Everything

There are moments in life when someone says one line -- one line that completely realigns your thinking. So potent and flawless in its simplicity, the line comes to you as if spoken by God.

A few years ago, my babysitter came to watch the kids and brought her nephew along. He was new to California and his ability to communicate in English was surprising after just a few months of 10th grade.

Diego came to America in secrecy, his body stuffed into the hollowed-out space beneath the back seat of an old Toyota. Where he came from, wealth was a daily meal and a pair of shoes. His family worked most of his 15 years of life to gather the $4,000 border crossing fee. On the other side was his aunt, now a citizen, whose arms were waiting. On the other side was a life with possibilities.

Don and I said good-night to the kids and told them to be good for Marcella. As we were leaving, Jack pulled on Don’s arm.

“Can we go to the movies tomorrow, Dad?” he pleaded.

“Maybe next weekend. We have a lot to do tomorrow.”

“Like what? Why can’t we go?”

“Because we have a lot to do around our house.”

“Can we go to the toy store then?”

“No. We need to work on the house.”

“I don’t want to work on the house! Geez! It’s so unfair! Come on, Dad!”

“I’m not going to say it again. The answer is no.”

“I’ll have nothing to do! It will be so boring!”

Jack stomped away, marinating in the injustice. Don shook his head and looked at Diego.

“I don’t know why he acts like that.”

There was a long pause.

Softly, Diego said, “It’s because he has everything.”

There it was. Plain and simple.

But the line spoke to me as a statement well beyond the interaction with Jack.

It’s because we have everything. It’s about our advantage and their adversity. It’s about their destitution and our discontent.

I felt ashamed. Here we are. Americans with our big SUVs and cluttered houses and overflowing refrigerators. Here we are with our addictions and anti-depressants. With our firm grip on our kids’ overscheduled lives. With our heads immersed in technology and our disconnected families.



We live in the land of everything and yet we often feel nothing. It begs the question: How have we lost our way?

The line has stayed with me all these years. “It’s because he has everything.” It’s the voice in my head that warns me not to spoil. It’s the underlying guilt I feel when I whine about traffic or rude people or hot summers – all packaged as really big deals. It’s the line that resets my compass toward gratitude and simplicity.

In the book, The Blessing of a Skinned Knee, author Wendy Mogel, Ph.D., writes: “When horticulturists want to prepare hothouse plants for replanting outdoors, they subject them to stress to strengthen them. Gently and progressively deprived of food and water and exposed to greater extremes of heat and cold than they’ve been accustomed to, the plants grow stronger root systems and thicker stems.”

Most of us haven’t been exposed to many extremes. To what degree have our lives been padded? And to what degree do we pad the lives of our children? How will they grow “stronger root systems” if we red carpet their way and break their every fall?

My babysitter shares her home with her husband, three children and extended family. Diego and the grandparents sleep on couches. Their home is full yet immaculate and their children are A students, Diego included. But what I have always marveled over is the way this family radiates pure joy and celebrates its togetherness.

They have so little, yet so much. They tune into one another instead of Ipods or cell phones or computers. Front lawn tag is an almost nightly event in which everyone takes part. They work together to pool their resources, and they see America for all its glory and wonder and opportunity. Their struggle has given them a different lens. The little things in life – that we consider daily hardships -- aren’t even visible on their radar.

There is much to glean from people who have suffered. Maybe we can’t know how they feel or what they went through, but we can learn from their example. We can pause, take a good look around and really see everything. And maybe in the process, we’ll remember that our land of plenty is a place and a state of mind never to be taken for granted again.

Camp Normal

Yes, people, I am alive to tell the story. I survived an entire weekend of summer camp that entailed dirt, fresh air, total strangers, little sleep and the knowledge that bears were out there. Somewhere.

Just getting there was a feat of monumental proportion. I took a wrong turn somewhere and was thrust into a maze straight out of “The Shining” with Empire State Building pine trees. I found signs for seven other camps before calling the help line and uttering the words that have rarely ever crossed my lips: “I’m lost.” Anyone who knows me, knows that I brag incessantly about my keen sense of direction. I relish telling the story about how my husband got lost on his way to work and how tempted I was to powder the road with flour marks for him. So this was a rather karmic moment for me.

Jack and I checked in at the camp cafeteria and were greeted by warm, welcoming faces of the 20-something counselors who grew up coming to this camp. Debunked my entire theory that “kind young people” is an oxymoron.

Jack made fast friends with his cabin mates and the three of them were inseparable the rest of the weekend.

There was an unspoken familiarity amongst everyone. Kids with a life-threatening disease who gave each other instant acceptance. Siblings who joined in the fun despite their constant feelings of helplessness. Parents who share the same endless worry. We are all soldiers on the same side.

We played a game and were divided into three groups: kids with diabetes, siblings and parents. Each group had to make a list of the top-ten secret feelings we have about diabetes.

The parents’ list included:

“I worry that you won’t have a normal childhood.”

“I worry that you won’t have a normal adulthood.”

“I feel guilty that you have this and I don’t.”

“I worry that you’ll go low and have a seizure.”

“I know I overprotect you and I can’t help it.”

“Diabetes sucks for me, too.”

The siblings said:

“I feel sad that you have to take shots and are in pain.”

“I wish we didn’t have to eat healthy food all the time.”

“I worry that you’ll get really sick from diabetes.”

The kids-with-diabetes list included:

“I sneak food sometimes.”

“I know you worry about me all the time.”

“Sometimes I forget I have diabetes and you remind me by asking me if I’ve tested my blood.”

“I worry that I’ll get really sick.”



The next day Jack asked, “Mom, you know the line about forgetting that you have diabetes?”

Me: Ya.

Jack: Was that your line?

Me: No, why?

Jack: Well sometimes when I’m playing and having a really good time, I forget that I have this. Then you walk in and say, “Did you do your testing?” It makes me remember and I feel sad.


My anxiety over talent shows and bears and sleeping next to total strangers gave way to the real meaning of the weekend.

Jack shot past me with a big grin. I reached for his arm.

“Hey,” I said. “I haven’t seen you all day.”

Jack: Oh, sorry Mom.

Me: What have you been doing?

Jack: I played ping pong and air hockey and then basketball in the pool. Now we’re going rock climbing.

Me: Are you having fun?

He nodded, beaming.

Jack: I feel normal here.

My sunglasses hid my tears. I hugged him and sent him on his way.

Camp Fear

In a few weeks, I’m going to diabetes camp with my son. In the mountains. As in, wilderness.

It’s just for the weekend. It’s the transition part of the week where family members stay for a few days to help their children get acclimated.

Acclimated? I’m the one who needs to get acclimated. Jack will be just fine. I haven’t been to camp since I was in 4th grade. And from what I recall, I had to share a cabin with total strangers (emphasis on “strange”) and spend the entire time outside (emphasis on “mosquito bites” and “sweating”).



Let me state for the record that I am no diva, people. I am simply someone who doesn’t appreciate dirt-like environments. My husband reminds me of this quite often.

Him (using his annoyed voice): You’re NOT an outdoor person.

Me: That’s right.

Him: You’re just not.

Me: Got it.

Him: You’re afraid to get the mail.

Me: You never know when a coyote might strike.

Him: You only hike on paved roads.

Me: I use a hiking stick. Therefore, it’s hiking.

Him: You’re an indoor person. Face it.

Me: I’m coming to terms with it right now. And it’s devastating.

Him: I wish I had known that when I met you.

Me: There may still be some time left on the warranty.



So last week I took Jack to the doctor for a pre-camp check-up.

Doc: Oh, I worked at that camp one summer! You’ll love it.

Me: I will?

Doc: Oh, it’s great. My wife was so mad, though. I brought my son with me and he was about four at the time. We ran into a few bears. She was furious!

Me: Bears?

Doc: Oh ya. Don’t bring any food with you.

Me: Jack and I get up about two times a night to use the bathroom and I think I read that the facilities are outside of the cabin?

Doc: Ya, they are.

Me: So we have to walk there in the dark?

Doc: Just get a good flashlight.

Me: And what about the bears?


Doc: Oh, Rodney. He’s harmless. He’s just looking for food.

Me: Rodney?

Doc: Ya, he's been around forever. So the camp named him.

Me: Just because he has a name doesn’t make him any less a bear.

Doc: Oh, he just roams around. He’s just hungry.

Me: And what if Rodney sees me and thinks I look like a Big Mac?

Doc: No, you’ll be fine. Just be careful.

The doctor gave me the head shake and the No-Biggie wave.

No biggie. Bears. Roaming around at night. Looking for food.

Me. Roaming around at night. Looking for a toilet.

What’s the appropriate greeting should we cross paths? A high ten? A belly bump? A “Whassssuuuuppp?”

Thanks, Doc, for ramping up the terror alert. That helps a lot.


My prediction: I’ll be sleeping in the car. With Jack in the passenger seat. We’ll both be wearing diapers.

So here I am marinating in what might happen. I imagine myself at the midnight hour, losing my way to the bathroom that is a football field away from my cabin. Suddenly I’m hugging a tree and mentally psyching myself up to fight off Rodney along with his friends, Big Foot, the Montauk Monster and the Abominable Snowman.

But I’m good. I’m just a little nervous. Hey, it’s supposed to be fun.

I remember camp. I made new friends (whom I never saw again). And to this day, I can still recall the camp songs. Even now, I love to sing, “An Austrian Went Yodeling” and “Bingo” wherever I go. My kids say it’s totally embarrassing when I yell out, “B-I-N-G-O” in stores. Ya, right. Who doesn’t love that song?

I’ll never forget how we roasted marshmallows and baby wieners – the very foundation of the cooking skills I use today. You know, when I want to make an impression.

Oh, and I almost forgot. There’s one more thing about camp that is sure to give me a bleeding ulcer and trigger my fear of clowns, asymmetrical objects, air swallowing, toupees, polyblends, the color brown, crossing the street and being buried alive.

The talent show.

Why does every summer camp inflict this pain on the untalented?


Aside from my expertise at crank calling and telling embarrassing stories about people I know on my blog, I don’t possess a talent.

I don’t swallow knives, hula hoop, breathe fire, lick my elbows or ride a unicycle while balancing a cat on my head. I try not to sing, juggle chainsaws, stand on my head while spitting wooden nickels, or spin pizza dough or a basketball on my finger. I can’t wrap myself in a pretzel or put myself in a suitcase. I can’t spin my head around, contrary to what my husband tells people. I don’t yodel and I can’t see your aura. I refuse to imitate hogs or cows or make a dog say, “I love you.”



My dancing has been compared to Elaine on Seinfeld and I forget the punchline of every joke. I stay far away from water ballet, the Rubics Cube and Kung Fu. I can’t eat more than one hotdog, and it’s better if I don’t throw knives.

Then my kids reminded me: I am bilingual. I speak a rare, but highly useful language called Ubbie-Dubbie. I learned Ubbie-Dubbie while watching the popular PBS show, Zoom, in the 1970s. My friends and I practiced diligently. It took them about a year to master. For me, it was about an hour. That’s because I have an ear for it.

I have used Ubbie-Dubbie to wow job interviewers and waiters in restaurants. Although they have no friggin idea of what I’m saying, I can see the look of wonder in their eyes. I even used it at my wedding. When the minister asked me if I took Don to be my husband, I answered, “Ub-I, dub-oo.” The crowd went wild.

I am so relieved to know that I have a talent that will undoubtedly catapult me into the finals at the camp talent show. Here is what I plan to say:



Stay tuned for my after-camp post. That’s if Rodney doesn’t spot me and think he’s at an all-night, Vegas buffet.

Recycle This

My son, Jack, is the serious one in the family. Don’t know how I spawned a stone face from this pack of clowns, but I am forever on a mission to convert him to the cult of the ridiculous and sarcastic from which I was born.

Today he and his friend, Christian, barreled into the kitchen overflowing with giggles.

Jack: MOM! THERE IS A TOILET ON OUR FRONT LAWN!

Christian: Lisa, there IS!

Me: I know. Dad and I thought we could put it in the corner of the yard to make it convenient for you when you’re playing football with your friends.

Jack: MOM! You can’t do that! That is against the law!

Me: No. People do it all the time. We all have to use the toilet. This will save you time and keep all the kids out of our house.

Jack: I am NOT using that.

Christian: Me either.

Me: Okay then, I’ll make it into a seat. You guys can sit on it when you’re tired.

Jack: Mom, I won’t sit there. That would be so embarrassing.

Christian: Totally.

Me: Guys, we are a recycling family. You know that. So it’s either going to be a toilet, a nice seat for you to sit on or we’re going to put dirt in it and make it into a flower pot. I found a nice spot for it right under your bedroom window.

Jack: No WAY!

Me: Pick one.

Jack: I don’t WANT a toilet under my window! Put it under YOUR window.

Me: My room faces the back of the house. Then no one will see it.

Jack: No one WANTS to see a toilet in our yard.

Me: Pick one.

Jack: All rrrrright I’ll pick the flower pot.

Christian: Seriously, what are going to do with that toilet?

Me: Well, the other thought I had was to wait til the middle of the night and put it in someone else’s yard. Sort of like the Neighborhood of the Traveling Toilet. Whoever gets it will know it means that someone likes them. And then they can put it in someone else’s yard the next night. And so on.

Christian: I don’t think my parents will think it’s a good thing.

Me: No they will. They’ll like it. Trust me.

Jack: Mom, you could get arrested.

Me: Arrested for giving my neighbor a gift? I doubt the police officer is going to see it that way.

Jack: Mom, please don’t.

Me: All right. We can keep it.

Jack: Ya, but I don’t like any of the choices.

Me: Honey, this is the country. A toilet on our front lawn is cool. This will help us bond with people.

Jack: Mom, now I think you’re just kidding with me.

A Feeling of Home

We’ve all heard the cliché, “Home is where the heart is.” But what if your heart doesn’t feel at home? For almost 19 years, I’ve lived in California. And if you ask me where home is, I would still tell you: Boston.

Anyone who knows Beantown like I know Beantown understands my love for the city. For me, it has little to do with the Red Sox or Patriots or Celtics. It has everything to do with Bostonians and who we are. It’s about the culture I left behind -- a culture of real people who talk funny. People who tell it like it is. People who practice sarcasm as much as their religion. People who say things like, “Put yeh shots on and get in the cah. We’re goin up noth to ride the hoss. It’s gonna be wicked fun."

It’s about people who are as salty as the air they breathe. It’s about generations of families who put up with the winters and each other because they can’t imagine being away from one another. Their lives overlap and intertwine.

It’s about neighbors who define “neighborly.” Growing up, I witnessed almost daily acts of kindness. It was natural for people to help each other shovel out their cars. On rainy days, someone in the neighborhood would collect the soggy kids trudging home. When our gardens overflowed with vegetables, we divided them up and left bags on our neighbors’ steps. When someone got sick, parents rallied to babysit and make extra meals and clean house.

What I miss is the sense of responsibility we had to each other. A commitment to our community.

So what’s not to love about California? There’s so much to brag about: almost year-round sunshine. Dry, warm days. Miles of untainted seashore flanked by sandy cliffs. Valleys polka-dotted with orange trees. Green and rocky mountains in the distance. Natural beauty in every direction.

It’s the transplants like me who have a measure of comparison. We realize after so many years that one cannot live on sunshine alone. Something is missing.

Marti Emerald, a local TV news reporter in San Diego, was quoted once about her take on Southern California culture. She called it a “social disconnect.” Aha! I thought. That describes it.

Too often, I have witnessed a lack of connection amongst people. Neighbors will drive straight into their garages, only to be seen when taking out the trash or retrieving the mail. Perhaps it is the absence of real connection that leads to a lack of accountability. No-shows and cancellations are a way of life. I’ve been to several kids’ birthday parties where we were the only ones singing happy birthday to a tearful child at the end of an almost empty table. I’ve seen teachers and community leaders with a skeleton staff of volunteers who take on more than they can handle.

For years I have lived my life looking back at the city I left behind. But everyone knows that when you spend your life in the rear view mirror, you never really see what’s right in front of you. I realized that if I wanted a sense of community here in San Diego, I would have to either find it or create it. So I started a playgroup when my kids were little. I created an online network for parents in Southern California. I give of my time to the local schools. I extend my hand at my kids’ games. I’ve become politically active. And I’ve gotten to know my neighbors.

Little by little, I am doing what I can to cultivate a community for my family. Because in the end, I realize that if you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with.

Zombie Chicken

What is the Zombie Chicken? I asked the same question.

One of my lovely fellow bloggers, Jamie, (http://thesimmonswardfamily.blogspot.com) who is mighty with the pen and forever evokes a chuckle, bestowed upon me something called the Zombie Chicken Award. To boot, she wrote embarrassingly nice comments about me on her blog.

This award has double meaning for me since my childhood nickname was “Chicken,” – short for “Chickenano,” the dreaded longer version created lovingly by my best friend, Susan. Her last name sounded similar to Goat, so that was the only logical back-at-ya moniker for her. For 39 years of friendship, we have been Chicken and Goat. But I digress…

I accept this award with out-of-character seriousness and the utmost gratitude. Thank you, Jamie, for following my blog, faithfully commenting and telling others about me wanting the floor.

THE ZOMBIE CHICKEN AWARD
"The blogger who receives this award believes in the Tao of the zombie chicken - excellence, grace and persistence in all situations, even in the midst of a zombie apocalypse. These amazing bloggers regularly produce content so remarkable that their readers would brave a raving pack of zombie chickens just to be able to read their inspiring words. As a recipient of this world-renowned award, you now have the task of passing it on to at least 5 other worthy bloggers. Do not risk the wrath of the zombie chickens by choosing unwisely or not choosing at all..."

Here is a list of five of my favorite blogs for which I present the Zombie Chicken Award:

1. This Full House (http://www.thisfullhouse.com/). In a word: hilarious. I never come away without my stomach hurting.
2. San Diego Momma (http://sandiegomomma.com/). In two words: soda pop. Carbonated writing sure to inspire.
3. A Week in the Life of a Redhead (http://aweekinthelifeofaredhead.com) In a word: poignant. Well written content by single mom of a teenager. Makes you think. Makes you dab your eyes a little.
4. Emzeegee and the Hungry Three (http://emzeegee.blogspot.com/). In three words: knee-slapping fun. Aussie mom of three takes you with her on her journey of sarcasm.
5. Beanpaste (http://beanpaste.blogspot.com/). In a word: beautiful. A photographer/writer/graphic designer mom’s take on the world with her two little ones in tow.

Girl Time

Jack: Mom, I’m nervous about the state tests.

Me: Why?

Jack: I’m not good at language arts.

Me: That’s okay. You do so well in other areas. Besides, most people are not good in every subject.

Jack: I’m just glad you’re not one of those parents that gets mad about that. And you’re not trying to make me into someone I’m not.

Me: I wouldn’t do that. My father wanted me to be an athlete and I was anything but an athlete.

Yep, that was me in 1974 sitting down in right field, head facing the sky. I remember the ball flying over my head. I’d track it and marvel at the arc.

As if in slow motion, the team would plead with me like I had the last hamburger on earth and they wanted a bite. Parents would fume from the stands, hands in the air. I could hear them shouting things like, “Get UP!” and “GET it!” and “What is she DOING?” I never understood the urgency.

I’d eventually walk over and pick it up. By then, the first basewoman would rip it out of my hand and send it to home plate.

So rude.

Year after year, I begged my basketball coach to sit me on the bench. When he finally felt compelled to put me in, I’d stroll around the court making figure eights as the girls wove their way around me. Afterwards, I’d give the other team a big smile and a high five when we lost. That always got me Sportsman of the Year award. That was code for: The Girl Who Doesn’t Give A Crap If We Lose award.

I wanted to be a girl and look like a girl. During most of my childhood, my hair was cut in the shape of a helmet. My mother tried to convince me it was adorable.

“Mia Farrow and Goldie Hawn wear their hair that way, you know,” she’d say.

Truth was, my hair was a beast my mother couldn’t tame. I remember strangers telling my parents, “Your boys are so cute.”

Unlike the rest of my family, I was drawn to music and poetry and all-things girly. I wanted to play dress-up and wear high heels. I’d parade my grandmother’s wedding dress around the house with a yellow towel draped over my head. I thought it gave me that real, Christy Brinkley-long-blond-hair look. I'd glue my grandmother’s beads to my earlobes. I’d paint my lips a burgundy red. Anything to bring me back to the girl I was inside.

What I learned from those years is not that my father was a bad man for forcing me to play sports. He was and still is a man who just wanted to share his love of the game with me. What I came away with is that every person is born with his own inclinations that cannot be shaped or changed by others. We, as parents, can do our best to guide our children. But in the end, they will have their own dreams. Our job is to clear the path and cheer them on as they find their way.