakening to Goodness at a Time of Loss

It's been a rough couple of weeks. On the morning of Friday, April 19, my Aunt Faify (Faith) was admitted to the hospital in critical condition after suffering what doctors assumed was a heart attack. That same day, my Aunt Glenna, who is battling leukemia, was told that chemotherapy wasn't working and doctors recommended hospice care. And then, that evening, when coming to the hospital with us to visit his wife, my Uncle Richie took one step into the lobby and collapsed, code blue. A dozen medical workers pounded on his chest, shocked his heart, and miraculously brought him back. If he hadn't been in a hospital when this happened, he would have died.

Two weeks later, Uncle Richie has had a pacemaker put in and was moved to a rehabilitation facility. My Aunt Glenna is holding on as best she can. And my Aunt Faify has found a new home in heaven.

I haven't known what to blog about during this difficult time. A comedic post seemed inappropriate (though laughter is exactly what we need now). A detailed post about the range of emotions we experienced felt too heavy. On Sunday during church, however, I got an idea from Pastor Nikki's sermon when she remarked that "the pools of kindness are drying up." You'll be glad to know I didn't shout it out loud, but my immediate reaction was "Nah ah!"

There's been a whole lot of tragedy in the world and a great deal of loss that I've experienced personally in recent years. And though my "Why, God?" has gone unanswered, I have found Jesus' words in Matthew 5:4 to be true: “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted…" I can also relate to Psalms 94:19: "When the cares of my heart are many, your consolations cheer my soul." My comfort and consolation are coming from those pools of kindness, and I see them everywhere I look. I wish it didn't require grief and loss to awaken us to the goodness in the world.

In the past couple weeks I have seen love and kindness in action, some of it in direct response to my personal situation, some of it just there waiting to be noticed:

• The "newlywed" couple at church still holding hands after 50+ years of marriage.
• The simple gesture of a husband putting an arm around his wife's waist, symbolically saying "I'm always by your side."
• An adult son bringing his cancer stricken mother to church in a wheelchair and throughout the service rubbing her back, adjusting the scarf on her head and smiling because being there with her and for her was bringing him joy.
• The unexpected kindness of a Villanova student worker wrapping his arms around my shoulders and hugging me when I received the call that Aunt Faify had passed.
• The love of friends who bring food, offer prayers and provide support in times of need.
• A four-year-old walking into a room to give his PopPop a hug and a kiss -- just because -- and then walking out again to return to his toys. 
• The kindness and care of a neighbor whose love sustains my parents through good times and bad.
• The commitment and love that brings a daughter home from Denver, twice in two weeks, to be there to support her mom and to say goodbye to a beloved aunt.
• The constant presence of a husband who let go of old resentments and is providing the unwavering support his wife needs during one of the most difficult times of her life.

Freakin' Angels, indeed.

And then there's my Mom. For the past several months she's been a source of strength for my Aunt Glenna. Taking her for chemo and blood and platelets. Letting her cry. Talking and laughing. Reminiscing. Just sitting together. My Aunt Faith and Aunt Glenna have been my mom's best friends throughout her entire life. Out of five sisters, they were the inseparable three.To say this is a difficult time for my mom, would be a major understatement. She had to plan her sister's memorial service because Uncle Richie was in no condition to do so. She has had to care for him as well. And despite being emotionally and physically drained, she never lost sight of the needs of her sister Glenna. Through it all, my mom has displayed incredible strength, resilience and unwavering faith. She has mourned and will continue to mourn her loss, but the love she feels for her sisters keeps her going.

Having never known three women with bigger hearts who give (and gave) of themselves so selflessly, I'm certain that this awakening to the love and kindness all around us is exactly what my aunts, and my mom, would want. The perfect tribute to each of these wonderful women.

Not Despicable, but Replaceable Me

When I heard my previous employer had hired someone to replace me, I had mixed feelings. On one hand I was glad they filled the position (especially since authors were starting to contact me on Facebook for help), but on the other hand, this hiring was proof that I am, in fact, replaceable. All I could hope for was that this person was already failing to perform, was completely unlikable, or passed gas during meetings. Apparently none of the above applies to the new Kim new marketing director whom everyone is speaking highly of. Well, goodie for them. I hope they'll be very happy together.

While I confess to having had this terribly immature response, you'll be glad to know I didn't dwell on it for long. I've chosen something else to fret over instead, namely, the superstar I hired to be the new Associate Director of Marketing and Communications. Kelly started last month and without question, she's terrific. She's smart, hard working, inquisitive and pleasant to be around. She has a passion for office supplies and to-do lists. I can tell from the tchotchkes on her desk that her family and boyfriend mean the world to her. She's showing signs of a compatible sense of humor. In other words, I think I hired a younger version of myself. Except that I realized after looking at all the photos on her desk that I don't have a single picture of family or friends on mine.

Aside from the photographic reminder of my shortcomings as a mom/wife/friend, things with Kelly look promising.Though I have to say that there have been a couple times I've found my ego crushed myself slightly hurt by faculty and staff who behave like we've hired the savior. One of the deans actually introduced her as "the future of the College." To which I replied with a not-in-the-least-bit bitter "Whoa! Hello? What about me?" That little episode was followed by a marketing-related meeting in which the director of one of our programs directed absolutely everything in the conversation to Kelly. At one point I blurted out, "I've been working on that and will continue to do so. I mean, Kelly and I will work together on these things." Geez. Talk about insecure. Afterward I immediately felt like a jerk for appearing to be desperate for control and power. I apologized to Kelly and a faculty member in attendance, both whom said they didn't see it as such. In fact, the faculty member said he could see I was being a mother hen in protecting Kelly from all the work that was being dumped on her. Yes, that's it. I was protective. Not petty and insecure. Let's go with that!

I have very little experience being someone's "boss" and I can't say I was looking forward to it when I was informed that I would be hiring someone to work with me. I'm kinda the lone ranger type. Not "kinda." I'm definitely a lone ranger. Tell me what needs to be done and I'll do it. Don't make me be part of team and don't tell me how to do my job and we'll get along just fine. Given this controlling personality of mine, my biggest concern with working with someone was that I wasn't going to be willing to give up any part of what I consider to be "my" job. That I'd want to hold on tight to everything, or at the very least, give very specific direction on how to get the work done. In other words, I foresaw myself as a micro-manager, the very thing I hate in a supervisor.

The good news is that I haven't found myself doing much of that micromanaging or even withholding of work (heck, there's so much of it and so much that's challenging, that I've been more than happy to hand it off). What I didn't expect, however, is that I'd feel threatened, bordering on jealous. During that meeting in which Kelly was the star of the show, and given her glowing introductions and interactions with faculty and staff, I suddenly realized that I had hired someone who could replace me in the not so distant future. My reaction during that meeting wasn't so much about control (and certainly not about mothering), but rather it was a direct reflection of the threat I felt when I realized if they gave her all the work, I would no longer be needed. Once again, in the span of a few weeks, I've been shown to be replaceable. This is does nothing to boost one's ego.

To add insult to injury, last week I had my first official "Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day" at work. It started with a security violation citation for leaving the office door open and the lights on with valuable equipment in the room. On Saturday. When I wasn't here. Four people in my office and I'm the only one with a citation. I hope this doesn't go down on my permanent record (insert "Kiss Off" Violent Femmes music here). The week only improved when I discovered a mailing piece I sent out was half the size I thought it would be (I'd only seen the computer file), AND that there was a major mistake in the title I bestowed upon the professor whom the postcard was for. Totally not my fault, but guilty by association. Then there was the insider information I received that clued me in to another rouge department pursuing a printed publication without me. And did I mention the number of occasions on which I've said too much about certain issues (so unlike me)? Have I told you about the tension that's been building in my office space because no one has the quiet place they need to accomplish their work? The honeymoon is definitely over, but the good news is I've gotten that officially crappy day out of the way and I'm still employed.

Yes, getting older sucks. Learning you're replaceable is a bummer. Knowing someone you hired will eventually be doing your job is threatening. Envying your kids for the opportunities they have that have officially passed you by stinks, too. But on the flip side, getting older means I'm closer to living the dream. Hiring someone amazing means I have a colleague who doesn't frustrate, disappoint or require me to watch over her. And envying my kids means they have a life worth envying, and what more could a parent ask?

Wow. That was so weird. Me looking at the positive side of things. I better stop here before I revert back to my old self.

Finding Faith Despite My Failings

On Sunday my son Ian was confirmed in our church, Media Presbyterian. This special day was the culmination of about seven months of classes, which he did not attend willingly. Because I failed to make Sunday school a required part of our week - a "given" - as kids, Ian and Abby both gradually fell away from the church. For Abby, the inconsistency in her attendance resulted in feelings of being behind in her learning (not a state she's comfortable in). For Ian, not being there regularly meant he never formed the close relationships that many of the other kids share. Fortunately, Abby has found youth group to be a place to grow in her faith. Ian's faith, however, has been a strictly personal journey, one taken alone instead of with the church family, the same church family that has literally changed my life. Because getting Ian to church was always a battle, last year I made it a point to regularly remind him that confirmation class was not up for discussion. He would go, not just because it was an important part of his spiritual growth, but because as a church elder, usher and involved member, I'd look like an even worse mom if my son did not get confirmed. A lousy reason, but an honest one.

So Ian went. And while the fellowship aspect of the experience did not greatly improve, Ian did grow significantly in his understanding of the Christian faith. More importantly, he actually enjoyed learning, and in the end, he was one of five confirmands who willingly read his faith statement in front of the congregation on Sunday. More on that later.

When Rob and I arrived at church yesterday, I immediately had the sense that I'd blown it. The pews were packed with family and friends who turned out to support and applaud these young people. We didn't even have Abby with us because we allowed her to choose between her brother's confirmation and a soccer game. A no-brainer in her book. I had invited my parents who were unable to attend, and that was it. I had no gift for Ian and no grand party. (He suggested we should have sent invitations to a post-party with instructions to "treat this like a Bar Mitvah."). I couldn't even convince him to let his Dad and me take him out for a nice lunch. For someone who claims to be a person of faith and a committed member of MPC, I had definitely dropped the ball on what was my son's biggest day in the life of the church. And the more I think about it, the more I realize I dropped the ball when it comes to my children's faith in general.

Ian and John

In addition to failing to make Sundays at church a family tradition, I rarely talk faith with Ian and Abby. I'll share it with my Freakin' Angels. I'll talk with Rob. I'll even write the occasional blog post about it, but the two most important people I should be sharing it with are being overlooked. I guess it should have come as no surprise when Ian stood in front of the church to read his faith statement and gave most of the credit to our youth director (and confirmation class teacher) John Chaffee. I think Rob and I were recognized for dragging, um, I mean bringing him to church. Even Pastor Bill and the children's choir director got more props than mom and dad. I know, he's a 15-year-old boy and they tend to forget their parents exist, but as he spoke and I reflected on those 15 years, I had to admit that I don't deserve the credit for bringing him to where he is now, at least where faith is concerned. I'm thankful to John for helping Ian to grow.

If you're wondering about Ian's paper presentation, I'm happy to say he did a great job with regard to his composure, delivery and eye contact. (He gets his public speaking chops from his mom.) As for the paper itself, it was classic Ian.

Honest: "I don't know where I'm headed with this faith journey or how I'm going to get there."

Humorous: "Despite appearances to the contrary, I actually enjoyed the time I've spent at church over the years." 

Brief (to John, before Sunday): "That's all I want to say. Can I stop at two pages?"

It's obvious that despite our lack of pomp and circumstance, confirmation meant something to Ian. After the service, he asked Pastor Bill if he can be a church elder now (the youngest elder ever, I'm sure). Bill offered him the pastorate instead, and I think Ian can handle it.

Priceless Unplanned Moments

I'm not a fly by the seat of my pants kinda girl. While I admire those with a sense of adventure, personally I don't have a taste for "winging it." I greatly prefer having a plan. I think that's part of what made Italy such a great experience for me. The itinerary was set on paper, nearly down to the hour. We knew when we were eating, what time we needed to be on the bus, where we were going, what churches we'd be visiting, and when we could take a nap (a.k.a. free time). We had a 24-7 Italian guide who took care of everything except fluffing our pillows. Agendas were in place, schedules were adhered to, everything ran smoothly. And  naturally, the most special moments were those we hadn't planned for.

Silvertones with Maestro del Coro John Shankweiler

The first of several memorable moments took place after the Silvertones' first concert. We were in the beautiful seaside town of Gallipoli for an evening performance in Sacro Cuore di Gesu, one of the dozen-plus Baroque style churches we were to visit on this trip. The singing was lovely and audience appreciative. In fact, oddly appreciative. A few older women gave us standing ovations, repeatedly. A little over the top, I thought. Well, it turns out that unbeknownst to us, the Silvertones were performing a tribute concert of sorts. It seems a few years back, a young man named Andrea heard the Silvertones perform when they were in that same part of Italy. A young composer and musician himself, he embraced the group and was involved in arranging one of their performances during that visit. Sadly, Andrea died from hepatitis B at age 32, just a year before the Silvertones returned to the Puglia region for this tour. When his family learned the group would be performing, they invited friends and extended family and printed a special tribute book. After the concert and the repeat standing ovations, his mother presented Silvertones' director John Shankweiler with a piece of art, and the family surprised the kids with a pizza party (which was being followed by a pre-planned 7-course meal). The highlight of the evening, however, was when friends of Andrea's sang one of his songs for us. That magical moment moved me to tears, and when I looked across the room at my son, I saw his eyes were also welling up. Just one of the many reasons why I love that kid.

I'm happy to say that none of the other special, unplanned moments of our trip had that kind of sad note to them. However, another did involve singing by someone other than -- or I should say in addition to -- us. After a performance in a church in Martina Franca (I think it was the one that was cold enough that we could see our breath), a local gospel group suggested we get together to perform for one another. The next evening after dinner, the Wake Up Gospel project paid a visit to our hotel where the five of them blew us away with their performances of classic American gospel music. I thought the Silvertones were good, but these folks were amazing. Of course, to be fair, they'd been together for seven years while our group changes every nine months.

I was being sarcastic when I said it was impressive.

Number three on the list of pleasant surprises was an unexpected invitation into a woman's home while we were strolling the streets of one of the historic town centers. As we meandered through the narrow alleys admiring the architecture, an Italian woman, probably in her 50s, invited us into her home to see what these residences looked like inside. Yes, 40+ Americans made their way up her glorious marble staircase and found ourselves in the quintessential Italian lady's home. An older woman lived there with her three adult daughters, surrounded by furnishing and decor that hadn't been touched in 30+ years. Naturally there wasn't a speck of

Valentino. Word of lung cancer
still has not reached Italy

dust among the mismatched photographs, trinkets and tableware, but all I could think of was how amazing that space, with it's 12 foot ceilings and marble columns, could have looked with some updating. The Silvertones thanked the women for the impromptu visit by gathering around her dining room table to sing for them. That performance gave me an opportunity to admire the artwork, including the impressive painting above of a pope or bishop or some other Catholic holy guy. The most fascinating tidbit of info we learned during that visit was that the home previously belonged to Rudolph Valentino.

Finally, the most lighthearted unexpected moment of our tour came in Matera, the last "big" city we visited. As we walked along the city wall, high above a valley below, we witnessed wildlife of some sort racing along the ravine. That wildlife? Wild boars. Trailing a short distance behind them? Baby boars struggling to keep up. The country has no deer, squirrels, rabbits, etc., but wild boar? Absolutely.

Hog heaven

Prior to this trip I did very little traveling outside the U.S. (and not that much inside the U.S. either). I'd only been to Yorkshire, England 15 years ago, with a couple of trips to Mexico in between. Visiting Italy awakened in me a real desire to travel, to see more of this amazingly beautiful world we live in. If I can get the kids to go to Villanova, I will happily spend their college savings (and perhaps their inheritance) exploring places I've only seen in pictures. And I'll be sure to leave time in my well thought out itineraries for those memorable unplanned moments.

Random Musings: Italian Edition

I have returned from the Silvertones' singing tour of the southeastern region (Puglia) of Italy. It was an amazing experience and worth every penny of my children's college education money. Just seeing Ian's tremendous smile when singing or hanging with his friends was incredibly special. I told him I must go on the next tour in two years. And maybe I'll continue to go after he graduates. He told me the kids liked me best out of all the chaperones, but lest I think too highly of myself he added, "That really isn't saying much when you consider the competition."

As I prepare to return to the daily grind, time and my jet lagged brain do not permit a full post reflecting on the experience at this point.  But because I know you've missed me terribly (and Rob disappointed you by not taking advantage of a great opportunity to get even with me for a three years worth of somewhat questionable posts), I thought I'd quickly share:

20 Things I Learned in Italy

A frogfish face only a mother could love.

1. I do, in fact, like red wine!
2. I do not, however, like octopus, or squid, or veal, or sushi, or vegetables...(most of the adventurous multi-course meals were wasted on me; I think Ian actually ate more than I did).
3. Frogfish does not taste as bad as it looks.
4. America's bread, cheese, salami/prosciutto and pizza pale in comparison to Italy's. Just don't try to bring home the meat. Damn those customs agents! Damn me for including the salami on the declaration form! 
5. Italian men are instantly recognizable and live up to their reputation as Lotharios. Our girls were frequent objects of "affection."
6. Older Italian women look like my mother-in-law and her sisters. 
7. Italians, at least in the region we were in, don't often use garlic, and the country as a whole is not

   

   
   

   particularly wild about chicken.
8. Or, hair conditioner.
9. Hotels don't feel adequate hair dryers are important, but they're big on heated towel racks and bidets.
10. As a tourist, siesta time sucks. This is why I didn't buy you anything. All the stores were closed when I wanted to shop.
11. Buildings in Italy are considered modern if they were built after the 17th century. 
12. Italians don't dress up for church, even on Easter Sunday. It's perfectly okay to wear ripped jeans and a sweatshirt, as long as you don't expose your shoulders, elbows or knees.
13. The long-legged blondes in our group turned a lot of heads in Italy. Same as they do in America.
14. Italians sell pizza topped with hot dogs and French fries. 
15. In the piazzas, throngs of people stroll through the streets (and I do mean "stroll." No one ever seems to be in a hurry over there. Maddening for speed walkers like me). Vehicles also drive on these streets, causing us to frequently shout "CAR" during our walking tours.  
16. There's a trend toward rosé wines at the vineyards in Italy. Rob is terribly disappointed to hear this.
17. Depeche Mode sounds awesome when drinking tea in a bar (what we would call a cafe or coffee bar) next to a 15th century church in Martina Franca.
18. The window balconies you see on castles and fancy homes were shaped outward to fit women's big
    
    dresses back in the day.
19. There are more than 50 million olive trees in the Puglia region.
20. The best moments in life are generally those you didn't plan for. 

And those special unplanned moments are what I'll share in my next post. Until then, arrivederci!

The Maternal Guilt Factor

For the past fourteen years I believed that my husband possessed truer maternal instincts than me. He shows more affection, is more eager to spend time with the kiddies, and is definitely quicker to respond to any signs of illness or injury than I am. Over time, however, I sense that he has been slowly working on me, chipping away at the thick protective coating that has limited the functionality of my maternal wiring. (Hey, I'm starting to sound like an engineer!) As a result, I now feel a more appropriate level of guilt every time I think I may be missing a mothering moment. And guilt is where my husband and I differ.

Rob feels a greater need to heal and protect than I do. And because he feels it, guilt transfers it to me. Whether the result of having what he perceives to be a more important or at least higher paying career, or a simple matter of it being the woman's job (which isn't a characteristically Rob approach to marriage or family), there is some expectation that after he has unintendedly guilted me into feeling properly maternal, I will do the right thing. The "right thing" generally being sacrificing my personal and professional needs to do what he believes is best for the children. Somehow, despite feeling that greater level of concern at the onset, Rob doesn't appear to experience the miserable internal conflict that turns otherwise composed, confident and professional career women into multiple personalities incapable of making rational decisions.

Yesterday Abby was on her fifth sick day, which started on Thursday with me staying home with her in the morning, and then abandoning her to be at work for an 11 a.m. meeting. During said meeting, Abby called me weeping to report that she thought she was going to throw up. Does it ever occur to the children to call their father at such moments? I called Rob and told him he needed to head home to be with her, and he did, because he had nothing that conflicted with him doing so. He left the next day for Spring Training. On Friday, Abby stayed home with Jess, our abandoning exchange student who was flying home that afternoon. For which I had to leave work early to handle the drop off. Over the weekend I missed everything I had on my calendar and by Sunday it was clear Abby wasn't returning to school on Monday. And Rob wasn't returning home until Monday evening.

With my calendar filled with back-to-back meetings on Monday, I seriously considered asking my husband to abandon his clients and catch an earlier flight home. (Couldn't someone else take them to dinner and drinks and make sure they made it to the airport? Wouldn't going home to his sick child score major sympathy sales points?) When we spoke on Sunday, however, it was clear no such thought had crossed his mind and that I was correct in not suggesting it. At this point I went through the always delightful internal dialogue that we full-time career moms suffer through:

Dammit. What do I do here? I can't leave her home alone. Even I know that that's not an acceptable solution. Maybe I can find someone to watch her. My parents aren't available. I don't know of any college students who are home on break. She doesn't much like any of the adult sitters her friends sometimes have. I could try to call in from home for all my meetings, but geez, I've only been in this job for a few months and I've already had to work from home on a few occasions. And I've taken time off for some minor medical stuff. And I'm leaving for Italy for 12 days just three days from now. And I have a new assistant director who just started last week. What are they going to think of me if I keep needing special treatment? Burt was an understanding guy; I'm still pissed at him for dying on me. Okay, even though it will cost me in the running for mother of the year, I'm going to have to find someone to watch Abby tomorrow. I'll send out an FA APB and see who can rescue me. Amen! Theresa is free this week. I can take Abby there. But Abby doesn't really want to leave the house. She'd understandably prefer to be at home. It's 7 p.m. on Sunday, who can I find to come over? I'm freaking out. Abby feels bad. She says she'll be okay at T's house. Damn, the guilt. 

Monday I make it to work. My meetings go well. One of them goes so well it runs late. I didn't bring my phone along. Obviously I'm trying to avoid any possibility of parental responsibility from interfering in my career. When I finally check my phone I have two messages from my son. Who didn't bring his house key. Who has been sitting outside on the front steps in the rain and the cold. For 45 minutes. Without a coat because kids don't wear freakin' coats anymore. He's weepy and sounds like he's dying. He's going to catch pneumonia two days before he leaves for Italy. This trip's going to suck. I should just stay home.

I call Angel Karen A. to ask her to pick up my son. She arrives at our house and he's gone. Angel-in-training Dave M. has picked him up and taken him to his house. This is my life. How the hell do single moms do it?

Fast forward to Monday evening. Rob is home. Ian is home and warm and dry. Abby seemed fine earlier, but now is a weepy mess because she doesn't know what to do to prepare for her field trip tomorrow. I sense another sick day on Tuesday. Rob gives no indication he could possibly step in and guard the castle if that turns out to be the case. Which it is.

Tuesday morning, the internal struggle begins again.

Em said I could take Abby there if I need to. Theresa said she'll be home again if I need her. But I know Abby would rather be home. I don't have any meetings today, I could work from home. But then I'll have to let the dean and my assistant know I won't be in today. I'll be asking for special treatment again. Did I need this much special treatment when I worked at Judson? Why is it so hard for women to ask for what they need? Do men have these issues? Probably not. But then again they never need special treatment because they expect the woman to deal with every child-related problem that arises. And Wednesday morning I have a doctor appointment which means I won't be in until noon. And did I mention I leave for Italy on Thursday? I wasn't going to come in at all on Thursday, but I guess I could work in the office until noon since we're not leaving for the airport until 1:30 p.m. Perhaps that would give me some brownie points to apply to my deficit situation? Damn, the guilt. 

I stayed home. And I threw in laundry, and dropped off paperwork for Ian at the high school, and went to the pediatrician to pick up a doctor's note for Abby. That's what moms do.

This story is not intended to make my husband look like a selfish bastard, which he is most definitely not. I know that in reality I have it much better than some women. I'm just fascinated by what seems to be a natural tendency or societal expectation that regardless of whose needs are actually more important at the moment, moms will generally find themselves in position to put theirs behind their man's. I'm curious to know if all women, regardless of their salary and job title find they have this experience, because frankly, it's been eating at me for almost 15 years now and I'd like to do away with the bitterness before the kids head off to college. At which time I'll probably be expected to personally deliver vitamin C lozenges and Gatorade at the first sign of a cold. Rob will make sure to let me know when the need arises. He's really good at that.