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Please Don't Take My Flag, Lady.

My flag arm hurts. It's the referee's fault, because she told me not just to raise the flag when the ball went out of bounds at my son's soccer game yesterday, but to whip the flag so she could hear it. And whip it I did. I whipped it good. Over and over and over in a game where the ball seemed to go out every two minutes, mostly on the side of the field where I was the linesman, er, linesmom.

The ref had instructed her linesparents not to say a word. ("You're officials. Act like them.") But I'd worked up such a sweat running up and down the sideline, whipping my flag, that even just 10 minutes into the game, I couldn't help but blurt, "Man, I'm busy!"

The parents on the sidelines -- sitting in folding chairs, eating ice pops -- laughed. One offered up her daughter to replace me, but I figured my linesman job would save me a trip to the gym. At least, that's what I told the parents. Really though, serving as the linesmom is the closest thing I can get to actually being in the game. The team rushes up the field. So do I. The other team gets a break-away, and I fall back on defense with them.

I really need to find a team of fellow middle-aged women who'll let me play with them. At least then my arm wouldn't hurt so much.

When the ball went out yet again, I turned to my husband, who was standing between two fathers and probably talking about mulch or running or barbecuing, and said, "If this keeps up, I'm going to need cleats and a sports bra for this job," and then dashed off down the sideline. I heard my husband say, "We don't mind."

"I heard that," I said, and then quickly shut my mouth. I didn't want to get in trouble with the referee, or she might have taken my flag away.

It was a very exciting game, with the second place team (us) taking on the first place team (them), and both teams missing shot after shot so very closely that I thought some of the parents might need medical attention from all their cheering and subsequent agony (we missed) or elation (they missed). When we tied the score, I tried not to display too much excitement. I'd seen the ref chastise the other linesman for commenting on a call. I caught her eye and gave her a look that said, "Please don't take my flag, lady." After all, you're not allowed to run up and down the sidelines without a flag. And someone was sitting in my chair.

With second left in the game, our team was in front of their goal desperately trying to get a shot off. I was on the sideline, probably subconsciously motioning the kicks, while I kept my mouth shut or else I'd have screamed "SHOOT IT NOOOOOOOOW!" Suddenly, we heard it: The ref blew the whistle, and the game ended in a tie.

On the way home, my son and I stopped for a sandwich. After all that running, we were famished. Also, sore.
Posted by Jen Singer, June 8, 2009 at 9:42 a.m.
"I Don't Know. You Started it." Lessons from the Little Rascals.

There were so many things wrong with the scene, I didn't know where to start. First of all, Jackie, who had to be 10-years-old at the most, was walking along the road to school with Weezer, maybe 4, in tow, when he accepted a ride from a stranger (Miss Crabtree). I opened my mouth to warn my fourth grader of the dangers of everything he'd just witnessed on our Little Rascals videos, but thought the better of it.

Do I really need to remind him that this was a different time, back when people didn't know enough to wear seatbelts, and kids seemed to wander the streets unescorted? I think that was pretty clear that times have changed.

In a later scene, Miss Crabtree picked up the rest of the gang, except Chubby didn't want to get in the car. Never mind that the overweight kid was nicknamed "Chubby," he was rubbing his butt and complaining that his father had "tanned" him the night before. So instead of sitting down, he opted to ride while standing on the running board of Miss Crabtree's car.

I hoped it explained a lot to my son about his grandparents' generation.

So now Miss Crabtree was driving the gang, none of whom were wearing seatbelts, with Chubby standing on the running board and Weezer sitting inside the spare tire attached to the back of the car, waving, of course.

I really didn't have to explain a thing to my son. Years ago, he and his brother were watching the same videos when he asked me, "Where are the parents?" And when I couldn't answer, my older son told his little brother, "Don't worry. The cameraman is watching them."

He'd better, too, because in the half-dozen episodes of The Little Rascals that my fourth grader watched yesterday while he was at home, sick, there was plenty to worry about. Like Stymie dashing out into the street to pick up a five dollar bill. And Spanky, not more than three, wandering around the neighborhood with no one but Petey, the dog, to watch over him. And someone pouring plaster of paris into the milk. (You remember: "Don't drink the milk." "Why?" "It's spoiled.") And of course, Chubby riding to school on Miss Crabtree's running board.

I saved the explanations for the things that were truly alarming, like the racist undertones in certain scenes of the uncut videos. (We didn't see those when we watched them on TV in the seventies.) And Miss Crabtree's fiance "letting her" keep working after the wedding.

Everything else, like Stymie and Weezer begging for food door-to-door and the whole gang driving a home-made wooden car along the streets and sidewalks, knocking people over along the way, I left for him to figure out. After all, the cameraman was watching them.

It wasn't until later that I figured out exactly what my son had taken away from the videos. Someone called, so I asked who it was. He said, "It's Mr. Brown from the First National Bank. That what you just tole me!"
Posted by Jen Singer, June 5, 2009 at 4:02 p.m.
Dear Doctor: Swine flu or Haagen Dazs?

I kept telling myself that it wouldn't be -- couldn't be -- the Swine Flu. My fourth grader didn't have the symptoms of the influenza strain that has hit our area. Rather, he had a weird rash on his face and neck and a slight temperature. But I knew we'd be in the pediatrician's office in the morning just the same.

"Did you hear there was a case of Swine Flu in the school?" a concerned neighbor informed me this morning before I called for the doctor's appointment. I checked the school's web site, and sure enough, there was a warning of one case of "mild" Swine Flu in the school.

Here we go.

I checked his symptoms against the list of Swine Flu symptoms, and again, it didn't match up. It did, however, match up to Fifth Disease, Scarlet Fever and probably some sort of rare disease found only in decendants of Korean War fighter pilots who've traveled to Botswana. But I knew when to turn off the computer and just go to the doctor.

There, I described my son's symptoms and set up the scenario:

"Okay, there's a case of Swine Flu in his school," I informed the doctor.

"Alright," he said and started to head toward my son.

"Also, he sat next to a kid who had strep throat last week," I added.

"Hmmmm," he said.

"Our next door neighbor's kid had the same rash and a very high fever -- 104.5 -- but tested negative for both Swine Flu and strep."

"Yeah," he said.

"He played soccer at a field surrounded by poison ivy on Sunday," I remembered.

Now he was just staring at me.

"He has allergies to the lake, but he never breaks out on his face, just on his legs. See?" I pointed out.

Silence.

"He had a deer tick on him two weeks ago, but only for 40 minutes," I said.

"Okay, that would take at least 24 hours," he brightened.

"We haven't been to Botswana," I cheered. He looked confused.

"I think that covers it. Good luck," I said.

After the exam, the doctor speculated, "If the tests come back negative, it's probably poison ivy and an allergy to sunscreen."

Both the Swine Flu and strep tests were negative, so we went with the poison ivy/allergy consolation prizes.

"That really hurt my throat," my son said after the strep swab test.

"I'll get you some ice cream," I promised, picturing some cheap popsicles or what's left of the vanilla ice cream in our freezer.

"When you had cancer, we had Haagen Dazs," he remembered.

Throat swab vs. cancer? The kid is good at milking it. On the way home, we picked up some Haagen Dazs chocolate-covered ice cream pops, just like the ones we kept in the house when I had cancer.

"Am I going to school tomorrow?" he asked.

"Frankly, I'd rather go to Botswana," I said.

He looked confused.
Posted by Jen Singer, June 4, 2009 at 3:04 p.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
"So many concerned parents, and yet so little worry on my part."
The latest on Jen's Good Grief! A Tale of Two Tweens Blog
No Worries about the Fifth Grade Camping Trip. GoodHousekeeping.com.
Predicting the Future on Field Day

I was having myself a field day. And so were the third and fourth graders at my son's school.

I'd volunteered to help run an event at yesterday's Field Day, held annually on the soccer field behind the school. And though I was having fun running the Sponge Relay, it was watching how the kids behaved that truly entertained me.

Every six minutes, a new class of third or fourth graders rushed over to my corner of the field, where there were two orange buckets filled with water and a giant yellow sponge. Twenty feet away were too smaller buckets with (crooked) red tape marking the "fill" line.

"Green team over here!" I shouted every six minutes. "White team over there!"

"Face me!" I instructed them after they'd lined up.

"Okaaaaaay! First person takes the spongs and passes it over their heads to the next person in line!" I shouted, holding an imaginary sponge over my Colbert Report cap. "Then that person passes it through their legs like this," I demonstrated. "Over, under, over, under, until the last person, who squeezes as much water into the little bucket before running back to the front of the line and starting it all over again! Understand?"

They always did. Grown-ups would have provided questions and/or snide commentary. Kids just do what you tell them to. Well, sorta.

What happened next with each and every class that rotated through my water game was informational as well as entertaining to me. I could figure out what a kid will do when they grow up by how they played the game. For example:
  1. The girl who figured out that retaining water in the sponge mattered more than speed, and persuaded her team to follow her instructions: Team manager in the American division of a mid-sized Swedish corporation.

  2. The child who argued on behalf of her team over my announcement of which team won: Labor lawyer.

  3. The boy who kept missing the sponge, because he was busy staring at the kids at the "Relaxation" station: Information Center clerk at a modestly trafficked library.

  4. The boys who kept tumbling down the hill after each other before returning to line just in time: Dog trainers.

  5. The kids in sports jerseys who couldn't wait to squeeze out all the water, prefering instead to beat the other team in running back to the front of the line: General Motors management.

  6. The girl who couldn't grasp that she was supposed to face the opposite direction: Night nurse or train conductor.

  7. The boy who couldn't summon up even an ounce of enthusiasm for the game: Division of Motor Vehicles clerk.

  8. The kid who refused to pass the sponge over his head or between his legs, instead turning and handing it to the kid behind him with great disdain: Disgruntled temp at a Chuck E Cheese's.

  9. The children (three of them) who dunked their heads in the bucket at the end of the game, despite protests from their teachers: Members of the punk rock band -- The Anarchists.
Posted by Jen Singer, June 2, 2009 at 2:04 p.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
"The scans make her mother nervous. I know the feeling."
The latest on Jen's Good Grief! A Tale of Two Tweens Blog
Let's Celebrate with a Cake. GoodHousekeeping.com.
10 Signs You've Been Living with Children Too Long

  1. When you flip on the TV when you're home alone, it takes you a good 10 minutes to realize that you don't have to watch Dora, the Explorer.

  2. All of your rubber bands have wound into a ball that is now wedged between your couch cushions.

  3. Whenever you hear someone yell, "Stop!" you reflexively shout, "One more time and I'm sending you all to your rooms!" And then the police officer directing traffic stares at you.

  4. You're starting to think that all the doorknobs in the house came with pink glitter on them.

  5. You're down to your last pair of underpants -- again -- because you need to get another load of soccer/baseball/lacrosse/karate uniforms washed right away.

  6. All of your beach towels have cartoon characters on them, and you like to stick your husband with the Disney Princesses one.

  7. You think your car's operating manual should warn people to clear soccer balls, wiffle ball bats, driveway chalk, beach buckets, kid-sized folding chairs and piles of rocks from behind the wheels before backing out of the garage.

  8. All of the books on your nightstand have pictures in them and not much in the way of plot or believable dialogue.

  9. Your calendar is filled with birthday parties for various people named "Isabella," "Jacob" and "Max," all of whom know you as "your child's name here's mom."

  10. The handy drawer organizer you bought for your scissors and tape, etc. is filled with three broken crayons, a blue paper clip that has been twisted until it's unusable, two bubble gum wrappers, cookie crumbs and a dried out piece of Play-Doh shaped like a coiled snake.
Posted by Jen Singer, May 31, 2009 at 10:16 a.m.
I Am My Mother: Blurtations from the Boys' Shoe Aisle

I was in the Boys' Shoes aisle at Target when I officially turned into my mother.

As I sifted through the sandals for a size 6 1/2, I couldn't help but overhear one of the clerks trying to page a co-worker.

"Jason in Electronics, please come to Maternity," she said.

While I pondered what the heck Jason in Electronics could possibly be needed for in Maternity, I heard the clerk sigh.

"Jason in Electronics, please come to Maternity," she repeated, but Jason didn't respond.

"Jason, are you on Channel 1?" she asked, but heard nothing back. Meanwhile, I found a size 6 and a size 7, but no 6 1/2. While I tried to decide whether to go bigger, smaller or just head over to Wal-Mart instead, we finally found Jason.

"Jason!" the clerk shouted down the aisle. "I was paging you. Did you hear me?"

And at that very moment, I turned into my mother -- my mother, who has taken to blurting out exactly what is on her mind because she's 71, dammit. And so she can.

"No, but the rest of us did," I answered, and then I gasped and put my hand over my mouth.

Where did that come from? Sure, I've always thought such things. I've even blogged about such things. But I've never been the crazy woman in her workout clothes in the Boys' Shoes Aisle at Target telling Jason from Electronics what she thought of him and all the pages for him. I'm too young to turn into my mother. Aren't I?

Then again, my mother is too young to turn into her mother, who decided at age 80 that she was old and could therefore say whatever the heck she wanted to whomever she wanted. Recently, my mom moved from blurting out her thoughts from Shoe Aisles in stores around northern New Jersey to telling folks face-to-face exactly what she thought of them and their hairdo/new coat/job/children/landscaping/dinner selection. So I guess it's only natural that I must now take over the next rung down on the family's Crazy Ladder, even though I've got a good 30 years until people like Jason in Electronics would dismiss my blurtations as Old Woman Talk.

Neither Jason nor the Clerk Detective seemed to notice what I'd said. They were too busy doing whatever it is that Electronics specialists do around Maternity clothes. All I know is that I left the store without any sandals.
Posted by Jen Singer, May 27, 2009 at 11:53 a.m.
8 Signs it's the (Un)Official Start of Summer

  1. Your mini-van's runners squeak under the weight of sand, lollipop sticks, broken crayons and hopeful optimism that this summer, you won't run out of swim diapers by noon.

  2. Somebody's sandals have once again been abandoned on a beach, by a pool or under the sprinkler, which was left on for hours -- in the rain.

  3. You've already missed a spot (or two) with your sunscreen, making you look like a giant raspberry swirl ice cream cone.

  4. You just know that you're going to carry around the May issue of Oprah magazine straight through til August without ever getting to the article about summer clothes which will no longer be in the stores by then anyhow. What a bargain!

  5. You're waiting in line for a three $6 cotton candies at the American Idol concert when Springsteen is playing just down the road. But you're not bitter. No, really. Your babysitters are all standing in line behind you anyway.

  6. You've started a new workout routine -- lugging beach toys and babies to the lake/ocean/pool/yard while simultaneously texting Hubby to go get more swim diapers and your Oprah magazine.

  7. You realize now that the UPS truck sounds just like a school bus that makes you jump up and frantically shove papers and sandwiches into the backpacks whenever you hear it.

  8. By the end of the day, each of your children will have three of those little plastic flowers the Vets hand out in front of Wal-mart, Target and the supermarket, because you didn't think of buying sandals, sunscreen, crayons, lollipops, beach toys, swim diapers and the May issue of Oprah magazine until today.
Posted by Jen Singer, May 21, 2009 at 1:41 p.m.
GOOD GRIEF!
"I couldn't explain KISS's 10-inch heels and black and white makeup to my parents, and now I can't explain it to my kids, either."
The latest on Jen's Good Grief! A Tale of Two Tweens Blog
When Did We Get Old? GoodHousekeeping.com.
S'more Radio, Some More Teasing

I can picture it now: Someone's going to tease me. I'll be walking across the beach at our community lake this weekend when someone will shout, "Hey Jen! I heard you on the radio this morning." I'll nod, and ask, "The staycation segment?" And then my neighbor will say, "Yeah? Where are our free S'mores?"

This week, I did some TV and radio interviews as a spokesmom for S'mores. My job was to share information on how to have a staycation at home this summer, a summer when so many of us (60%, according to a survey by Hershey's) are considering skipping vacations and staying home.

I did these interviews surrounded by S'mores for four hours straight without being able to eat any of them. Finally, this weekend, I'll be able to have one (or perhaps two) at the lake, where somebody's going to tease me. To my neighbors, I'm just Jen, the class mom and soccer coach who happens to also be an author, and isn't that cool, kids? One family even dropped by my booksigning at the local Borders last month just to see me in my other life -- not as the mom who leads a mini-van full of kids through "Do Your Ears Hang Low," but as that sorta famous writer/blogger/author who lives down the street.

So when my neighbors suddenly hear me on the radio or see me on TV, they tend to find it exciting, followed by amusing. Perhaps they'd just seen me shout, "CLEAR IT OUT OF THE DEFENSE!" at a soccer game, and yet here are reputable media outlets turning to me for comment. Who'd have ever thought that would happen?

I have to admit, I love the two sides of my life: the side that's organizing the fifth grade's end-of-year party, and the side that got to talk on Radio Disney this week. And I love that my neighbors love it, too, even if they tease me about it. Just the same, I'd better stock up on S'mores for the weekend.

Posted by Jen Singer, May 21, 2009 at 1:41 p.m.
What Concert? Why Am I the Only One Who Remembers All That Stuff?

"What time are you coming home for the concert?" I asked my husband this morning in the bathroom.

"What concert?" he asked.

What concert.

Sigh.

"Springsteen," I reminded him.

"Oh, I didn't know that was this week," he answered.

How can you have tickets for Bruce Springsteen and not know when the concert is? How can you live in New Jersey, a veritable shrine to The Boss, and not realize that he's coming here to perform this week? All you have to do is turn on a radio to find out. Or, perhaps to look at the tickets that have been sitting in our family desk for a month or so. Or maybe, just maybe, to put it on your calendar.

I asked my husband how come he can't remember when the concert is, or what the last four digits of my social security number are (thereby rendering him incapable of logging onto my Verizon Wireless account last night. And he couldn't call me while I was out, as he had my phone.) I rattled off his social and the numbers for our kids. He shrugged.

"Why do I have to keep all this information in my head? Why can't you?" I implored. "It's exhausting!"

"'Cause you're good at it, and I'm not," he replied, and shut the bathroom door ever so slowly behind him and left for work.

I stood in the bathroom, remembering how I was the one who had secured the tickets and the sitter, and how I had made plans to meet my brother and his fiancee before the concert so we could all go in one car. I was the one who questioned the price of the tickets with Ticketmaster. I was the one who coordinated with the neighbors to get our son to his baseball game and back. I was the one who put all that mental energy into one night, not to mention the memorization of four social security numbers, among many, many other things he'd apparently never even pondered.

I thought about my husband driving to work, oblivious to why there's so much Springsteen on the radio this week and finally dedicating a little space in his brain for the concert. And then I realized: I am a sucker. I am a sucker because I have taken over the coordination of most of our social calendar, as well as the reservation of mental space for