I’m a girl. A new sweater could alter my outlook on life for the entire fall season. No more. They get new clothes first.  Those pesky children insist on growing non-stop. I tried not feeding them but Social Services frowned upon that.  With a limited “Entertainment” budget, under which clothes shopping for teens falls (since my husband doesn’t have a Microsoft Money category named, “Just Shoot Me Now”), priority’s given to family members whose toes are popping out of their shoes and pant hems are touching their calves. And no, despite the article in last week’s Fashion Section, my son will not buy the argument that ¾ length pants are now “in” for American men. Maybe if I dress incredibly embarrassing and show up for Family Day at my daughter’s school, she’ll sacrifice her “Matching Socks” budget and let me go shopping. For me.

My kids get first dibs on the TV too. Mostly because they’re the only ones who can read the channel guide without glasses and understand how to operate the DVR without swearing and throwing the remote at it.  I dread the day they move out and I’ll actually have to read an instruction manual.  Or worse — ask my husband for help.

Slouched on the comfy couch watching a Mythbusters marathon, my kids stuff themselves with all the fun food.  They can each eat half a package of Double Stuff Oreos and come morning, still fit into their favorite jeans. They can down an entire bag of sour cream and onion potato chips and an hour later not swell with five pounds of water weight.

My kids can stay up for the late night movie with oversized bowls of buttery, salty popcorn without worrying about hulls lodging under their crown and inflaming their gums severely enough to warrant an emergency trip to the dentist. Plus, they can stay awake during movies clear through to the credits.

I haven’t seen the end of a movie — at least one I can remember — in three years.  Occasionally, I’ll ask the kids to queue up the movie we watched the previous night to catch the ending. “Mom, we already finished it, remember?  You said it was lazy writing and you can’t believe you wasted two good hours of potential sleep time on it.”

“I did? Are you sure?”

“Yes!” They roll their eyes and yell in unison.

“Well, can you put it on anyhow so I can refresh my memory?”

“Sorry, we already deleted it. Besides, the Sonny With A Chance marathon is on.”

As they hauled Oreos out of the pantry, I debated pulling rank and commandeering the remote. Then I heard them giggle and comment on the show — the two of them on the same couch. Getting along. Having fun.  Yep, for now, I still opt for peace.

I was swapping out rechargeable batteries on the weed whacker when my husband called from Lowes Home Improvement Center (“Home Improvement” being the Latin translation for, “Something at Home is Always Broken”). “I need to ask you a question.” He said in that, How Would You Feel if I Got A New Job Half Way Across The Country? voice. “Oh kaaay…” I said in my, “Did You Quit Today?” voice.

“Do you want the Dancing Holly Jolly Christmas Tigger or the Bell Ringing Let it Snow Winnie the Pooh?”

“No.  Way.”

“Way.”

“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo….”

Dogs howled; squirrels fell from trees; cars slammed on their brakes. My son ran outside, “Who died?”

“Sa sa sa Santa!” I whimpered.

“Santa died?”

“Santa hasn’t ridden down the snow covered hill on the Norelco razor… School hasn’t started and it’s not even Labor Day yet!”

Turns out Scott asked the store manager why they put the stuff out so early. “Just obeying orders from the Higher Ups.”

“I understand,” he empathized, and then asked for the Higher Up’s E-mail address.  He wrote to the regional manager, protesting Christmas merchandise displayed so early — plus the frustration of not being able to purchase summer merchandise during, well, summer.  “We have customers who tell us they really appreciate us stocking Christmas supplies this early,” replied Mr. Higher Up. Which is the Latin translation for, “We care what other customers think but not you. You, sir, must be the only oddball customer we have!”

Apparently Retail Store Managerial Types’ first training Course is, How to tell a customer they’re opinion is worthless, without specifically saying so. This was reaffirmed the following week at Super Target as I noted every plastic bag the cashier handed me ripped.  “Can you double bag those please? I’d like to make it to my car without the Kotex landing on the asphalt.”  He happily obliged.

Ironically, there was a manager in line behind me with another customer.  “I don’t know if you have any say in the matter, but could you please let the person who purchases your bags know these are poor quality?” She immediately quipped, “No one else has ever had a problem with those bags before!” I held up the ripped double-bagged sack and said, “Well I do. And I had it last week and I’m telling you now.  Please don’t make me feel stupid by saying no one else has had this problem.”

“Well, the corners of those binders you bought can rip bags.” I resisted the urge to hiss, “Look you little sorry excuse for management — I’ve been shopping since before you were born! How ’bout a little respect here?” Instead I blithely replied, “Miss, every bag rips as soon as one item goes in.  How sharp are the corner of those maxi pads, do think?  But hey,” I shrugged as I swiped my VISA through the little red box, “Don’t mind me. I’m just a paying customer.”

There’s a picture of two men playing with their little boys — my husband with our son and my brother in law with his. I keep it there to remind me of precious things. Like time. My son is in college, my brother in law left us too soon, and his son just got married.

Actually, there are lots of pictures on my refrigerator. Some are left over from Christmas — the “special” picture cards of my favorite people that I leave there for months and months. Sometimes until the new one arrives a year later.

The pictures are mixed in with SAT scores, ACT registration receipts, report cards, cartoons, witty quotes clipped from the newspaper, maybe a funny column (ahem).

Then there are the magnets. We’ve got Happy Bunny with his sarcastic sayings (“You’re dumb and that makes me sad”). A retro snoopy that used to hang on my husband’s childhood fridge. Magnetic business cards courtesy of the orthodontist, plumber, library, insurance guy and other “free” versions.

Some magnets are work related — from movies or publishing houses. Some are souvenirs — in case, which is quite likely, I forgot the field trip from hell to the Outer Banks or the streets of New York City with a wind-chill of -4.  At least the little ceramic one from a mother-daughter trip to California makes me smile.

About twice a year — in highly unpredictable, unscheduled moments, I’ll look at the outside of my fridge and teeter on the verge of a major anxiety attack.  It’s too crowded. It’s too cluttered. That’s a stupid picture. What a tacky magnet. What color is my fridge anyhow? I bet that perfect hot mom down the street, Gladys Wartzburger doesn’t have a cluttered refrigerator door. She can probably see her well-coiffed reflection in hers.

All the color and shapes and activity makes my heart race and, before I know what my hands are doing, they’re peeling every last report card and appointment reminder off and tossing them into the closest kitchen drawer. Well, not exactly the closest — the one right next to the fridge holds my corkscrew so I don’t want to bury it under junk and memorabilia.

The downside? I see all the dirt the magnets hid and have to clean the doors but I feel good for a few days. I feel like my entire house is cleaner, organized and orderly. Heck, my whole life feels more orderly and serene with that shiny, bright white unadorned refrigerator glistening over there in the corner of my kitchen.

Then my son brings home a test with red ink scrawled across the front: “Excellent job! Best essay of the semester! 100%” And it’s from a college professor. College professors still write on tests? Stick.

The mail arrives. That sweet cousin of mine keeps having the cutest babies. Stick.

My daughter bursts in the door with a blue ribbon from a horse show she didn’t think she’d even place in let alone win. Stick.

The eye doctor graciously sends the third replacement copy of my contact lens Rx. Stick.

My niece has magnets made: “We’re getting married 7-30-11! Save the date!” Stick.

I step back and realize the cycle has started all over again. I can never really live with blank, uncluttered refrigerator doors. At least it hides the dirt.

Now, my kids drive themselves to Super Target, Staples, or the campus bookstore and buy their own stuff. The whopping price tags are still there but not me and I don’t miss it!

I don’t miss the all too common Bus Stop Mommy ritual known as Stuff the Backpack With Last Minute Almost Forgotten Items As Bus Is Stopped At Corner.  Like lunch money or snacks. Or better yet, after a few weeks, pulling out a hermetically sealed packaged of smashed peanut butter crackers.

I mean, what a waste of a perfectly good snack.  If they were broken Cheezits or Cornflakes I could at least toss them with some butter and recycle them into the Universal Crunchy Topping used to disguise vegetables at the dinner table.  But peanut butter sandwich cracker crumbs?   I suppose I could mix in colored sprinkles and tell the kids it’s new a gourmet ice cream sundae topping.  I hate to throw them away; they’re still sealed in the bag you know.  Perfectly edible.  Cost good money.  Starving kids in Haiti and all…

I don’t miss discovering in the deep dark depths of backpacks, damp, stinky feet-smelling, two week old PE clothes.  Oh sure, during his last couple years of middle school, my son became more responsible with the care of his gym clothes.  Instead of leaving them in his backpack, he plunked them on the kitchen counter, then proceeded to announce their arrival before foraging the pantry for food. The day his clothes started making the extra six steps to the laundry room was the day I dropped to my knees, bowed up and down before him, his laundry and the kid he brought home that day and wailed, “I’m not worthy!  I’m not worthy!”

Said son is now a university student living at home and I still don’t have to worry about clothes mildewing in his backpack. He keeps all his dirty clothes upstairs (I bought him a hamper in the form of a jumbo galvanized trash can with tight fitting lid) until he hauls them down to the laundry room. And yes, he sorts, washes, dries, folds, hangs and puts away all his clothes. I don’t have to see, smell or touch a thing. (Call me. He’s available for rent.)

I did see him shove some peanut butter crackers in his backpack the other morning on his way out the door. Some things don’t change, I guess. No, I take that back. I’m not going to stick my hand in those deep dark recesses to find out if he actually ate them.

And their point?

I guess they missed it last year when I wrote, “Sure I whine about my children. I also whine about the price of chocolate covered espresso beans but that doesn’t mean I want or love them any less.” Do they think this is something I try to hide?  For Pete’s sake there’s a chapter in my book titled, “Just Let Me Whine, You’ll Get Your Turn.”

I’ve given birth. I have to share my car keys and chocolate and bathroom sink.  I have stretch marks and cellulite that will never again tan.  I have weak nails, blotchy skin and I’m over forty. I’ve earned a little whine time.  Sadly, I have to assume these two women (only one had the guts to sign her name) must be miserable. I feel sorry for them.

Perhaps they think it’s a sin — a celestial slap in God’s face — to whine about blessings He’s given them.  The little blessings we begged to give birth to all those years ago. As if God wouldn’t understand a perimenopausal, chocolate-deprived woman who spent half the night changing barf laden crib sheets only to stumble into the kitchen, trip over a backpack and find there’s no bread for school lunches, no caffeinated coffee and the comics are the only section of the paper soaking wet from last night’s unpredicted storm that kept the toddler up screaming all night and soaked the car when the windows got left open?

And if you can’t whine to fellow Mommies — in print or in person, either those currently with you in the trenches or those who’ve been there and lived to tell about it — then to whom can you whine?

Your dad?  “I told you you shouldn’t have married that guy. See what he’s done to my little princess? Want to go to Law School? I’ll pay.”

Your mom?  “Don’t tell me!  I had four more than you and did it all without a dishwasher, central air, car or second bathroom.”

Your brother the bachelor?  “Uh, like, why don’t you go away for the weekend and get a little rest?”

The grocery store clerk?  “Paper or Plastic?  On second thought, Mrs. Rinehart, I’ll just keep you away from the plastic bags.”

Call me a bad mom for running out of sugarbomb cereal and milk.  For waiting until she was twelve to have my daughter’s tonsils removed.  Because I lose my temper and swear in front of my kids, forbid TV’s in their bedrooms, shadow them at the mall and refuse to condone underage drinking after high school graduation. Call me a bad mom when I whine about running out of wine.

Go ahead. I’ve been called a lot worse.  I’ll just whine about it anyway.

Were her texting fingers broken?  Only a long and loyal friendship will survive this act of shopping humiliation. Trying on swimsuits is stressful and humiliating enough — then to get paged part way through the process?

I sped through the crammed purse aisle, narrowly missed a china buddha in housewares and while still trying to jam my left heel into my shoe, skidded to a stop in front of my best friend and her overflowing shopping cart. Catching my breath I gasped, “What’s wrong? Are you okay? Are the kids okay? Did the sitter call?”

“Nothing, yes, yes and no.  Whataya think about this skirt?”  She fished it out from under a box of dishes.

“It’s kinda last season. Why are you getting dishes?”

“Because they’re blue and I like them.”

“Melanie Kim Chitwood”, (I had my breath back) “You amassed three sets of china alone when you got married. You had so many extras we returned them to Macy’s and got enough money back to make your next car payment and wait you paged me for PLATES?”

“Yeah but I’m tired of them and you know, with all the moves we’ve made, they’ve gotten chipped and stuff and did I mention I’m tired of them?  And besides, these are blue. Did I tell you Blue is my New Thing?” Six months ago her New Thing was “red”. Ever shopped for red plates? Last month her New Thing was Curtains.  We picked out, bought and returned no fewer than 17 panels, swags and swatches of blue fabric.

“You, my friend,” I exhaled,  “are insane and– Mel? Don’t ever wear that shirt in public again.”

“I like it—it’s sparkly!” she whined, looking down at bauble-clad collarbone.

“No, it’s dowdy and totally unbecoming.  You are too young to wear that.”

“Oh right, this from woman I had to bodily stop from buying a bathing suit designed for a 14 year old girl; not a 45 year old housewife. What do you think of this table?”

I stood there thinking how my best friend and I have shopped “together” like this for over 25 years. Able to wander into different departments and answer the other’s request for advice or give it unsolicited without offense.  “Your husband will kill you if you go home with another table.”

“You’re right. How about these shoes?”

“Now those show promise.  What else have you got going there and did they have those in my size?”

If I believe the magazine and newspaper stories I’ve read this past week, dads don’t know how to relate to the children they brought into this world:

“How to Bond on Daddy’s Day!”  (You have to be taught?)

“What Kids Need From Fathers Now.” (A man with a backbone.)

After tossing the Sunday ads into the recycling bin, I went outside to wage my latest war on stray Bermuda grass. While mixing toxic chemicals it occurred to me — we Rineharts live quite a different life from the one portrayed in the typical Father’s Day advertisements.  When I married Scott, my dowry consisted not of a cedar trunk containing family linens and grandma’s china, but the trunk of an old Monte Carlo containing a socket wrench set and tool box.

My husband came into the marriage with a sleek, shiny car and a professional grade mastery of ironing, but lack of experience in the Mr. Fix It department.  In his childhood home, repairmen were called when anything broke or needing replacing.  In my childhood home, a broken appliance or light fixture in need of rewiring was an occasion for daddy-daughter bonding.  Often all four of us kids were called down to the basement for our latest shop lesson.  “Red to red, black to black…who can show me the ground wire?”

The combination of newlywed low funds and fear of looking inept in front of his wife and father in law was potent: Scott learned by force to fix and replace just about anything.

Over the past 23 years, he’s fixed water heaters, dishwashers, wallboard, ceiling fans, phone lines and sprinkler systems.  But my favorite skills of his were, and are, changing diapers, mixing formula by the blender-full, middle of the night feedings, sending me away on girls only weekends, reading Stop That Ball! eighteen times in a row, and yes, ironing.

Those “skills” made him a great dad in my eyes, as did his character traits of integrity, honesty, sensibility, stability, affection and thoughtfulness.  He taught our children much when he sent them to find the needle nose pliers or flip a fuse, more so when he was simply there for them… at home, school, in the middle of the night, on the phone, with each sandwich he packed in their school lunches and with every personal luxury he sacrificed to give his children a warm home, good education and time — simply being a great dad.

Now he just needs to teach them to iron.

Happy Father’s Day!

I wasn’t greedy in my spousal requirements—a normal educated guy who wore button down shirts and went to a decent office job every day. A good dad who changed diapers and told our kids they have the best mother in the universe. And naturally, a guy who thought I was the most beautiful creature that ever roamed the planet…and told me so. Regularly.

I got one “you’re so beautiful” whispered to me in our limo on our wedding day. Then the Adjective Gods stripped the word from his vocabulary and replaced it with “nice” — I’d spend hours getting ready for his class reunion or office party, sweep into his presence and ask, “How do I look?”

“Nice.”

After five years of being described as a used car, I gave up on ever hearing the word “beautiful” come out of my husband’s mouth.

Then our daughter was born…and the Adjective Gods reverse-bonked my husband over the head with their word wand—”Look at her, she’s beautiful! Isn’t she, hon?”

I never wanted to be one of those warped moms who resented her daughter because she’s prettier, more talented and self-assured than me. I sweetly and politely thanked every stranger in the grocery store (and there were many) that gushed over my daughter: “She’s SO beautiful! Look at those BLUE eyes!” Then they’d release their drooling gazes from her and look at me. Then back at her. Then back at me. “She’s SO beautiful! She must look like her father.”

I didn’t resent them. I didn’t resent my baby girl; but it was hard to not resent my husband every time he used the one word for our daughter I wanted to hear:

“Hey Beautiful!”

“How’s my beautiful girl today?” Then I’d walk in the room and he’d say, “You look nice. Going somewhere?”

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciated the way Scott treated me (despite the lack of one adjective) in front of our daughter—the wonderful example he set on what a good, loving husband and father is and should be—so she’d know what was healthy and desirable in a future boyfriend or spouse.

And all his “beautifuls” weren’t hollow, distracted comments— behind the adjective was pure devotion, admiration and sacrificial love of a hands-on dad who wore button down shirts, went to a decent office job every day, changed our kids’ diapers and told them, time and again, they had the best mother in the universe.

The day of our daughter’s senior prom arrived. She posed next to her daddy for pictures—their matching blue eyes smiling at each other in complete admiration.  It was a joy to see to see this attractive, confident, young woman happily surrounded by her well-chosen friends.

As we watched her walk into the restaurant, I thought of all my husband did over the years to help me shape this amazing young woman. That realization was far more important than any adjective I’d longed to hear directed at me. It made me, and our little life we’d built, feel quite beautiful indeed.

I want to apologize for that time when you were 14 and I drove you and your friends to the mall wearing one of your old Fruit of the Loom whitie tightie brief’s waistband as my ponytail holder.  But more importantly, that I actually escorted you all into the mall (because that’s what a responsible mother of a 14 year old does) wearing one of your old Fruit of the Loom whitie tightie brief’s waistband as my ponytail holder. I swear I didn’t do that intentionally to punish you for anything.  Unlike the time I showed up at school and made you clean out your locker during class changes while I introduced myself to all your peers. You had that one coming. But hey, to this day you now turn in your homework and turn it in promptly. You’re welcome.

Anyhow, I risk humiliation in reminding you of that scenario in hopes that someday, in what seems like the not too distant future, when your own son comes to you complaining about how I, his Grandma embarrassed him public…I mean, you’ll be able to relate at least a little. And I want you and your kids to be able to talk, relate to one another and at least be respectful of the other like you and I are.  We don’t always understand each other and our decisions (duh) but a major dose of respect and humor has always served us well. I wonder how many other mothers my age have their need for Depends tested on a daily basis by their son’s hilarity and company?

And what about all our little daily inside jokes and secrets that have secured a sweet if not at times conspiratorial mother-son bond? (Or maybe bribery is the word?) You know, Dr. Cox Hands, mayonnaise, buhhhh-ter, my secret emergency chocolate stash, frosty Miller High Life and our stash of on-line Miller High Life product points, being the lone household coffee addicts, haircut battles — as in, me coolly, strategically standing in the line of fire between you and your father until divorce in imminent and I blow the dust off my scissors or dial Natasha’s salon and shove the phone in your hand –I mean, I’ve sacrificed a lot for you and gone to bat for you over these past 21 years but a girl has her limits, Boy!

Anyhow, I guess I’m getting all nostalgic as you finish your last semester at home and have applied to transfer to State this fall. Are you sure you don’t want to stay local and live at home for your last two years? How about graduate school? Think about it—you’re sister’s leaving so you won’t have to share the car or pantry space with her.  And thanks to the new health care bill, you can stay on our insurance plan until you’re 26 — that’s enough time to get your Master’s degree and find a job with your own benefits. And speaking of benefits, don’t forget the well-stocked refrigerator, your own private bathroom, satellite TV and unlimited supply of adoration from the dog.

My dear, sweet, brilliant son of whom I am so proud — you know I want what’s best for you — even if it means you moving out and making me an Empty Nester before I’m ready. I mean it. I do.

But please don’t.

7 Years Prior:  Buy puppy. Comfort daughter when puppy chews the extremities off her $100 American Girl Doll. Send doll to doll “hospital” for repairs. Pretend you don’t care what it costs.

6 Years Prior: Announce daddy has a new job three states away.  Leave the only house and friends she’s ever known, plus daily visits with Grandpa and the next door neighbor/substitute Grandma who cared for her since she was born, to start all over midway through 3^rd grade.  After driving her to private school for 8 years, stand daughter on her new street corner with other public school kids, who, judging by the look of the other Bus Stop Mommies, you assume are not future ax murderers but rather might also have an entire room in their house devoted to Barney, books and Barbies.

5 Years Prior:  Learn once sweet and seemingly harmless female classmates (and their mothers) can and often do turn into first-rate back stabbing bitches. Thank God as her tears dry when she falls in love with all things Horse.

4 Years Prior:  Spend every waking moment driving back and forth to horse barn, horse shows and horse tack store. Pretend you don’t care what it costs.

3 Years Prior: Survive obtaining her Learner’s Permit.  Survive her driving you through empty parking lots and intersections.  Survive leasing a horse and watching her jump it over fences.

2 Years Prior:  Live through her first car accident. Then the second. Pretend you don’t care what it costs because she’s alive and uninjured.

1 Year Prior:  Visit colleges. Buy bigger mailbox to handle influx of recruitment materials. Hand her Visa card for application fees.

6 months prior: Scream till your throat is raw when she gets a personal phone call telling her she got accepted into her favorite college.  Pretend you don’t care what it costs. Apply for student loans.

Mail graduation announcements. Sacrifice Botox budget for prom dress, shoes, salon visit and dinner. Cry while taking prom photos while secretly hoping she can wear that outfit again in college. Cry when she has to say goodbye to her horse while secretly grateful you can apply that money towards tuition. Cry when Pomp and Circumstances starts playing while secretly admitting how much you’re going to miss her.

Contemplate getting a puppy.