Helicopters or remoras?

unsafe at any speed?

OK, yes it's been a long time...since February?? I won't bore you with the details of how my writing mojo was thrown off balance by the resurrection of my job...but I'm sitting on the porch this morning and Mr. Cardinal has already stopped by for a visit, and the sun is out, the coffee is great...and ever since last night's modified baseball game, yes, I've been musing...

on parents and parenting styles today.

Last night a father made a loud remark about the playing time his son is getting. This is the second father of the season to spout off this way.  My first reaction to such outbusts (as I chew a Tootsie Pop to keep my own mouth shut), is wonder and confusion...I've been to Cooperstown and I must have missed the plaques of all these baseball legends that are sharing the sidelines of my kid's Little League and Modified diamonds. I mostly seriously feel sorry for the sons, because I can't imagine what it's like to be 13, 14 years old and have your dad be so far up your ass butt that you can't throw a single pitch or shift your weight on the base without having him shout out something to you.

I remember reading about this author and blogger, Lenore Skenazy, who received much criticism for letting her nine year old son ride the subway by himself. Her book, "Free Range Kids", details how the level of fear among parents is largely unjustified and she encourages parents to let their kids discover the world.
However, I think it's not fear so much that has created the helicoptering mode...I think that beginning with my generation, the baby boomers, we are so incredibly self-absorbed and in parenting, that gets translated to developing, managing and experiencing childhood through our kids. Or life through our kids, when they are no longer quite children.
Especially when they hit the teenage years, it seems to be such a fine line between giving guidance and controlling their choices. That's probably why Mr. Baseball Dad's behavior had me musing so much...it's definitely an area I struggle with daily.

But as the image of a helicopter was replaced in my mind of one of a remora--sucking the life and fun out of our kids as we try to live their childhood with them, I also remembered one of my husband's and I's catchphrases--"We were young once".

This originated with his grandparents, when they were living in Pittsburgh during the first years of our marriage, we would have opportunities through my job to travel there, and we would stay over with them to visit. The first time his grandma showed me our bedroom, she smiled at some point and said "We were young once." I believe that they both repeated this phrase at various times when we would stay with them. John and I assumed that they were giving us permission to have sex while we were there, which was NOT HAPPENING since the mattress was covered in plastic under the sheets. Yeah, crinkle, crinkle, I don't think so!

But you know, we look at each other sometimes now and laugh and say "We were young once." Now we know that they probably felt like us and couldn't believe how the years had flown, and still felt young inside.

I'm going to start repeating "We were young once" to remind myself that I had the pleasure and agony of flying on my own...

Blame on the check-out lady

When you believe in things

That you don't understand,
Then you suffer,
Superstition ain’t the way...


Stevie Wonder

The bad vibes started Saturday at Wegman’s...my husband and I had braved the crowds to prepare for our Super Bowl gathering. He was there because he wanted to be helpful and I went with him because it would have been cruel to send him out with a list and his limited management experience of Saturday grocery store negotiations.


And I’ll be honest, I was frightened that I would buy the wrong brand or color of something and be blamed for bringing bad luck on the black and gold. John and his brother and their friend Chris have so many rules and superstitions for Steelers’ games, I just try to be quiet and follow blindly along. And, yes, I know those of you who know me understand how difficult that is for me to do!

We have a full cart and there are almost as many checkout lines open as on the weekend before Thanksgiving. But I’m being picky about my checkout teller, avoiding the chatty old guy (if you go to Chili-Paul, I know you know who I’m talking about, yes, he’s nice but sometimes I’m just not in the mood) and finally settling on a competent looking teenager who is moving her line briskly along. (Although you have to be selective about your younger cashiers, I found out after I asked one teen how he was and he proceeded to describe in detail how he hadn’t had a break all day and really really needed to go to the bathroom...I tried to listen patiently because he was kind of cute but, wow, talk about TMI from someone who is touching your food.)

I have everything on the belt in the order that I want it packed (I’m a little OCD and my first job was in a grocery store) when I notice my husband is frozen in place, staring at the cashier. I look to see an older woman wearing a Packers’ jersey waiting to replace our cashier. “Maybe she’s just counting the money,” I murmur, trying to soothe John.

No such luck. “How are you today?” Packerwoman says politely.

“I was fine until you came along. I really don’t like you touching our groceries. I think I’ll take these items down to the express checkout.” John escapes in a miasma of consternation.

Packerwoman keeps going but looks at me, eyes wide open. “You don’t understand how seriously superstitious he is about his team,” I try to tell her.

“This is my husband’s jersey,” she stammers. “He’s been a Packers’ fan his whole life. I just like it when we don’t have to wear our uniform”

“It’s a whole different world with him and his family,” I swipe my card quickly and try to move her along.

“My son is a Steelers’ fan,” she offers. “He goes to the Steeler bars in Chicago.”

“Oh, he’s not as scary as he looks...” I should have gone to the old guy today. Then we just would have been talking about how much more snow we were getting.

I find John on my way out of the store. He is talking with another Wegman’s employee, one who is wearing a Steelers’ jersey. She kindly touches all our groceries and even drops a gold necklace in our cart offset the evil Packerwoman curse.

Well, you know how it all worked out. Despite much irrational clothes wearing and chair swapping by the DiCaro/DiPonzio gang during the big game, lucky number seven was not in the cards. It was great game, but the Steelers just kept nipping at the Packers’ heels. The team who played like champions got to kiss the trophy. Yes, Big Ben, hang your head, you haven’t totally redeemed yourself yet.

We did have fun and good food, including Primanti Brothers style sandwiches.

Thanks to Google, I discovered Ken’s Light Olive Oil Vinagrette, which mimics the original cole slaw recipe closely (and is only 2 WW PointsPlus!)

It was an exciting evening and I’d invite you for the next one but I think our house will be crossed off the Super Bowl party list for the future...bad karma, you know!

Dream On

Here is some “craftycrabbylami” for you...a hanging I embroidered for my niece’s birthday. I wanted to give her something handmade and when I found the design here: Feeling Stitchy, the rest of her gift had a “shoe” theme also, so it was perfect. This is the young lady who requested these for Christmas:

The saying is a popular paraphrase of a quote from Thoreau’s Walden Pond:
"I learned this, at least, by my experiment: that if one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavours to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours. He will put some things behind, will pass an invisible boundary; new, universal, and more liberal laws will begin to establish themselves around and within him; or the old laws be expanded, and interpreted in his favour in a more liberal sense, and he will live with the license of a higher order of beings. In proportion as he simplifies his life, the laws of the universe will appear less complex, and solitude will not be solitude, nor poverty poverty, nor weakness weakness. If you have built castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them."

I have always enjoyed being around children because they are still so connected to their dreams. Teenagers, in particular, are passionate about their dreams. As adults dealing with boring and tedious adult responsibilities, it’s easy to lose track of our dreams.

Randy Pausch was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer before he was invited to give his “Last Lecture” at Carnegie Mellon. The title of his lecture was “Really Achieving your Childhood Dreams.” If you read the book that was published from his lecture, one of his themes is tenacity...being persistent in following your dreams.

I like the end of Thoreau’s thoughts: “Now put the foundations under them.” Of course, it sounds great in theory, right, but most of us don’t have the luxury of time away to experiment with making our dreams come true. When we hear our kids talking about how their dreams will come true, it sounds like they think it’s just going to happen...and much as you don’t want to dampen their spirits, you know that most dreams just don’t happen.

I was thinking about dreams and remembered my father-in-law. During the holidays my sister-in-law shared some copies of old pictures with us...one was of Dad DiCaro sitting on the dock of their home on the lake in Florida. His back was to the camera, all you can see is the little skull-cap bald spot on the back of his head...but I didn’t have to see his face to picture the expression. Pure contentment and a small smile. This was the guy who moved his family from Pennsylvania to Rochester to make a better life after getting laid off from Pittsburgh Plate Glass. Who left his home in Gates every morning at 4:45 to drive the often-blustery Route 104 to Xerox. Where he wasn’t worried about the fulfillment factor of the work he did, but was happy to have the work and good benefits and steady salary to raise his family. I’ve been thinking about him this bitter winter, and understanding how much he came to hate the snow and ice. He was motivated to keep on going every day by his dream of the fish jumping out of the water on the lake where his future home would be. And he did what he had to do to make it down there, building a beautiful home to retire to that we all enjoyed visiting during the ten years they lived in Cape Coral.

Later this month my mother will embark on a 49-day trip, which will include tours of the Taj Mahal and Angkor Wat, Cambodia. These are a couple of places that she hasn’t visited, which is saying a lot, because she’s been almost everywhere! We gave her a personalized map for Christmas that she could put pins in to show her travels, and it didn’t come with enough pins! Mom’s turning 78 this week and she just retired last June from full-time employment as an elementary school media specialist (librarian to you and me!). She entered the work force while I was in college, but that’s still a lot of years of putting one foot in front of the other, and doing what needed to get done in order to get to the stuff that dreams are made of!

And if the shoes that you’re wearing are zombie shoes...well, that’s another Thoreau quote, and a topic for another day, right?

They Might Have Been Wearing Pajama Pants...

To celebrate my mother-in-law’s birthday yesterday we treated her to an early Sunday dinner at her favorite restaurant, Red Lobster. The Henrietta Red Lobster, because that’s the best one, you know! Hey, it’s her birthday. To me, the clientele there are approaching “people of Wal-Mart” amusement but I can eat lobster and that’s always an occasion to be celebrated!


We were providing entertainment yesterday, with the DiCaro clan gathered in full force at a table for nine; mostly wearing Steeler gear...I got slammed for having my son wear a nice plaid shirt and chinos in honor of his grandma. (There was some green in the plaid of the shirt.) The birthday girl was feigning embarrassment at the candled dessert, causing chuckles at our end of the table. (This is the woman who takes her teeth out to frighten small children and explains to strangers at the mall how her granddaughters inherited her big boobs. Seriously.)

Our birthday singing and swooping up all the rolls to take home were interrupted by a slight commotion at the next table. The wait staff and a manager wore expressions of patient concern during the following conversation, reported by the DiCaros sitting at that end of the table:



Customer: “There was some label or tag underneath my shrimp that shouldn’t have been there!”

Manager: “That is terrible, and I apologize...”

Customer’s Dining Companion: “And this steak tastes like cow!”

Manager: (takes a breath) “Well, that’s certainly better than if it tasted like fish!” (laughs a little in a good natured way)

(The table stares at him in stony silence.)

Manager: “OK, I am very sorry and we can do a couple of different things for you...you won’t be charged for these meals...we could remove this food and bring you something different...”

Dining Companion: “Oh, no...”

Manager: “OK, or we could take this dish and re-cook it for you...”

Dining Companion: “No, that wouldn’t work at all...”

Manager: “OK, we can wrap it up for you to take home...”

Dining Companion: “Yes, please wrap it up. Where’s the dessert menu?”



I have crossed off “Red Lobster manager” on my lists of jobs I would ever consider.

Hazy Shade of Winter

“So what else are you finding with the new program that’s better?”

On the first Saturday in January, Jennifer looks around packed Weight Watchers meeting, hoping for some feedback. She is met with blank stares and a few feeble comments. (Although I tend to be an over-enthusiastic group participant, I hold back a little at Weight Watchers since November when she asked what our strategies for dealing with Thanksgiving Dinner stresses are and I blurted out “I drink!”...I sensed some disapproval. Although the little Italian lady in front of me turned around and winked.)

On the way out, I try to tell her, “it’s like little kids...when you go away, (that particular meeting had not been held for two weeks because of the holidays) they will punish you by ignoring you when you come back home.” She doesn’t have children, so she didn’t think that was funny.

Or, I could tell her, it could be because it’s winter and we are blanketed by snow skies and slush, nine hours of daylight if we’re lucky...sure, fruit is now zero points but is fruit what we crave in the dead of winter?

Well, I will try to only speak for myself and I can confidently say “NO”, I love fruit, but that’s not what I CRAVE.

No, what I want when I’ve been slogging through the icy winter wonderland I call home is to put my face into a Panera bread bowl soup.

The Weight Watchers Points for a bread bowl of Black Bean soup (which I love and I believe is also the best WW choice) is 16.

To put that in perspective for you non-WW people, I get to eat 29 points a day.

Which makes the bread bowl soup do-able, but you have to plan carefully and use some of your 49 weekly points...yes, it’s do-able, but certainly not for every day!

And some days I’m just so exhausted from taking my boots on and off that it makes my head spin to contemplate that it’s only Tuesday and I don’t have those extra points to use on bread because I polished off the Godiva truffles that Santa brought me for Christmas. (You don’t even want to know the points for one of those...OK, they are 6 points a scrumptious mouthful...see what I mean? A grape is just so not going to cut it.)

As I was half asleep in bed this morning, sorting through the Fellini-esque territory of my dreams (where does this stuff come from?—oh, from my mind!—that’s pretty scary) and feeling like the proverbial addict—“I’ll have a nice big salad for lunch today, won’t that be great!”—I so realized how much I just wanted to hibernate. For me, that feels like wanting to turn inward, an unusual impulse for the “raging extrovert” I think of myself as.

And doesn’t that make sense, physically? And mentally? If you accept that everything is cyclical, that winter prepares for the spring, for the summer, for the fall, again for the winter...that you can’t have growth and blossoming without rest and reflection. Our world is so hooked in and turned on, I feel very distanced from natural rhythms and truths.

Being in the present, being still, and allowing myself to rest and rejuvenate are not natural talents for me. Maybe that’s why I reach for my comfort foods. Maybe winter can teach me to be still, just a little bit more. Small steps!

Oh, and if you see me at Weight Watchers, let’s not mention the Godiva truffle thing, OK?

Don't pray for me, Mark Hare

After reading this column:

http://www.democratandchronicle.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2011101200331

this started playing in my head:

(sung to “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina” with apologies to Andrew Lloyd Webber:)



Don’t pray for me, Mark Hare,


The truth is my God is still with me—


Even if I vote Republican.


In your liberal fashion


you wrap your condescending


in a thin veil of compassion.



I’ve always defended you, Mark, because I thought you were an excellent writer (one of the few left at the D&C) who could move people. You lost me with this one. Time to let go of the metro government idea as being morally superior! Pray on humility a little, hmmm?

Conversations from my life, #1

Heard at the “Jive and Dine” fundraiser at the Middle School cafeteria last week:

Evelyn: (a rather long description of some grievance or ailment, expressed in a dramatic fashion that I can’t replicate because I was half-listening while wondering when the fresh coffee would arrive)...


Joe: smirk and eye roll

Jason: a bemused yet loving look and smile that says, ‘OK, really, now, Ev’

Evelyn: smiles good-naturedly and laughs


Me: “See, that’s why I love Jason, he can just look at you and bring you back to reality, if one of us tried that...”

My husband: “YEAH, Ev, if I tried that, you’d be giving me the black thought cloud look...”

Evelyn: “Hey, Dad...” stares intently

Joe: smirk "Ev, are you going to eat your breadstick?"

The art of letting go

“Where did the teddy bear pictures go?”


I smiled when Evelyn called this out from the bathroom yesterday. Her brother had asked me the same question earlier. It made me feel good that they even noticed.

Today there is a big burgundy tin star on the downstairs bathroom wall. It was 50% off at Joann’s and I like those big stars, even though I’m sure they are “out” now that they’re appearing on the sale racks. The color is good for our downstairs bathroom; moreover, I thought it would be a good exercise for my “letting go” muscles.

John and I moved into our house in 1986 and those pictures have adorned that room for almost that whole time. One little teddy bear is unraveling toilet paper; the other pouring a mischievous pile of talcum powder. I remember the day we bought them so vividly that I’m sure that is one reason why they have hung there so long.

We were probably in Bed and Bath for some necessary item for the new house when we saw the pictures. John and I looked at each other and smiled. Why they were so captivating to us initially, I can’t really tell you, but I know that we were very thrilled to be trying to have children. Maybe the teddy bear’s antics held the promise of the crazy kind of fun you have with little ones. Maybe we could smell the baby powder and the promise of the new stage in our life together.

During the next eight years the little bears seemed to mock me as we struggled through infertility treatments, pregnancy loss, more infertility treatments, and the maze of adoption efforts. I kept them hanging there, stubbornly insisting to myself and the universe, that there would be children’s messes in the house someday.

Sometimes not being able to let go can work to your advantage. I kept myself busy by mailing hundreds of letters and contacting anyone I had ever met to find adoption leads. Even with all these efforts, we felt lucky to be chosen by two brave and loving women to parent their babies. Birth is a miracle, but being able to let go of your own needs and do what you think is best for your child is beyond miraculous.

Because of these extraordinary mothers, I have experienced so many joyous and messy moments over the past sixteen years. Now the tiny hand that once gripped mine is shifting the gears of the car as she drives me home from the grocery store. I hear a deep voice in the family room and realize that no one else is visiting, it belongs to our thirteen-year-old son. My body’s own biological changes are obvious when I look at the little teddy bear and tears well up, unbidden. Losing the job that I found fulfilling for the past five years is undoubtedly heightening my emotions.

Sometimes holding on is appropriate. Sometimes you have to let go gracefully and with great love. Am I failure at my letting go exercise because the teddy bears are still in my house, stored downstairs where I can look at them if I want to? The past sixteen years have flown by compared to the agony of when we were waiting to become parents. Everyone’s journey is their own, and I will just have to listen to my heart—it hasn’t let me down yet.

Merry Little Christmas

Yes, my decorations are still up...purposefully so...I wouldn’t dream of taking them down before January 6, the traditional Epiphany, or what we referred to growing up as “little Christmas.”

Today if you hear about Epiphany traditions, most likely it will be coverage of various Latino countries and peoples’ celebration...where it is known as “Three Kings Day” and in many families, when the children receive their main holiday gifts.

A little research uncovers many different incarnations of the celebration of the Epiphany, varying from country to country. There are April Fools activities in England, where it is known as “Twelfth Night”. In Germany and other northern European countries, children go door to door as ‘star singers’ and receive sweets. In Italy, Befana the old woman or witch brings sweets or coal by riding her broomstick and coming down the chimneys!

Another Epiphany tradition is blessing of the house, and I think this must be why we always recognized, if not celebrated the feast day when I was young. I distinctly remember our parish priest coming by with the chalk and holy water. (Visitors were a big deal in our house...not too many outsiders ventured into our zoo of six children aged five and under...our family doctor blessedly made house calls, and that’s the only other person besides aunts and uncles that I remember actually coming across the threshold.) I would have probably been helping with the cleaning process in preparation for the blessing, so the memory would have been made more vivid by the build-up as my mother assigned us tasks to help her suitably prepare the downstairs rooms. Let’s just say it would have been a LOUD process.

We attended a Polish parish, and I do remember Father Bruno—large, bald, accented; his image and voice is burned in my memory not from the house blessings but from when I later attended St. Hedwig’s School and he would visit the classrooms and tell us stories of how he was tortured in Nazi Germany. With a thick block of yellow chalk, he marked the wall above each threshold:

19 + C + M + B + 63

Father Bruno’s writing, like his enunciation, was rather exotic, and I’m sure he blessed the house in Latin, so the whole process was rather intriguing and a little bit spooky. It wasn’t until recently that I learned that the letters C, M, B come from the traditional names for the three kings—Caspar, Melchior, Balthazar—and can also represent “Christus Mansionem Benedicat” or “may Christ bless this dwelling!”

Remembering the house blessings and how important the ritual was for my mother helps me understand my irritation at the Catholic Church’s moving the Feast Day to January 2 this past year. I guess I hadn’t realized that this move has been going on for a while, and while doing Internet research, I found one poster who called it, “fast food mentality, move everything to Sunday for convenience.”

That opinion resonated with me; what exactly, is the rush? Where are we all going?

Today I was driving back home after having my car repaired at the same time that the elementary busses were picking up their passengers. As I stopped and waited, I found myself near the Tim Horton’s that Joe and I used to visit on Friday mornings before his elementary school day began. It was a ritual that I treasured, the almost-start of the weekend and a time to just talk about nothing. I often verbalize to friends and family “I wish I was there to have a cup of coffee with you!” And they say back, “I know, me too!!!” whole-heartedly, because we both know what kind of time we’re wishing for. We crave gentle conversation and just soaking up each other’s company.

Reading about the Epiphany, I found out about some traditions that I had never heard of. In Ireland, January 6 is known as “Nollaig na mBan” or “Little Women’s Christmas”. Begun in rural counties, it’s a day when women finally get a break, and the men take over the housework. Mothers get special gifts and get to go out with other women to relax. Now that sounds like a Merry Little Christmas to me!