Motherhood in all its messy glory

Oxygen in the morning sun.

That’s how this “simple” post started and was supposed to end. But upon opening the photos I uploaded to my computer, my “obsessive mother” trait kicked in. The photos showed, at most, a model of an oxygen atom with 6 protons, 6 neutrons and 8 electrons.

My son had rushed to complete his model after an overbooked weekend of camping and playing piano in a music festival. He painted the protons, neutrons and electrons last night. His Dad was helping him assemble the model when I got up this morning. Had he left out a couple of protons and neutrons? 

There was nothing to do now, as the model probably was already in his science classroom. And I would be wondering all day if he had made a model of an unstable atom. Then it occurred to me that I could count the number of shish-kebab sticks that had held the foam balls he had painted. I found them – all 24 -- in the kitchen trash. The model was spot-on.

One of my most difficult and important responsibilities as a Mom is to make sure that “obsessive mother” trait gets curtailed before it impacts my son. I’m working on that.

The things Jews endure

It's almost Hanukkah. And that pretty much explains why my husband, son, another boy and I were forced to stand in front of a microphone in a crowded church basement singing four verses of Ma'oz Tzur at an unbearably slow pace in an almost unobtainable key.

At the end of each verse I kept thinking, this will be over and then we can go home. But not before I stepped on a plate of barbecued meatballs a child left on the floor. And then, in an attempt to balance my slide, I put my other foot down in a plate of mashed potatoes and creamed corn.

Vacation kitsch

It isn't vacation if you haven't...

Posed for goofy photos with Grandma like this one at the SMART Centre Market Science and Dinosaur Store.


Played a round of minature golf with Dad at Grand Vue Park. Mom won, though each of us shot a hole-in-one.


Stopped by a tourist trap, like Sea Shell City. The store was closed, but we got to play on the pirate ship.

Perhaps next year we'll even get to the UP's famed Mystery Spot or Weird Wax Museum.

Mashed potatoes and 3-D movies

My 5-year-old son experiences a number of firsts, which we duly celebrate, mark on calendars, write about in Web postings, and retell of to relatives and friends.

But as I near the half-century mark, I'm surprised by the number of firsts I still experience. Just this past week, I added seeing my first movie in 3-D and making mashed potatoes to my list of life experiences.

So how have I managed to never have made mashed potatoes in all my 48 years? I was pondering this with my exercise buddy the other day. I believe I know why.

When I watched my mother make mashed potatoes as a little girl, it was always at that critical time when she was trying to get all of the food ready and onto the table -- as well as get everyone to the table -- before the food cooled.

My questions of how much milk or butter to put in the potatoes would be answered by a frustrated-sounding, "You just know." And she never seemed satisfied -- "too lumpy" or "too runny" or "not enough salt," she would say -- as she critiqued the finished product. I and the rest of my family gobbled them up, oblivious.

But I grew up believing making mashed potatoes was one of the hardest things to do. When I hosted Thanksgiving dinners and guests asked what they could bring or do, I always offered for someone else to make the mashed potatoes. I satisfied my own mashed potato cravings with baked potatoes smothered in butter.

Last month, as I was mashing potatoes for knishes, I realized how close I was to making real mashed potatoes. It didn't seem that difficult. So I made some this week. The verdict: slightly lumpy and not enough salt.

City slicker -- not

A friend and I drove to the Twin Cities this week. Our meeting was in a newer office building downtown. We could park in the nearby outdoor lot or the underground lot, whichever we preferred.

Spying the sign for the underground lot first, I pulled in. The garage door opened automatically. I drove into the dark cavern, slowing at several empty parking spaces and noting that all were marked reserved. Stopping at the posted stop sign, I realized I had pulled up alongside a counter. "It's valet parking," the man responded quickly and kindly to my puzzled look.

I gathered the belongings I needed, handed him my keys, then started looking for the exit. "What's the address?" he asked, then smiled at my friend's reply. "Right through that door and onto the elevator," he said. "You're in the basement."

Avoiding the dressing room monitor

I was shopping for workout clothes -- now that I actually have time to exercise -- at one of those stores that discounts last year's name-brand clothing. I loaded up my shopping cart with two sizes of every shirt, sports bra and pant that might appeal to me and headed for the dressing room. Signs at the door told me to park my cart. I vaguely noticed the cards numbering one through eight, but nobody stopped me as I carried about 30 items through the door. I had arrived before the dressing room monitor started her shift.

I weeded out a third of the items -- the ones that absolutely didn't fit -- and took them out of my little room to the empty racks near the door. A woman took them out of my hands, asking casually if any of them worked. "Nope, not these," I said, then headed back to my little room. I was a little puzzled when she started counting the hangers. I ruled out another third, the clothes that weren't that comfortable. "Not these ones, either," I said, handing her another pile. Once again, she started counting. I went back to my little room to decide what I was going to purchase out of the clothes that were left.

I emerged with six items to buy and handed the rest to the dressing room monitor who again began counting hangers. As I walked out of the dressing room reveling in my shopping success, those numbered cards began to haunt me. I wandered through the store a bit longer, checking out the children's clothing, household goods and more women's clothing. I considered trying on a pair of pajamas. But then I remembered the dressing room monitor. Better to forget that kicky spring skirt, too.