Something is Going Around

I hate to brag, but my child is a gifted actor. I am his most loyal fan, and a season ticket holder. It’s been almost a year since I’ve seen a performance of this caliber from my son, a high school junior. I’ll call him Stan, short for Stanislavsky—the creator of method acting in the theatre.


Stan had ventured in and out of the house all weekend. Our conversations both in person and via text messages during that time frame went something like this: 

Me: “Where are you?” 

Stan: “I’m hanging out with Kevin.” 

Me: “Curfew is in 10 minutes.” 

Stan: “I know MOM.” 

Me: “Whose car was that?” 

Stan: “Jake’s.” 

Me: “What have you guys been doing?” 

Stan: “Hanging out.” 

Friday, Saturday and Sunday night— the same conversation, interchanged with various random names. 


Sunday 8:pm. I am standing at my desk searching for a document I just had in my hand. Finding it I turn and jump back, startled… the phantom has materialized. 

Me: “I didn’t hear you come in. Did you close the door?”  (Why do I have to ask a 17 year old if he closed the door?) 

Stan: “I’ve been here for a while.” 

I mutter: “Nice try.” 

With surprisingly authentic shock, Stan asks: “Are you kidding me? You don’t believe me?” 

I decide to play along. “Yes, I believe you. I was joking. I didn’t know you were home.”

Stan: “I feel terrible.” Grasping his stomach he says: “My ear is killing me…it’s crackling and popping. Something is going around.”

Me: “Well go to bed. You’re not missing school. Would you like me to schedule an appointment with the doctor?”

Stan: “What time?” 

Me: “They have walk up appointments at 7am.”

Stan: “No, that’s way too early.” — his bus comes at 7:10, so he never wakes up before 7:05. 

Me: “Okay well you will not be missing school, so go to bed.

This has been the set up for the real performance which takes place the following morning. 


Stan: “I’m sick. Call me in.”

Me: “You are not sick and I’m not calling you in.

Stan: “I threw up.” 

Me: “Did you flush it, because if I don’t see it it didn’t happen.” (he has been known to stage faux puke, but only with prior warning)

Stan: “That’s disgusting, yes I flushed it. I’m calling dad- he’ll call me in. You don’t care about me.”

Me: “I care about your grades. Did you not do your homework, is that what this is about?”

Stan: “You are the worst mom, this is abuse. I’m going to school, but don’t be surprised if you get a call from the nurse. They don’t want sick kids in the building.”

Me: “I’ll keep my phone charged and close by, and I’ll make an appointment with the doctor for after school… it’s your ear, and you threw up. You need to get started on antibiotics right away—if what you have is what’s going around.”

Stan: “No, I’m not going to the doctor, forget it.”


Me: “How are you feeling?”

Stan: “I’m okay, why?”



<a href=””>Loyal</a&gt;

*Breaking* Fashion Trend Alert:

As hipsters claim high waisted relaxed fit jeans, skinny jeans have become the new “mom jeans.” 
You knew? I am always last. Time to resign myself to the mom look. My futility has become a humiliation. (I might have picked up on this when my old jeans disappeared from my closet.)

*Source- eye witness account.

<a href=””>Recreate</a&gt;

A Limerick for My Second Spawn

On this day in 1997

A bundle descended from heaven

Her name was Emma

Alas a dilemma 

For you, a clinical progression:


“Heaven” in real terms was my uterus

Manifested in a large protuberance 

She was happy in there

Sadly going no where 

Her firm grip was somewhat dubious 


My obstetrician scheduled an induction

I arrived at 9 AM as per instructions

5 pm rolled around 

No child to be found

I was disappointed…still no introductions 


My doctor clocked out, left for the day

My (then) spouse was told “no need to stay”

“Oh no, you won’t go!”

Amniotic fluid did flow

Is there a doctor in this building? “HEY!”


A random doctor pulled in from the hall

No time for pain meds – no, nothing at all

I didn’t get them last time

A conspiratorial crime?

Nurse said “Don’t push or the baby will fall!”


Oh yes, that is what I was told

I had to fight birth, attempt a stronghold

Keep the babe inside

I tried as I cried:

New doc scrubbed in, gown on, “release hold!”


Loud screams “now you can push”  and a birth

Twenty years, hilarity and mirth

Long forgotten—the pain

I’d do it again

My love Emma, my angel on earth.


<a href=””>Elevate</a&gt;

A Limerick for My Baby

Twenty one years ago today

On a hot humid summer’s day

Zoe landed on earth

(Yes—some call it birth)

‘Twas done in a quite painful way


*Fair Warning ⚠️ details of the story:

Are, well…indecorous and gory

From ruptured membranes 

(Some might complain)

No meds, IV or suppository 


“Stop screaming and try to focus!”

“Happy place! Use self hypnosis!”

I was a pirate “avast ye”

In pain “my dungbie!”

I had a baby— hmm almost didn’t notice


Although that last line isn’t true

Every cramp, stretch mark, saggy boob

I’d do it again

My daughter, my friend

Because my life, it began with you!


Happy Birthday little Zoe!


<a href=””>Relieved</a&gt;, 

U With the Uterus 

Hey! You with the uterus! 

Stop right there!

Drop that insurance card!

Hands in the air!

You suspected pregnancy 

And bought a urine test

Don’t try to pass it off as new— 

The condition pre-exists!

Mammograms and Pap smears

All your women’s needs

You expect them to be covered 

In your health plan? That’s just greed.

Rich old white male politicians 

Won’t vote to subsidize the cost

Of care to keep you healthy here

In America— democracy is lost

Though they all had mothers 

Who birthed them at one time

Do their moms see what happened 

To their Repugnant offspring? It’s a crime.

A tax cut has priority 

Over compassion and ethics

Viagra however— treats a condition 

Which never pre-exists

So, you with the uterus, 

Happy Mothers Day!

Of that uterus, what happens to it— 

By the way, you have no say

Though the senate won’t approve this bill, 

Their version keeps women under attack

Because it’s not orange, no it’s Women 

Women are the GOP’s new black

Dear Kellyanne Conway,

Not that there’s anything wrong with trailer parks, but so I can understand your background, I have to ask, is that where you were raised? Probably not, because if you were I imagine someone would have slapped you on the side of your head and told you to get your damn shoes off the couch…sharp heeled shoes on a light colored sofa at that. Even if these are your new Ivanka shoes that you purchased on clearance, you do not put them on furniture—ever.I beg to differ with this tweet. This is basic diplomacy. Most cultures, such as the Japanese, remove shoes before entering a house, and in other cultures, such as Arab, showing the sole of your shoe is an insult. Even in my own filthy home, no one puts their shoes on my sofa—it’s disrespectful.

She was trying to get a picture, okay Mr Dreyfuss. If she is employed in a new capacity as the official White House photographer perhaps she should dress accordingly. 

Listen, I am first and foremost a mother. The moment my children’s neck muscles allowed it, I taught them how to sit. It is essential that you consider what you are wearing before deciding on a sitting position.

If you are wearing a skirt be aware of how much you are exposing.

And I am not being sexist in this post, because I extend the same reminder to men.

Kellyanne, it has been argued that you are bat shit crazy, is that the reason you sit the way you do?  You will never be invited to meet the queen if you don’t learn how to sit. The queen made that mistake once.

You are not in pre-school, you are in a big girl job, wearing big girl clothes. Learn how to sit properly.

Yours with all the respect I can muster,