Croutons in the Time of COVID

On Amazon Prime, Preparing for the Barter Economy, and Why People Should Not Eat Bats

I’ve always considered my absent-mindedness a personal failure. It’s a shortcoming that has led to both hilarity ( Kristi left the keys in the car last night and it got STOLEN! Hahaha!) and misfortune (Kristi left the key in the car last night and it got STOLEN! Bummer!). However, with the pandemic looming, I find myself reaping the rewards of forgetfulness. Due to the many, many Amazon Prime Subscribe and Save automated deliveries I’ve forgotten to cancel, I am FLUSH with toilet paper, people! I mean I have a CRAP ton of the stuff. And I think I have another three boxes coming on the first of the month. I could check my account, but I’ll probably forget by the time I finish writing this sentence. 

For the past couple of years, giant man-sized boxes of paper towels, ketchup, dish soap, etc. have been appearing at the top of my driveway as if by magic.  Generally, these boxes are not cause for celebration: I ALREADY HAVE seven boxes of laundry detergent and enough toothpaste to last me through 2022.  Plus, the boxes are HEAVY, resulting in them  sitting for days in the garage, sprouting messy streams of brown packing paper and plastic pillows, while I implore my children to unpack and distribute the items.  

Well guess who has seven bags of croutons, 12 bottles of EVERYONE hand soap, and is well-provisioned for an intestinal flu or eventual pandemic? This gal! 

I’m so stocked with paper goods, you don’t even KNOW. At last count, I have 32 boxes of Kleenex and 460 paper plates as well as large amounts of some more perishable items. We really need to start eating down our Triscuit supply before it goes stale. 

Before you start judging me as a hoarder, I have made several monetary donations to the local Food Bank and other community organizations.  It’s just that, we don’t know how long this thing is going to last, and my family poops A LOT, so I’m holding onto my stash for now, thanks. Additionally, I fully expect that we’ll be transitioning to a barter economy in the near future. And my chocolate supply is dwindling, since that is something I’m afraid to buy in bulk. I’ve been knows to eat a week’s supply of chocolate in under a minute, I’m not going to lie.  However, I’m not going to sit down and use ten rolls of toilet paper in one sitting (unless things go very, very wrong). That’s where the bartering comes in. 

These are crazy times.  It feels like I’ve entered one of my historical fiction romance novels (minus the romance and fiction) where the world is in crisis and the heroine (a doctor/witch/forest dweller) works tirelessly to save her patients while falling madly in love with a nearby doctor/elf/Scottish highlander. However, I’m not a doctor, and clicking DONATE NOW or gloating over my stash of taco seasoning does not provide the same satisfaction as administering a lifesaving leech bleed, dragon piss poultice or healing potion.

Some of you may recognize the title of this post as an homage to Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. You might be wondering, “is she really comparing her family’s passion for croutons to the unrequited love of a young man for a women trapped in a loveless marriage for 50 years (credit to Wikipedia)?” The answer is, of course, yes.

What can we learn from previous outbreaks of diseases such as cholera? Well, at some point, people were like, “Hey, let’s NOT poop into our water supply and see if that helps, ok? Everyone on board with that? Great.”And later: “Have you noticed a lot less people are dying horribly these days? Huh.” 

Hopefully people in China are having a similar conversation about animal consumption. “Listen, no more exotic bat meals, people! Can we all agree that eating disease-carrying creatures is not worth the economy-crushing, world-grinding-to-an-excruciating-halt, lung-drowning cost?” 

Or as in the words of my husband, “People should stop eating weird shit.” 

Cautionary note: We can’t hold all Chinese people accountable for the bat-eating of some of their brethren, any more than we can all blame South Americans for the Macarena. (You’re singing it now, aren’t you? AREN’T you?) We CAN insist the Chinese government take action to close down wildlife markets where diseases such as COVID can begin. Just like governments have a moral obligation to prevent folks from taking a dump into the town reservoir, they must also restrict exotic animal markets that can breed viruses.

Look, I’m not being judgy. I bet bats can be tasty…? There’s no reason why eating say, a pig, is less objectionable to eating a bat, except for cultural perspective (unless you’re my daughter, in which case you’d probably rather eat a bat). In fact, I bet the main reason eating bats never occurred to Americans is because of our Super-Sized mentality. How much meat can there really be on that thing? You can literally see its bones through its wings.

No, the noble bat can’t be singled out. We can, however, blame the Chinese government for their delayed response to the initial outbreak. I would compare this to a crowd on the riverbank noting, “Looks like Aunt Bertha is taking a steamer upstream…should we do anything about that? We should? Well..your know Aunt Bertha. She packs a mean right hook along with a full colon that could really do a number on the economy. Let’s just see how this plays out.”

And because of that delayed response, we find ourselves in a deadly cause and effect chain exacerbated by the delayed response of other parties and governments (note my political restraint here).

My children used to love the book “A Fly Went By,” which begins with a fly- you guessed it!- flying by- and ends with Farmer Brown stomping all over the countryside with a bucket on his foot pursued by (or pursuing?) an angry goat. We are Farmer Brown, people. We need to get the bucket off our foot, stop pooping in the water supply, and hunker down somewhere at socially responsible distances from each other.

I’ll bring the croutons.

The Bader Christmas Letter!

Faithful readers, your Christmas letter and card will be late this year because of an envelope snafu: namely, I don’t have any.  Be assured we are working hard to rectify this problem. In the meantime, please enjoy the letter in blog-post form, complete with bonus pictures!

December 25, 2015

Dear Friends and Family,

Season’s greetings from Cape Cod! The Christmas of 2015 finds us basking in the sultry glow of our Christmas Story leg lamp and binge-watching American Ninja Warriors while nursing varied strains of intestinal and respiratory viruses. As the Elf on the Shelf tracks every sneeze and digestive gurgle with her beady and accusatory eyes, we wallow in the eye-watering holiday scents of holly, Peptol Bismol, and Vick’s Menthol Rub. Merry, merry Christmas.

Not pictured: me, folding 7 loads of laundry.

Despite our current viral load, we are overjoyed to be celebrating (or recuperating) back on Cape Cod after battling road rage in our Nation’s Capitol for two years. Our beautiful new house features a winding, uphill, half mile long driveway, perfect for winter sledding and discouraging pesky trick-or-treaters. Although we love the privacy, winter poses a unique challenge: removing the snow from our “Corridor of Death” (inaccurately described in the MLS listing as merely a “Corridor of Grievous Bodily Harm”). Filled with stark terror at the prospect of spending four months trapped in the house with his cranky and sick family, Eric spent a year of Jake’s college tuition on a Husqvarna ST330 professional grade snow blower, thus ensuring a particularly mild winter across New England. Seventy degrees on Christmas Day? You’re welcome, neighbors.

Driveway of Death

Speaking of our teenager, and his now urgent quest for scholarship money… Jake capped off his Arlington, Virginia experience with a groovy concert at the School of Rock, where he wowed the crowd with his Motown drumbeats. After a Cape Cod summer of sailing camp and X-box parties, he started his freshman year with many of his old friends at Sandwich High School. When he’s not engrossed in Latin declensions or photoshopping pictures of Bingo for Digital Literacy class, he can be found playing drums with the High School Jazz Band or working out with his buddies at Compass Athletics. In his down time, he sequesters himself in his basement man-cave with nerf guns and South Park DVDs. The pungent smell down there after a long weekend is more bracing than an actual cavern.

Smiley after School of Rock performance.

Speaking of pungent smells, Danny’s all-fruit diet came to a screeching halt last week, when he was fitted with braces and the dreaded palate expander. He has taken this in stride with his usual good humor, switching to an all-applesauce diet, making the most of his new Daffy Duck lisp (“thufferin’ thuccotash!”) and continuing with his usual palette of sports (basketball, hockey, lacrosse, etc.). Although Danny was sad to leave Arlington, where he played first base for the undefeated Red Sox (Babe Ruth Champions) and right wing for the Ice Dogs (Capitol Corridor Champions) he has enjoyed reconnecting with old friends and meeting new ones here in Sandwich. Before graduating from Tuckahoe Elementary School, he took part in a school trip to Aachen, Germany to visit the wonderful Steubner family, our guests from last Fall. Although it rained a lot (and hailed, and snowed, and sleeted…) Kristi and Danny still managed to tour three countries and visit the Throne of Charlamagne, European Parliament, various Beirhauses, and a museum devoted entirely to chocolate. For his part, Danny mastered the Rubik’s cube, went Discoschwimmin’ at a Dutch waterpark, and lost five pounds on an all oranges and bread diet (not a fan of wienershnitzel.)

With Jake on drums and Danny on guitar, the boys played a heavily-edited-but-still-rockin’ rendition of “Walk This Way” at a local church recital. (Google the lyrics. I bet Steven Tyler couldn’t even spit them out in front of a minister.) In any case, with Anna’s newfound love of the piano and Kristi’s vocal stylings, we are close to realizing Kristi’s dream of forming a post-punk, Von Trapp-style band. We only need to uncover Eric’s (very) deeply hidden musical talent.

For better or worse, Anna absolutely embraced her inner drama queen after starring as a unicorn wizard in the Tuckahoe Elementary school play in April. Although she misses her Arlington friends terribly, she has re-adjusted to life on the Cape and is excited to be reunited with her good friends here. She played pilgrim Dorothy Bradford in the 3rd grade play and was a cheerleader for the Pop Warner Bulldogs. On her soccer team, she employed a unique “3D” strategy that complemented the talents of her more skilled teammates: Dance, Distract, Defend. In a tight game, nobody covers the cute, chatty one doing the Tango at midfield. She has also earned $118 in “Piano Money” from her music teacher (cash value: approximately 35 cents). She continues to excel in school and enjoys playing town basketball and earning patches with her Brownie troop.

Kristi is thrilled to finally be unpacked and hopes one day to have pictures on the walls instead of sitting on the floor next to the walls. Leaving friends and family in Arlington was hard, but she was excited to reunite with her Sandwich friends and favorite beaches! When she is not driving kids around and madly keeping track of everyone’s activities on her color-coded calendar, she can be found substitute teaching or volunteering in the local schools. She and the rest of the family are overjoyed that Julie and Bob sold their house in Maryland and moved to the Cape, ostensibly to be closer to their grandchildren. But, we all know the true reason is easy access to Eric’s risotto dinners:).

Although he misses his co-workers on the Appropriations Committee, Eric is more than happy to be back at Air Station Cape Cod as Executive Officer. It turns out he prefers managing the Base-wide urinalysis program to Capitol Hill intrigue and riding the underground Senate trolley. The fact that he occasionally gets to fly again may also have something to do with his improved attitude.

We welcome all friends and family from Arlington and beyond to visit us at our secluded hilltop retreat in Sandwich. If you visit in winter, you might want to bring a shovel. Just in case. 🙂

Eric, Kristi, Jake, Danny, and Anna Bader (and Bingo)


A Head Lice Saga, Part II: “A Song of Spray and Lint-Roller”


“In war, then, let your great object be victory, not lengthy campaigns.” -Sun Tzu, The Art of War”

Please, mommy, don’t shave my head.“- Anna Bader

In the last (cliffhanger!) episode of “Just One Mom’s Opinion,” our heroine was devastated by the return of the dreaded scalp scourge (lice). Read on for the exciting conclusion to this tale/tail.


It was late August on the Cape, and instead of meeting my friend Bree at Old Silver for afternoon beach cocktails I was standing in my kitchen, staring in horror at my daughter’s scalp. Crestfallen disbelief soon turned to stone-cold resolve, though, as I realized that to defeat this scurry-legged foe, I needed back-up.

Time to call in a Professional.

As usual in a crisis, I turned to my friend Sarah and the internet for help. Both directed me to Maryellen Kumiega, AKA “The Picky One,” AKA Badass Lice Assassin.

The word “nitpicker” has many connotations, none of them positive. Google tells us that a “nitpicker” is “a person given to harsh judgements and finding faults.” My imagination tells me that a “nitpicker,” (which is, after all, a vowel and a consonant away from “nosepicker),” is an overweight, stringy-haired old lady in a stained sweatshirt who waddles into your house with a mouth full of bobby pins, settles down on the couch and says things like, “Ima pick myself some nits now, chile. Y’all mind if I watch ma stories whilst I git ‘em?

She was not what I expected.

Salvation arrived in the form of a trim, neatly dressed woman in her mid-late forties who carried a stool, a high-powered spotlight, and a bag of pesticide-free whoop-ass. Mild-mannered and soft-spoken, Maryellen spent the next hour educating me about lice eradication while she gently clipped, sprayed, and combed the critters out of my daughter’s hair. It felt like a homey hair salon, only with more death.

The Great Lice Massacre


The first step was the application of a plastic-based Spray of Death to my daughter’s sectioned hair (Divide and Conquer). Next, she wielded the steel-toothed Comb of Death to cull the stunned critters much like Lord Walder Frey’s dispatched his assassins to destroy the Stark family in The Red Wedding on the Game of Thrones. As a final humiliation, she then trapped the lice and nit carcasses on sticky paper (Lint-Roller of Death), where they lay stricken and motionless while I cackled evilly.

Maryellen’s motto is, “When in Doubt, Comb it Out.” Not quite as intimidating as “With Fire and Blood, I Will Take What’s Mine,” but good advice all the same. To that end, she recommends the purchase of the LiceMeister Comb, a powerful weapon available on Amazon for under 15 dollars. I bought three.



Recommended by the National Pediculosis Association, so you know it’s good. 

She recommends combing out your child’s hair during or after showering 2-3 times a week for the first three weeks after treatment and once a week after that, all the while loudly humming “A Song of Ice and Fire.” This will serve to thoroughly eliminate and intimidate any remaining lice or nits and prevent future infestation.

Helpful Combing Calendar
Maryellen is like Daenaryes, minus the weird dragon baby.

And so, 100% liberated from the scourge of lice, my daughter and I bid a fond farewell to the lovely Maryellen (“Hope to see you again…never!). Yes, the cost was high, but to paraphrase the famous Mastercard commercial:

Head Lice removal: $125
Travel fee: $20
Two Licemeister combs and one bottle of Lice Prevention Spray: $46
Guaranteed total destruction of all critters, along with lint-roller sheet full of carcasses in plastic baggie to prove to husband that the lice infestation was, in fact, not imaginary: PRICELESS.


LICE IS NOT NICE: A Head Lice Saga

Dear Faithful Readers,

It has been almost a full year since my last blog post. How this happened, I have no idea. But, as usual, I have lots of excuses. Here is what I’ve been up to for the past 11 months of not updating my blog.

Substitute teaching
Tutoring a Russian businessman (Mafioso?)
Planning exotic vacations and chickening out because of the price
Battling lice infestation
Binge Reading Warrior-Princess Trilogies
Buying a house
Moving to a new house
Doing about 5,000 loads of laundry
Cleaning up massive washing machine flood

As you can see, it’s been a busy year. Let’s start with the creepiest of these events: Lice Infestation. Admit it, you are already scratching your scalp, imagining those little buggers scurrying across your nape, laying waste to the hair follicles with tiny transparent balls of shame that you will spend hours, HOURS, gingerly picking off with your fingernails. Nightmare.

Shortly after we moved into our new house, on a bright, sunshiny morning meant for lazy, breezy hours on the beach, my daughter came into my room complaining of an itchy head. Immediately I began bargaining with God. Lord, please let it be dandruff. Or poison ivy. Or hives. Or flesh-eating bacteria, or the plague, or pretty much anything but the L word.

No such luck. As soon as I looked at her hairline, I saw the minuscule, oval-shaped Spawn of Hell dotting her scalp. Immediately gripped by the eerie sense of calm that usually descends upon me in a crisis, I silently considered my options. I should…laundry…vacuum the..everything…bag up…pillows, stuffed animals, brushes…throw away..bed linens! All of this went through my head in a split second, and I knew what I had to do.

“Mommy?” asked my daughter worriedly.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” I told her comfortingly. “We just have to move out of the house for a few weeks. Either than or burn the house down and build a new one with the insurance money. And shave your head.”

Needless to say, neither she nor my husband was a fan of my ideas. While my daughter locked herself in the bathroom, sobbing, I called my husband and told him the news.

“Listen” he said sensibly. “We just bought the house. We are not moving out of it. Plus, you have to live in a house for at least a year before you can collect insurance money for a house fire.”

“Is that true?” I asked, puzzled.

“Probably not. I don’t know. But please don’t set the house on fire. After the washing machine flood, we can’t risk another insurance claim.”

“But…the laundry…” I whimpered.

He sighed impatiently. “Look, don’t go overboard on the laundry, okay? For all you know, she doesn’t even have lice. You’re probably just being paranoid.”

“Oh, she has lice.” I said indignantly, and realized that he was obviously in Stage One of Grief: Shock and Denial, while I (being highly sophisticated in my emotional responses) had advanced with lightning quickness to Stage Three: Anger and Bargaining.

“Do you not remember the Lice Outbreak of 2011?!” I gripped the phone tightly as I tried to keep from raising my voice. “Do you remember how much that SUCKED?!! We were stuck at home for weeks in front of the TV while I picked the nits out of her baby-fine hair. Do you know how many episodes of Yo Gabba Gabba I had to sit through?”

“Well, she probably didn’t have it last time either,” he said irritably.

“That’s not what her preschool said,” I told him. “Yo Gabba Gabba! I had technicolor nightmares for weeks! the green striped one..he had no shoulders..his arms came straight out of his neck…”

“I think you may have a little PTSD from that experience,” he said. “Look on the bright side- she’s too old for that show now.”

I felt a terrible sense of foreboding. “Oh. My. God. Austin and Ally? Ant Farm? The fake laugh tracks..the horrible puns..the painfully bad acting…”

At that point I think my husband hung up. I’m not sure. I was trapped in my own personal hell. After rocking back and forth for a while, I was confronted by my daughter’s tear stained face and realized I had to pull it together for her sake.

“We are going to BE OKAY,” I announced. “Now, come here and give me a big h…high five!” I congratulated myself on my quick thinking while I smacked her palm and then quickly retreated to a safe distance. “This is a great excuse for some mother-daughter time. We are going to have some female-bonding, lice-killing fun!”

YOU TOO, can eliminate lice and spend some quality time together by following the three steps below, which I have assigned the helpful acronym “BAD.”

BAD” (or Mommy-Daughter Fun Week!)

1. BUY: First, make the obligatory money drop at CVS: get plenty of anti-lice shampoos, conditioners, combs, sprays, hair clips, hair bands, and bandannas. Shove the resulting three-feet-long receipt of shame deep into the recesses of your purse and later, when your husband is rummaging around for the checkbook and pulls it out accusingly, you tell him that yes, it IS in fact possible to spend $168 at CVS, and did he notice the valuable coupon for $3 off Stomach-Acid Reducers Including CVS Brand, attached to that receipt? In response, he mutters something about needing those TUMS when he gets the credit card bill, at which point YOU helpfully remind him that he doesn’t even LOOk at the credit card bill because you are the one who pays it, to which he responds that you better believe he is going to START looking at it, which is your cue to lapse into a tearful gibbering tirade about neckless wavy-armed monsters. At this point he wisely retreats to the couch to watch football while you go change the sheets on all the beds for the third time, just in case.

2. APPLY: Second, apply your chosen anti-lice product to yourself and your daughter. Hide your pesticide-soaked scalps under flowered shower caps and give each other mani-pedis while listening to Taylor Swift on your phone. When your sons angrily pound on the door and demand to know why you’ve been in there for an hour, it’s time to rinse. Before you use the special metal comb to scrape those little buggers off your daughter’s scalp, you may want to take some kitchen shears and give her a cute new bob. Remember, many chic hairstyles of today are intentionally jagged or uneven, so chop away! When your sons’ protestations (“I need to use the toilet, I want waffles, the toaster’s on fire”) get truly irritating, take them to get their heads shaved at your local barber shop. This will also serve to quiet any doubts your daughter may be voicing about her own snazzy new haircut.

3. DE-LOUSE THE HOUSE: Contrary to widely held belief, you do NOT have to
launder every item in your house, only the ones that your daughter has touched in the past 3 weeks. For example, you only need to wash her bedsheets, unless, for example, your daughter regularly wanders into other family members’ beds in the middle of the night and/or makes forts out of all the blankets, pillows, and sheets in the house, in which case you are screwed. If you find the amount of laundry overwhelming, you can always put any linens, pillows, stuffed animals, toys, or other items in sealed plastic bags. After 14 days, the lice will either be dead, or your husband, having assumed that the garbage bags were full of actual garbage, will have taken the bags to the dump. Either way, problem solved! Lastly, vacuum and wipe down everything in the house, which depending on the size of your house, could take you 3 hours or several years.

NOTE: As you carefully follow these three important steps, remember to stop regularly (about every 10-15 seconds), and check your daughter’s head compulsively for nits. This is done by holding individual strands of her hair up to the light until you find one of the translucent, tiny eggs, yelling “FOUND ONE!” in triumphant disgust, removing the entire hair follicle, and placing it in bowls of bleach you have placed around the house for this purpose. The importance of doing this continuously and enthusiastically cannot be overstated.

Let’s say that you have done BAD. You congratulate yourself on your level-headed response to the crisis and put it behind you.

Weeks go by.

Then, the unthinkable happens.

It’s probably dandruff. Or a trick of the light. It couldn’t possible be…but it is.

A nit.

Your daughter starts to cry as you loose forth a string of thinly veiled profanity. “Fack! Shart! Godeemit fickin’ crappity FRICK! “ Passers-by stop to stare as you scrabble through your daughter’s hair in a white-eyed panic, spewing forth vaguely demonic/Norwegian sounding epithets. This is bad. Really, really bad.

Well, guess what? Calm the fuck down. It’s all going to be fine.

You don’t believe me. How could this not be the end of the world?

Three simple words:

Mary. Ellen. Kumiega.

I’m sure you were expecting something like,

Shave. Her. Head. Or: Start. Drinking. Heavily.


If you would like to hear the rest of this story, leave me some positive feedback and maybe I’ll finish it next week. Or, if you’ve heard enough about lice and you are couldn’t care less about Mary Ellen Kumiega, leave me some positive feedback anyway, because I don’t take criticism well.

Sausage Making, Dog Fighting, and Nudity: The Bader Family Xmas Letter 2014


Merry Christmas from the Bader family! This Christmas morning,  I have chosen to focus on the truly important things: Family, friends, and ignoring them both while I spend seven hours crafting a truly memorable holiday letter. Enjoy.

xmas letter.pages (important note: this is not the actual letter. It is a link to the letter. You must click on it to see the letter. Second important note: Unless you are legal blind, you will want to de-magnify the giant screen.)

To The Hockey Mom Who Made My Daughter Cry

She is as sweet as she looks (unless you ask her to clean her room)

Dear Trash Lady,

There are so many things I want to say to you, some of which don’t even involve profanity. But let’s start with this: Why do you clearly think you’re better than me? And why do you have to use my child to make that point?

You may remember me from last Tuesday’s unpleasant confrontation at the hockey rink? I was sitting by the window chatting with my friend when you took it upon yourself to order my daughter to throw away her trash. She was indeed guilty of the crime of eating a bagel from the hockey rink snack bar and thoughtlessly (and accidentally) knocking the plate and napkin on the floor under her chair. The real crime was that I paid four dollars for that bagel. If you are offended by something, be offended by that.

Can you please explain to me exactly why the trash under her chair offended you so much? And why you felt it was necessary to use a tone which I would characterize as “stern to bitchy”? As my friend informed you, we would have thrown the trash away when we left. Probably. I usually check the floor beneath my children before we leave an area..except at a restaurant, because that shit is just gross.

The scene of the crime. Trash not pictured.
The scene of the crime. Trash not pictured.

My daughter does not take criticism well. Who she get this from, I have no idea. It’s not like I cried for weeks (okay, months) after I got my first bad job performance review. She didn’t even make it to the trash can before her little face crumpled and she came over and hid her face behind my arm. “I’m sorry mommy,” she whispered. I felt a swell of indignation..who did you think you were, the Trash Police? Nobody makes my daughter cry! (but me when I tell her she can’t have Laffy Taffy for dinner…but that’s another story. )

Armed with the confidence of the self-righteous, I approached you, a deceptively normal looking bespectacled lady in a goofy white cap with a cell phone permanently attached like a giant goiter to your cheek. “Excuse me,” I said politely, and after you moved the cell phone-goiter back a fraction of an inch to indicate I had your attention (the nerve!) I suggested that you might want to address your concerns about trash disposal to adults in the future instead of terrorizing innocent children. “ You made my daughter cry,” I told you, expecting some remorse. Which I didn’t get.

“I’m sorry your daughter got upset,” you told me in a voice that clearly indicated you weren’t. Then, you informed me that you have four children, and that they “know better than to leave their trash on the floor.” Apparently I was neglectful by not monitoring the trash situation and telling her to throw it away myself. “That trash has been on the floor for a half an hour,” she informed me in disgust. “You weren’t paying any attention, sitting over there with your friend. She needed to throw that trash AWAY, and there was no reason she should have been upset by me telling her that. My children would not have gotten upset about that. ” This was not a real apology, but another indictment of my daughter. Compared to your children, my daughter is lacking not only in personal responsibility and cleanliness but also emotional resilience. What a marvelous mother you must be! Your children are so lucky you have taught them so well! My daughter and I are obviously inferior in every way.

If only I had actually voiced these sarcastic replies instead of gaping at you in horror and threatening (stupidly, I know) to tattle on you to the hockey rink decorum police. You were unfazed and jumped out of your seat. “Let’s go tell the rink manager about how you threw trash on the floor,” you snapped and headed off toward the rink office. Luckily, my friend Jen talked me down, or I would have ended up whining to some red-shirted pimple faced kid and humiliating myself. “She went against the mom code!” I can see myself saying plaintively. “She said I was a bad mom, and that my daughter is a slob! Then she made my baby cry, and she’s not even sorry! Can we please ban her from the upstairs lounge and end her reign of terror?” After gently informing me that I might be bat shit crazy, the rink manager would have suggested I go sit in the bleachers to cool down and leave the fighting to the hockey goons. Humiliation complete.

Here is the thing that really burns me, trash lady. During this entire exchange, you never once got off the phone. You passed judgment on me and my daughter with your cell phone pressed against your ear, occasionally making comments like, “I know!,” “Unbelievable,” and “That’s what I told her, “ to your invisible ( and i like to think, imaginary) friend. You never gave me the respect of your full attention. This drove me to approach you a second time, right before we left. By that time I had recovered my sarcasm.

“Do you see any other trash under the chair you want us to throw away before we leave?” I asked sweetly.

“Yes,” you replied. “You should clean up those crumbs. I have four kids, and they would never leave crumbs like that on the floor. They know better.”

Are you fucking kidding me? And to my credit, I did not say these words. I made a joke about bringing a vacuum cleaner with me everywhere to clean up after my kids, ha ha. You didn’t seem to think that was funny or far-fetched. As I write this, I wonder: do you bring your own vacuum cleaner with you everywhere you go? If so, game, set, and match to you, trash harpy.

I tried to respond, but unfortunately my brain seized, still stuck on the vacuum cleaner thing (a full size vacuum? A dustbuster?) and all I could get out was “You don’t even……” which gave you the perfect opportunity to launch into the familiar tirade about how you have four kids (really? four?) and they would never leave such a mess behind, etc. etc. At which point I stopped being polite and my memory of events gets a little hazy.

I’m pretty sure I told you that you were the one with the problem, and that I felt sorry for your kids, and that you were a gargoyle-faced harpy with a demented soul and probably needed to be medicated..okay, that last one I just thought of now. But I wish I had said it. You were talking so loudly you probably wouldn’t have heard me anyway. I think the real loser here is your mystery phone “friend” who apparently had nothing better to do than listen to your real-time hockey rink sanitation drama.

Finally, my son, who had watched the whole event unfold with characteristic stoicism (some might call it apathy) actually tugged on my sleeve, and implored me to leave. ”Mom! She’s not worth it! Come on!” Stunned by the fact that my 13 year old was the voice of reason, I allowed him to pull me away.

The whole event made for interesting dinner table conversation that night. Jake and Anna were embarrassed. The only one who approved of my behavior was my hockey playing son, who thought I should have punched you in the nose. My eldest son mused, “I would have immediately walked away, and then thought of a million things I should have said afterward.” It seemed there was both censure and grudging admiration in his voice. I decided to ignore the censure and focus on the admiration. I was standing up for my children’s right to…leave their trash on the floor.

The brutal irony is that I was outraged by the fact that you, another parent, a stranger no less, ordered my kids to do something that I tell them, nag them, and beg them to do everyday: throw away their trash. Oh, and by the way, they completely suck at it. You are right: your children are better at cleaning up after themselves than mine, because a blind, incontinent, and deranged monkey would be better than my slovenly lot. I once saw my son spill a full bowl of cereal and milk on the living room floor, and then drape a dishtowel over the mess and tell me he “cleaned it up.” I like to think that they are more civilized in other people’s houses, because otherwise I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t get invited anywhere. But trash that has fallen under the chair in the hockey rink may not set off the same alarm bells for them that it does for you and your freakishly-neat-but-probably-doomed-to-a-lifetime-of-unhappiness children.

The real issue is not that you told my daughter to throw away her trash. It’s that you weren’t kind. You weren’t even polite. You were judgemental, disrespectful, and sanctimonious in your manner and your words. In retrospect, it is obvious to me that the trash simply provided an excuse for you to build yourself up by putting down my daughter and me. Unlike you, I stress kindness over neatness. I also stress respect- you may have noticed that my child immediately complied with your demand (or at least attempted to before she dissolved into tears). My children are slobs, but they are kind, well-adjusted, respectful slobs with excellent interpersonal skills. If your children follow your example, I doubt you can say the same about them.

You will be happy to hear that our unpleasant encounter provided a useful teachable moment for my children. My takeaway was this: Mean people are out there, and sometimes they will judge you and try to bring you down. Don’t let them. Be glad your mom is not one of those people. Don’t be one of those people.

Oh, and if trash falls on the floor, throw it away.

Nacho Libre, Fruit Snacks, and The Better Part of Valor



Parenthood is fraught with difficult decisions. There are very few hard and fast rules, which is how kids end up with neck tattoos, pet boa constrictors and skinny jeans. Parenting is basically a never-ending, exhausting series of judgement calls, where we must weigh our children’s wants and our wants against the likelihood of neighbors calling the Social Services hotline. Should you allow your son to shoot his crossbow at the neighbor’s dog? Should you leave your younger children in the care of your 13 year old son even though he doesn’t know what month comes after February? Should you allow your children to use their metal music stands as fencing foils in the dining room? (Answers: no; why not?; and it depends on the terms of your rental insurance.) So many questions…

Recently, my husband scored tickets to the concert of the century: The Vetaran’s Day Concert for Valor in Washington DC. Bruce Springsteen! Dave Grohl! That British guy from the Daily Show! Freedom may not be free, but sometimes concert tickets are, and the best way to honor our veterans might involve rocking out to Metallica. Plus, it sounded way more fun that our usual Veterans’ Day activity of watching people visit military graveyards on TV. Even the most militant anti-American Islamist extremist would be hard pressed to turn down tickets to see Bruce Springsteen for 0 dollars. In fact, that would be a pretty effective anti-terrorism strategy.

We were giddy with excitement. But, then began to wonder, should we bring the children? Like all good parents, we did some research to inform our decision: Was it free? Yes. Was food allowed? Yes. Would we have to find and pay a baby-sitter exorbitant amounts if the children stayed home? Yes. Decision made.

As veteran parents, we knew this was a high-risk operation. The problem with this maneuver was the timing. Any evening event with children carries the distinct possibility of crankiness, hunger, and frequent complaints about pain in various body parts (feet, tummy, pinky finger, etc.) In addition, there was the morning after to consider.

Veteran’s Day often falls mid-week. Everyone knows important holidays are celebrated either immediately on or after a weekend, to allow for three full days of revelry. Only lame holidays are celebrated mid-week, like Boss’s Day, Lyndon Baines Johnson Day (Wednesday, August 27th, in case you’re wondering) and the extremely confusing “Maundy Thursday” (pronounced “Monday Thursday”). If you’re honoring the Man, lame presidents and foot-washing, go ahead and do it Tuesday-Thursday. A holiday for Veterans deserves better, however.

Once the decision was made, it was time to implement standard TTP (Tactics, Techniques and Procedures). We have summarized our experience below in order to help advise those who may undertake similar missions in the future.


Preparation is key to the success of any operation. Standard-issue zip-up hoodies should be tied apron-style around waists. Lace-up sneakers are key. Heading out on a challenging family assignment is not the time for your daughter to try out her sparkly new Sketchers. We found this out the hard way, when ten minutes after leaving the car, Anna insisted on being carried on her brother’s shoulders. Luckily, she was immediately distracted by an unexpected celebrity sighting. Jack Black – that’s right, Nacho Libre himself – walked by us as we passed the reflecting pool in front of the capitol building. “I love you Jack Black!” I called out to the back of his pea coat. He raised a hand in acknowledgment. The moment provided our mutinous troops with a crucial boost in morale.


When we arrived at security, the guards warned us that “Once you’re in, you stay in,  ” furthermore, “there’s no food in there.” It was like Hunger Games with a funky base line. I gathered the children close to me, having gleaned from my dystopian novels that the hungry often prey on the weak. Luckily, experience has taught me that whether your mission is brief or extended, you should carry 3-4 snacks with you at all times. In particular, you cannot overestimate the restorative properties of gummy-based snack foods. In this particular situation, I fortified my pack with sun-chips, raisins, goldfish crackers, granola bars, and the nutritiously named “fruit snacks.” However, the dinnertime hour complicated matters, as my husband refused to enter the zone without sandwiches. That brings us to TTP#3:


Or, in this case, rock and roll royalty. My husband, not being a fan of gummy-based nourishment, told me: “The oldest boy and I will find dinner. The young ones will only slow us down. Take them inside and and set up a defensive perimeter.”

I thought about the twelve thousand people inside the gates.

“I don’t think we should split up,” I told him.

“Just keep your phone on and answer it when I call,” he told me confidently. “We’ll find you”

I doubted it, but sometimes it’s just easier not to argue, especially when food is involved.

And that’s when things went FUGAZI.


As I flashed my blue tickets to the various security personnel, I noticed very few children, if any. I wasn’t sure if that should worry me or make me feel like the coolest mom ever. Maybe both? The mostly young-adult crowd was milling around in what seemed to be a giant holding pen. As we neared the stage, we were stopped by a beefy security guard wearing a “volunteer” yellow sash, who informed us that the gate to the area in front of the stage was now closed.

Jostling now began in earnest as people tried to elbow their way up to the front to plead their case. The bottleneck grew ripe with the scents of liquor-breath, Marine sweat, and desperation as people continued to stumble and shove their way toward the gate. I can be just as determined as any drunk seaman or whored-up congressional aide, and I knew if I focused the laser-like intensity of my formidable nagging ability onto Mr. Yellow Sash, he would let us in. Oh yes, he would.

But the kids were anxious. Maybe even scared. Danny’s first and Anna’s only (dear God, please) encounter with drunk Marines was going poorly. One look at their pleading eyes, and I knew what I had to do. Sighing in defeat, I grabbed their hands, turned around and unapologetically shouldered my way out. I stepped on toes. I swung my backpack like a scythe through the crowd. I kneed some unfortunate seated soul – who may or may not have been a decorated combat veteran – in the head, stomped on a blanket and kicked a smartphone. Hell hath no fury like a mother denied access to the front section of a Bruce Springsteen concert.

Once we broke free from the crush, we found a strategic spot to set up camp in the back of the holding pen and hunkered down with some pita chips and Uno cards to await reinforcements. Seventeen dropped calls, two slightly hysterical messages and 7 unsent texts later, the children began to question my leadership and lack of sandwiches. I assured them the communication failure was not my fault, but after my 8th “WTFRU” text bounced back unsent, they became particularly concerned about the sorry state of our supply chain, and we decided to pack up and take the metro home.

Adrift on a Coast Guard Academy blanket in a sea of drunken Springsteen fans.



Just as we initiated our retreat protocol, Eric and Jake miraculously appeared. They had just come from the stage area, which they entered without problem through another gate. I then got a lecture on the importance of answering my phone (I tried!!), leaving non-hysterical voice messages (again, I tried!!) , and the criticality of specific directional instructions. (“‘Turn left at jumbotron’ means nothing when there are four jumbotrons!”)

“We were just THIS CLOSE to Metallica!” Eric informed me. “Did you show the security guard your ticket? Why are you way back here?”

Thus, the next hour was spent with me calmly explaining how I had tried repeatedly to contact him, made decisions for the benefit of the children, and that by the way, he may remember that I TOLD HIM splitting up was a bad idea in the first place.


About an hour later, the sandwiches were eaten, healthy blood sugar levels were restored, and Eric and I were on speaking terms again. Finally, the Jumbotron flickered on, and someone onstage (we assumed, since we couldn’t see the stage) exhorted the crowd to “make some noise!”

After the obligatory screaming, Mayor Vincent Grey appeared on the Jumbotron to welcome the crowd, make an ill-timed bid for DC statehood, and deliver an unintentional warning about the dangers of too much botox. “What’s wrong with his face, mom?” asked Danny. So many, many things.

Then, Dave Grohl took the stage, and we forgot all about our operational difficulties. We crooned along to “Here Comes My Hero,” bobbed our heads to the the Black Keys’ “Lonely Boy”, and played some mean air ukelele to the Zac Brown Band. The children were riveted by the stories of bravery, heroism, and yes, valor that lit up the Jumbotron in between sets. The crowd around us watched and applauded reverently, and my 10 year old, who doesn’t cry when he gets whacked in the head with a hockey stick, teared up several times.

Things went downhill again with Carrie Underwood singing some crap about someone going off into the sunset. Danny showed his opinion by laying facedown on the blanket during her set. “I’m not tired, mom. This music just sucks.”

But then, in a bowel-shaking panzer blitz of heavy metal fury that made my 42 year old husband squeal like a pre-teen at a Taylor Swift concert, Metallica took the stage. After a little shock and a LOT of awe, I knew it was time to declare victory and leave.

We made our exit to the strains of Rihanna’s “Diamonds in the Sky,” skipping both the traffic and Eminem’s “f-bomb” laced performance.

In our post-operation debrief, it was unanimously decided that the outing was a success, resulting in minimal losses (a few UNO cards) and a 100% increase in awareness of the awesomeness of America’s veterans and James Hetfield’s thrashing guitar. What could be more patriotic than the Metallica frontman’s incomprehensible roaring over the fruited plains of Lars Ulrich’s pounding drums? Nothing, that’s what. When I heard the opening riff to “Enter Sandman,” I was proud to be an American, and so were my kids.

Mission accomplished.