Here He Grows Again by Margaret Hart

It's that time of year again. The time when the perennial flowers start to peak through the ground in New England. When the birds start to chirp loudly outside my bedroom window at dawn. And when my son goes through his annual growth spurt. But this time, the spurt is more like a season of change.

For years I've been complaining that my son doesn't eat enough. He eats two peas and he's full. I can hear my mother saying, "Well, just wait until he becomes a teenager and eats you out of house and home." First of all, that's redundant. Second, since when has anyone literally eaten everything there is to eat in their house? I get it. Everyone says teenage boys eat like mad. I'm half Italian. I love food. Bring me your appetite.

Over the years, I've been told by friends that I should be grateful my son is not a big eater. I am happy that I haven't had to deal with an overweight child, and my heart goes out to parents who have children who are struggling with their weight. It hasn't been easy, however, to raise a child who is a picky eater, and to worry that he's not getting enough nutrition. I remember my pediatrician advising not too long ago, after an annual wellness exam, to add a little extra butter and cheese to my son's food on occasion, and supplement his meals with Pediasure. She wasn't concerned, but said it couldn't hurt to sneak in a few extra calories. My son has always been consistent with his weight and height since birth. And my pediatrician also told me that she felt he was healthy, and was going to be tall and slender. And there's nothing wrong with that!

Somewhere along the way, he learned about healthy eating and good food choices. I like to think he got some of that knowledge from me. I also think the schools have done a really good job. Beginning with preschool. My son has never been one to eat a lot of salty snacks or sweets, and he didn't have his first ice cream cone until he was about 3 years old—he just wasn't interested. He eats a very small portion at every meal, and is full. He rarely finishes everything on his plate. This used to frustrate me until I figured out the secret: give him a small portion, he will usually eat it all, and it will make mom feel good seeing that he ate everything on his plate! And if he asks for more, mom will be even happier! And supplement his diet with vitamins and a daily "special milkshake"(aka Pediasure). This has gone on for the last five years.

The last few months, however, have been different. Even before he turned seven this past December, and more so since then, his appetite had increased dramatically. I began to notice that he was hungry more often, wanted to eat larger portions, asked for second helpings, and was "asking" for food—something he rarely did in the past. Now, half a sandwich for lunch is often not enough. He needs a whole sandwich! And despite the fact he gets less than 20 minutes for lunch, he manages to eat most everything in his lunchbox, which usually consists of a sandwich, a yogurt, a milk or juice, and a fruit (and sometimes a cookie). In the past, he'd typically come home with uneaten fruit and the cookie, but these days, the lunchbox is empty. And by the time he gets off the bus, he's asking for a snack.

Along with the increase in his appetite, there's been a noticeable growth in his height and shoe size—nearly two sizes in less than a year! The jeans I bought him in September are now good only for wading in ponds. And the expensive sneakers he "needed," are now too tight, and only slightly worn. Fortunately, there's a good consignment shop nearby where I hope to recoup a few dollars for the sneakers.
So now I wonder. Is it beginning? The "eating me out of house and home" thing? Maybe this is the first step in that direction. Tonight, the boy was really hungry. He ate an entire cheeseburger. For a child who eats two peas, and is full, this is big. It has only happened once or twice before. This is news I had to report to my husband right away. News flash: the boy ate an entire cheeseburger. Including the bun. Seriously. Can you believe it?

If my mom is right, and she usually is, forget the burger, next he'll be asking me for a side of beef!

A Winter Drought - by Margaret Hart

According to the weather forecasters, we're experiencing a winter drought in New England. This is a first in my recent memory.  And I, for one, am not upset about it. I don't miss the snow, sleet, ice, and piles of frozen dirt all over the roadways and parking lots (not to mention my car). I am happy that we've only had seven inches of snow this winter. Old man winter, you can keep the snow; I am ready for spring!

It doesn't seem to bother the kids that there hasn't been a lot of snow this winter; at least the kids I know.  My son and his friends seem very happy to have fifty degree days where they can ride their bikes and not have to be weighed down by heavy coats, boots, hats, scarves and mittens. 

My son, while born in the wintertime, is not a winter baby. He isn't big into skating or skiing, but he does enjoy sledding, and I had hoped to hit the slopes with him a few times this winter, but it doesn't look promising. And now that I've said this we'll probably get a huge snow storm next week. But that's okay. I am grateful for the winter of sunshine and warmer temperatures.   And I know he is, too. This past weekend he spent almost an entire afternoon outdoors, hiking through the woods, climbing trees and rocks, riding bikes and having a great time with his friends.   

Having grown up in the suburbs of Syracuse, New York, I experienced some nasty Nor'easters and a lot of lake effect snow. But not even the meanest snowstroms held us back from carrying on with our daily lives.  I don't recall my parents ever losing power.  And the plows cleared the roads  like clockwork. We were never stranded.  We drove everywhere. In fact, I can remember one time when my girlfriends and I all piled into our friend's parents Chevy, and slid some twenty miles on the local highway during a snow storm to a nightclub across town.  It was ladies night. I don't know why our parents allowed us to go out;  maybe they didn't know!

Living in New England, I have shrugged my shoulders more than once when the weather forecasters talk about snow storms and predict heavy snow fall of up to six or eight inches. It makes me laugh when people rush to the grocery store to stock up on food items, as if they think they will be stranded in their homes for weeks.  And the plows just don't seem to know how to plow the roads.  

I am already in springtime mode.  And I'm not the only one.  The birds are chirping as if they are happy, too, that this winter has been mild, and spring is just a few weeks away. The daffodils in my garden are happily peeking through t he ground, anxious to extend their stems and bloom. I'm ready to put away all our winter coats and boots, and break out our flip flops.  

If spring comes early this year, I promise not to complain if it rains a lot to make up for the so-called winter drought. After all, April showers bring May flowers.  

I Heart Valentine's Day by Margaret Hart

I have always loved Valentine's Day.  Growing up, I thought it was "my" day because my last name was "Hart."   Didn't matter that my name wasn't spelled with an "e."  It was my day.   I always loved anything in the shape of a heart, and accumulated quite a collection over the years.  And at an early age,  I started drawing a tiny heart next to my name whenever my signature was required.   

Over the years I've probably signed my name to more than a thousand Valentine's Day cards.   I'm sure I started sending them out when I was in Kindergarten, but I don't remember.  My son has been sending out Valentine Cards since he was two years old.  His very first Valentine was sent to family and friends. It was a photo card with him sporting a onsie with a special message:  "heart breaker."  In honor of Valentine's Day, and my little Valentine, I thought I'd share that photo. Everyone loves a cute baby pic, right?  

When my son started preschool, I would hand-make the Valentine's he gave to his classmates. It was always fun to come up with a theme. As he's gotten older, he's wanted to choose his own. And as his current interests change, so have his Valentine's. We given out Thomas, SpongeBob, Hot Wheels, and this year, Angry Birds, which he allowed me to make. I found clip art images on the Internet and added my own sayings.  I captioned one image of a pig with a bow and arrow shooting hearts:  "I'm aiming for love, Valentine."  

I know it sounds old fashioned, but I like the Valentine's of my youth that were sweet and innocent.  Like the vintage Valentine I bought for my husband one year that I had framed. It's a scene of a young girl sailing. On one sail, she says "Looking for a Mate;" on the other there's a poem:  "Sail with me  through life my dear, Hope shall guide and love shall steer." In honor of my big Valentine, I thought I'd share that one, too.

Soon I'll be off to the hospital to visit my mother who is recuperating from total knee replacement surgery. I'll be bringing her a red heart-shaped box filled with chocolates, a card, and flowers. When it comes to Valentine's Day, I guess I'm just old fashioned at heart. Make that Hart. 

Happy Valentine's Day to all the moms! 

Little Boy Blue - by Margaret Hart

It started a few years ago when my son noticed a young teenage girl in a bikini at the beach resort where we were spending our summer vacation.  I had to ask my husband to be sure I saw and heard what I thought I saw and heard.  And yes, it was true. My four- year-old son had noticed a pretty girl in a bathing suit, and  he wasn't commenting on her elbows, if you know what I mean.  This may have been the first time I realized my son was growing up–and not just by inches and pounds. 

Fast forward over the years, and I can view many snapshots in my mind of myself reacting to grown up comments by my son.  Unless you live under a rock, by age three or four, your child is going to be exposed to a plethora of images, ideas, and commentary about our world. Some of it you try to shield from him because it's not age-appropriate, or it's not something you want him to learn or see at all.   You can try to hold on to his innocence as long as possible, but outside forces creep in, and before you know it, he's absorbing all this information, processing it, and spitting it out! Testing the limits of his knowledge and your boundaries.

Each time I hear my son say something or watch him do something that is surprisingly mature beyond his years, I realize he is inching more and more toward becoming a teenager.  (Cue scary music.) There's nothing I can do about it. I can't freeze-frame him as a cute little boy who asks, "momma, can I have a balloon?"  One of these days he's going to turn to me and say, "Mom, can I have the keys to the car?"   And in my mind, I will say "no."   

What made me stand up and take notice recently, of just how fast my little man is growing up, was when he got his hair cut.  Before I could talk him out of it, my little boy blue was having his long blonde locks cut in favor of short spikes that can be gelled into a Mohawk!  The adorable pageboy haircut he'd sported for five years was on the floor in a heap, and he was grinning from ear to ear. As was my husband.  I was not amused.   

It's not that it doesn't look adorable, too.  I'm just not ready for this leap forward in hairstyles that says he's not a little boy anymore. My hairdresser, who's been cutting my son's hair since he had hair to cut, told me to relax. "He's growing up. He wants a big boy haircut," she said.  I was shocked that he asked her to cut it so short, and even more surprised that  he didn't ask me if it was okay.  He didn't ask me.  He didn't need my input.   

As much as I want my son to grow up, to be independent, to have a mind of his own, and to make his own choices, I also want him to stay cute, and sweet, and little, and innocent–and to need my approval on haircuts just a little while longer. 

Reach for the Stars by Margaret Hart

Two nights ago I was literally glued to the television, watching, in awe, a wonderful movie entitled, "A Smile as Big as the Moon," based on the book of the same name by Mike Kersjes. If you miss the chance to see this Hallmark Hall of Fame movie, please read the book.  

If you are the parent of a special needs child, I know this story will bring a smile to your face as big as the moon. It is about a class of special education students, who, against all odds, were the first special needs kids to attend Space Camp in the early 1990s. It was their teacher, Mike Kersjes, who fought to get both the principal of his school, as well as the director of the camp, to allow the kids to attend.  That was a hard- won battle. He then had to come up with $50,000 to fund participation. Fortunately, he had a generous donor. Kersjes, like the kids in his class, is inspiring. He is the kind of teacher I wish every child could have. 

I grew  up  understanding what special needs meant before the term was born. My younger sister was born with Down's syndrome, and my mother was a special education teacher. For  years I watched my mother fight for the best opportunities for my sister, as well as for the students she taught.  She was beyond dedicated, spending most weeknights with materials spread across our dining room table, preparing for the next day's lesson.  Mike's triumphant story struck a deep chord with me because he reminded me of her:  an inspiring and dedicated educator, and a tireless advocate for the rights and needs of individuals with various forms of mental retardation.  

If you aren't familiar with Space Camp, it was founded in 1982 to promote the study of math, science, and technology.   In its early days, the camp catered to gifted and talented students.  Today, thanks to Mr. Kersjes, the program accepts individuals regardless of ability or intellect.  It is arguably one of the premier programs of its kind in the United States.

A Smile as Big as the Moon is a story about what can happen when someone believes in you. It is a story about the human spirit. About perseverance.  And it is ultimately a story about acceptance.  We all want to be accepted. And when we accept one another for our differences, and celebrate what makes each of us unique, we will find that it is possible to reach for the stars. 

Am I Over-scheduling my Child? - by Margaret Hart

Sometimes I wonder if I'm at risk of becoming one of those mothers who over-schedules her children.   

My son currently has after-school activities Monday through Thursday, and plays in a basketball league on the weekend.  So far that schedule is working for him, and for our family, and he's having a great time.  So why am I questioning his schedule? Well, for one thing, I worry a lot. But don't all moms? 

My son is super social, very athletic, and has a seemingly unending supply of energy and interests. He likes to talk and he likes to move. He's not a couch potato.  And he's not one to just sit and contemplate his navel. So I keep him active by enrolling him in activities that I know he enjoys, and that I hope will enrich his mind and body.  And he likes it that way.

I also believe in allowing for down time in his schedule, so I try to ensure he has at least one afternoon a week for a play date, or time to just come home from school and do whatever he wants.  The thing is, when you are an only child, sometimes doing whatever you want isn't as much fun as having something scheduled. (Especially when mom isn't' good at Twister!)

So I spend a good deal of time crafting and managing my son's social calendar and activity schedule.  I guess you could say I'm like his manager.  I handle his sports, arts, and academic activities, schedule all his play dates, and RSVP to all the birthday parties.   As crazy as it sometimes gets, I'd rather have him at a play date, taking guitar lessons, participating in chess club, or dancing in hip hop class, then sitting at home every afternoon and complaining that he needs more than 30 minutes of screen time.  

I'm not the kind of parent that pushes activities on my child. But I present the opportunity and suggest that he try new things. If there is an activity he's unsure about, I always tell  him that he doesn't have to continue if he doesn't like it.  Nowadays, most businesses that cater to children let you have a trial class to decide. That's just smart. Less paperwork for everyone. And satisfies parents.

Besides scheduling challenges, our only real issue has been finding the time to fit in all the activities in which my son wants to participate–and the budget to pay for them!  Getting everything organized is always a challenge:  finding a day that works, a time, getting the right class, the teacher you want, coordinating with friends. It's all a juggling act. 

Add to the mix, school breaks and early dismissal days. Take, for example, the upcoming February winter break.  Ordinarily, I'd schedule play dates and maybe arrange a field trip for a group of his friends to a local museum.  Or, if we were lucky, we might take a vacation to the Caribbean.  Yeah, right.

This year, however, because I'll be caring for my mother, who is having knee replacement surgery, I decided it would be a good idea to enroll my son in a winter break camp.  I registered him for a morning sports camp until 12:30pm, and an afternoon chess camp from 12:00 to 3:00pm. He is excited about both.  But you can see my problem? The schedules overlap .  Why don't these camps get this? 

To make it all work, I'm going to pick him up 30 minutes early from sports camp, and have him eat his lunch in the car while we drive to chess camp, fifteen minutes away.  And this is exactly the type of scheduling scenario that makes me ask myself if I'm over scheduling my son.  I rationalize by saying that this is a special week and if my mom weren't here, I would only have signed him up for sports camp. No guilt.

As long as my Outlook Calendar doesn't crash, and my son continues to be happy and healthy, I guess I will continue to keep him busy and his schedule buzzing.  After all, it's not that busy.  : )

Mr. Fluffers , Patches, Vanilla Chocolate Bar, Pussycat — by Margaret Hart

We recently expanded our family, and I am now outnumbered three-to-one in my household by males. But that's okay with me, especially because the newest member is a soft, fluffy, cuddly, and oh-so-sweet little Ragdoll kitten. Officially, he is my son's kitten, and our new family pet, and after only 72 hours he has carved a permanent place in our hearts.  I just wish we could decide on his name.

I'm looking forward to the journey of watching my son love and care for his new friend; a journey that I first began when I was about the same age.  We will teach him about the responsibility of owning a pet and what it means to care for another living soul. So far he's doing very well. He's poured water and food into the bowls, and spent countless hours playing and soothing the normal cries of our new little baby. He's been willing to jump in and do whatever is necessary to help out. To a point. He drew the line at litter box duty! 

As anyone knows who has introduced a kitten or puppy to young children, you have to continuously explain the circumstances and reinforce the rules.  At age seven, my son is smart enough to understand, but still not always patient enough to implement what's necessary.  It's hard for an excited little boy to not want to shriek with delight when playing with the kitten or to run loudly into a room only to find the kitten has ducked for cover under the bed.  It's hard to remember to always lower your voice, and always make slow movements -- the antithesis of little human boys! But we're getting there. 

Our new kitten seems to know that he belongs to a little boy. He follows my son around and is at his ankles so often that we really have to look down all the time to make sure we don't trip over him--or step on his paw (ouch).   Ragdolls characteristically greet you at the door, follow you around,  and "flop" in your arms just like a "ragdoll" when you hold them. They are very sweet and loving cats and make great pet s for children.

For the moment, our kitten is called Pussycat or whatever seems to come to mind.  But we really need to make a decision on his name soon. With previous pets, names seemed to evolve the same way, with the exception of one:  there was our black and white cat who looked like he was wearing a tuxedo. He became Tuxy.  Before him there was our grey and black tabby, who we adopted as a kitten. He started out with a fancy French name that we made up as joke, Varment, and simply became Vern.  It fit him perfectly.  And before Tuxy and Vern, there was Mouser. She started off as Maxine, and developed the nickname of Mouser.

So here we are again.  We started out with a list of names off the top of our heads for our new kitty that included Mr. Fluffers,  because his has long, fluffy white fur.  Patches, because he has grey-blue fur circles or "patches" around his eyes. Vanilla Chocolate Bar was another cute name, but a bit cumbersome.    

In the hopes of finding a name that we could all agree on, and one that my son would feel like he chose, I asked him a few questions:  what are some of your favorite things?  Who are some of your favorite characters (please, not Luigi). What do you think of when you look at the kitten?  

The questions didn't really help because we only got one answer: "Macaroni, because I love macaroni and cheese." So for now we're testing out "Mac" as one name and "Benny" as another. Benny is short for Bennington, the name of our street. It was my suggestion, and I thought it was fitting because it sounded "upper crusty."  You see, our kitten's parents have won awards at cat shows, and they both have fancy names. So I thought our little man needed to have a name befitting his pedigree. But Benny would be his everyday name; his nickname. And it seems to suit him.

Speaking of nicknames, they can come in very handy. One time on a particularly turbulent airline flight, I started writing down all of Vern's nicknames to distract myself from the terror I was feeling. I came up with 75.  Thank God for Vern's nicknames, and for my husband's arm and hand, which I grasped so hard that it literally started to turn white from lack of circulation.

So here's to you, Mac or Benny.  We welcome you warmly and lovingly, and we look forward to many years of fun and laughter with you as part of our family. 

Santa Was Here — by Margaret Hart

Santa definitely made it to our house this Christmas, and thank goodness my son was on the jolly old man's "nice" list.  On Christmas morning, most of the items on the Christmas list were under the tree, with a few exceptions.  Santa had taken a bite out of one of the candy cane sugar cookies left on a plate for him on a table next to the sofa. The stockings were filled with odds and ends, and the tree was still standing (after having fallen twice, breaking some of my most favorite ornaments!). So all in all, Christmas was a success for a certain seven-year-old. 

But it was a success for many more reasons that my son is still too young to fully appreciate. He, and my husband and I, got to spend five days together with my parents and my younger sister.  My parents are in their 70s now, and thankfully still in good health.  But as I get older, they get older.  Over the years, as I have matured, I have understood  more than ever the blessings of family and have appreciated them so much more than I did when I was younger. I have made it a priority to spend as much time with them and to share as many milestones with them as possible—especially since my son was born.

We all couldn't wait for my family to arrive. I had rushed around for weeks, stressing out, getting everything ready.  I was still preparing just a few hours before they arrived. But when they walked in the door, I finally sat down, and felt a sense of calm.  My husband took several days off from work, and my son was off from school, so we had the chance to spend some real quality time together.

Like many families celebrating the holidays, ours involved a lot of food, special treats, and traditions. We started off celebrating my sister's birthday.  She loves the singer Lady Gaga, so I had fun cupcakes made for her by a friend of mine who owns a bakery. Take a look.  They were a huge hit.  

Every Christmas we also have a tradition of going out for a family dinner to celebrate several occasions:  my sister's birthday (December 22), my parents anniversary (December 26) and my birthday (January 11). When my son was born, we added his birthday to the list (December 2).  I also cooked special Christmas Eve and Christmas Day dinners, and made our family Trifle for dessert. My mother is Scottish, and so is the recipe for Trifle.

This Christmas we started a new tradition of dining on china passed down from my husband's great, great grandmother. He told us stories of eating holiday meals on the china at his grandmother's house when he was a small boy. It was an emotional day for him because he inherited the china from his parents, both of whom passed away recently.

As one day turned into the next, and I could finally see the back of my refrigerator, I realized the visit was coming to a close.  On the last afternoon, as my son sat on the sofa next to my father— a seven-year-old teaching a 76-year-old how to play Super Mario Brothers Wii—I saw pure joy on both of their faces.  I looked at them and I knew that this Christmas had been a huge success. 

It didn't matter that I hadn't baked a gazillion cookies.  It was okay that Santa didn't bring everything on the list. (My son never complained.)  What mattered was that we were spending time together, that my son was getting the chance to enjoy his grandparents, and that we were making memories.  In that moment, all the stress of the season just melted away. And I wished that I could freeze that moment in time. I hope that one day my son will talk about this holiday with fond memories, and that he will remember not only the gifts that he received, but also the funny, joyful and memorable experiences with his family. 

May the New Year bring all good things to you and your families.

Words — by Margaret Hart

My name is Margaret Hart and it's been two minutes since my last game of Words With Friends!

Yes, I am addicted to the game that so many people are playing on their Smartphone and I am not ashamed to admit it. I only recently discovered Words when a friend invited me to play. It didn't take long for me to get hooked. I found myself inviting random players to games when the ones I was playing with my "real" friends slowed. I didn't have patience. I needed my Words fix. I had to find a new opponent. At one point, I had five games going. I have heard the max is 15, so maybe I'm not that addicted after all. 

I can understand why the actor Alec Baldwin allegedly took his iPad into an airplane bathroom recently to play Words when an airline attendant allegedly told him to turn it off because the plane was about to take off.  I, too, found myself sitting on the toilet contemplating my next move just the other day!  I knew then, that I had sunk to a new low. And during a particularly fun game one evening this week, I lost track of time and burned the pork chops. I decided to take a 24 hour break from Words.

My husband has been getting on my case about my playing. He complains that everywhere we go my phone chimes and I'm always tapping on the screen. I could have said the same thing about him! His nose is always in his Blackberry, and he gets so many emails that there's always something buzzing attached to his hip. Even when he gets home from his 14 hour day of work, his nose is in his laptop. I think he's just jealous because he can't play Words on his device.

It took me a few games to figure out some of the strategy to Words. Truth is, after each game where I got the pants beaten off me, I learned something. That drove me to test out what I'd learned on new opponents. Now that I am winning some games, and employing the strategies I've learned, I am suspicious that some of my random opponents (who keep beating me and then asking me to play again) are cheating.  

Cheating? How is that possible? It was my husband who tipped me off. When his nose was in his laptop the other night, he told me about an app that will help you win at Words. It figures. If there's software to help you win your bid on eBay, it stands to reason that someone would develop an app to help you win your game of Words. 

Because I am curious and have to check everything out, I downloaded the app that had the highest ratings and the most buzz, and read the instructions. I got the gist of it, but I never tested it out. I never intended to cheat, I just wanted to see how it worked. After all,  I'm supposed to be good with words. The guilt would be too much for me.

So next time my random opponent—who responds to my moves in under 30 seconds with the most esoteric word choices utilizing the highest scoring letters—asks me to play again, I'm going to politely decline.

I'm old fashioned. I like to lose the old fashioned way.

Angry Birds and Pigs Have Taken Over My House—Margaret Hart

My son's interest in collecting began with Thomas the Tank Engine, when he was about two years old.  He wanted every engine.  We'd build tracks all around the house and run the engines until the batteries died.  We started with the wooden trains, but once he discovered the motorized ones, they took over my house.

We moved onto Hot Wheels cars somewhere around age three or four. Every trip to the grocery store we had to buy one or two, or sometimes three.  I could justify the expense because they were only a few dollars apiece.  But then one day I looked around and they had taken over my house. We had to purchase storage cases to get them off the floor, and storage shelves to get the storage cases off the floor. And of course we had to buy the racing mats on which to race the cars. 

From race cars, my son made a quantum leap to Monster Trucks. At age five, he knew the names of every truck and its driver. He wanted to go to Las Vegas for the World Finals.  And it wasn't enough to have the trucks, we had to have the world finals and freestyle competition videos. And the books. I was happy about the books because that meant reading even if I had to read them. We started with small trucks and moved onto big ones. This called for really big storage bins. And the trucks took over my house. 

About the same time, my son started showing a strong interest in Sponge Bob Square Pants. I wasn't keen on the idea. I wasn't sure about the language. So we started small. We bought some discounted videos and a few books. But his interest took off. I started to notice the square guy everywhere. Next came t-shirts and PJs, and at Thanksgiving, while visiting relatives, we noticed the cousins had a super-sized Sponge Bob pillow on their beds. Santa brought one to our house that Christmas, along with a plug-in video game. SpongeBob started to take over my house. 

When he was five turning six, he started to get interested in Mario and Luigi.  It was inevitable. Most of his friends had the Wii gaming system and my son was introduced to Super Mario Brothers at play dates. After a lot of "please, mommy," and "please, daddy," we decided to buy him the Wii system for a preschool graduation gift.  I am certain I never got a gift from my parents when I graduated from preschool, but we needed a reason, and the timing was right.  

Now Super Mario was taking over my house. Along with Wii sports and other games.  I had to buy a small basket to store  the games. Turns out buying the Wii was one of the best decisions we ever made. While intuitively he could master almost every game with little or no assistance, it was the motivation of wanting to learn the games that encouraged my son to stretch his reading skills to learn the challenging vocabulary on the screen. My husband and I are convinced that the games he played have helped propel his reading skills. As long as his reading continues to excel, I will gladly allow the Wii games to take over my house!

This month, as my son marked his seventh birthday, the talk has been all about Angry Birds. If you haven't at least heard of the game, then you've been living under a rock! It was released in 2009 and has since reportedly been downloaded over 42 million times. Make that 42 million and 1 when I got my new iPhone this past September. My son became a groupie. He plays the game on my phone while we wait for the bus to come in the mornings. And he plays every chance he gets. 

So for his birthday on December 2nd, he wanted an Angry Birds-themed cake. So my mom and I created Angry Birds cupcakes to bring to class, and my husband and I splurged and had a cake designer create an Angry Birds cake based on a drawing my son made, for his big party with all his friends. The cupcakes came out great and all the kids loved them. The birthday cake was a huge hit and the kids were amazed. The parents, too. I just thought I'd share.

Now the Angry Birds, and the pigs are taking over my house! He has at least six birds by last count, and an equal number of pigs, plus the gigantic "mighty eagle"—birthday gifts from friends and family. They are on his bed most of the time, and sometimes I have to dig underneath them to find a boy! His plush toys and stuffed animals are definitely taking over, but as long as he can still fit under the covers, I guess I'm okay with it.

Designer Cake

Angry Bird Cupcakes

What's in a Bag? by Margaret Hart

This week I got together with a group of women I hadn't seen in a while for breakfast. As I was driving to the coffee shop, I reached into my purse, as I often do while driving, and dug around for my phone so I could double check the address in my contacts at the next red light. It's true that women can put on lipstick and makeup, brush their hair, and do all manner of things while driving, but I draw the line at texting, emailing, or trying to look up addresses–it's just too dangerous, not to mention illegal in most states.

So there I was stuck in traffic with the perfect opportunity. I looked down and there, staring me in the face, was a zip lock snack bag containing a two-day-old ham and cheese sandwich on whole wheat bread.  "I'm really losing it," I thought.  I didn't even remember putting it in there.  But there it was.  Pink ham. Yellow cheese. Smear of mayo. Yes, I did remember! It grabbed it from the refrigerator as I was racing out the door on Wednesday to serve my volunteer shift at my son's school.  I was so busy checking out books to the first graders that day, I never got to eat.  And so, kind of like the emails that aren't read on time, the sandwich got pushed to the bottom of the abyss of my handbag and, two days later, on Friday, it surfaced.  None too worse for the wear, I might add.  It wasn't moldy and it didn't even smell.

When I got to the coffee shop, my good friend Margot arrived first.  I couldn't wait to tell her.  Her daughter and my son have known each other since diapers, and we've shared a lot of parenting experiences. This morning, her story was just as good.  "Don't feel bad," she said.  "Before I left, I took out a pair of socks, two pairs of underwear, and some crayons."

We continued to compare notes.  My purse: one stretchy monster leftover from Halloween, three washable markers, two tattoos, three stickers, one orange lollipop.  Her purse: crayons, candy, hair clips, and miscellaneous girlie stuff.

Now that our children are potty trained and in elementary school, we've long since traded in our fashionable diaper bags, but we still carry snacks, juice boxes, water bottles, toys, and gadgets in our designer handbags to keep our kids happy–along with an extra pair of underwear or socks for those little emergencies. 

My handbag is also typically filled with notes I make when I'm running errands, despite my Smartphone having so many apps for these kinds of lists that I should never need to write anything down on another sticky note as long as I live. Not to mention that my new phone talks to me, reminding me to pick up milk or stop at the post office to buy stamps. God, I love technology!

In addition to the items I often carry for my family, a quick inventory of my handbag reveals the regular contents, and it's really boring: a zip lock bag filled with store coupons for sales that have mostly expired (guess I didn't have time to get to the sale), my checkbook, sunglasses in a large case that takes up too much space (but for what I paid for those sunglasses, I'll deal, so they don't get scratched), two bottles of hand sanitizer, two tubes of lip balm (after all, it's chapped lips season), a makeup bag filled with makeup I rarely wear during the week, reading glasses, crumbs, miscellaneous papers and receipts, a mint from the salon where I get my mani/peddi, a credit card holder containing store gift cards, my oversized wallet, my key chain with my favorite photo of me and my little man, a digital camera, pocket tissues, gum, and three pens. All hidden inside a really expensive designer handbag that I got for Christmas a couple years ago. You'd think the contents would be more exciting.

On any given week, my handbag serves as my mini-office. It's also a slice of my life at the moment, and a place where I know something can go and hopefully it won't get lost. But chances are, it will get shuffled down to the bottom of the abyss. And next time I'm stuck in traffic, I'll find it. And I'll either eat it or I'll throw it out.

The Halloween Octo'easter by Margaret Hart

In thinking about this week's blog, I couldn't escape my thoughts about the Nor'easter that slammed the New England states this past weekend on the eve of Halloween.  The network news covered it, but it was the countless posts and pictures on facebook that really told the story:  there were children in snowsuits posing with snowmen and scarecrows alike, pumpkins with snow beards, and tree branches hanging like so many cobwebs over streets, parked cars, and "haunted" houses.

We all heard it was coming, but no one wanted to believe it. So we all went about our business on Saturday, and then all of a sudden, it hit.  Giant clumps of cold, wet snow falling rapidly from the sky.  Traffic ground to a halt as it tends to do at the first big snow of the year. I started receiving email alerts about Halloween events that were cancelled. By mid afternoon, tree limbs were hanging so low, heavy with wet snow, that they literally hit my windshield as I hurried home from errands. Tree limbs had snapped and fallen across streets in my neighborhood. 

By evening, the lights had flicked on and off a few times in our house and we held our breath each time. We hunkered down, popped in the "Great Pumpkin" video and just waited....by bedtime, we were astonished we still had power as the predicted winds had picked up and the trees were really swaying.  We jumped when we heard a loud thump, thinking it was a tree branch hitting the roof, but then realized it was clumps of heavy, wet snow falling off trees.

We live in a densely wooded area and trees are always a problem for power lines. So we made a reservation at a local hotel, just in case, and got one of the last available rooms. By morning, we awoke in our own beds to learn that some 800,000 people in our state of Connecticut were without power, and our governor had declared a state of emergency. New Jersey and New York had not fared well, either.

In most storms, we are among the first to lose power and the last to have it restored. But by some stroke of luck, we had made it through this storm, still had power, and thankfully, no damage to our home. I turned on the television news only to learn that the storm had wreaked havoc throughout New England. Several million people were without power along the east coast. And in Connecticut, our governor announced at a press conference that citizens should expect prolonged delays in restoration. Needless to say, people were not happy.

While I wasn't thrilled with the prospect of a storm in October, I was relieved that this Nor'easter, rather, this "Octo'easter," spared us this time around. I felt bad for all the people who lost power and remain without it as I write. It's a shame that Halloween parties and events were cancelled. Many school districts in neighboring towns cancelled school on Monday (and beyond), and some communities cancelled trick-or-treating out of safety concerns due to downed trees and power lines.

But it was Halloween, and determined moms were finding creative ways to make it a fun holiday for their kids and trying not to let Mother Nature get the best of them.  Facebook chatter switched from "12 hours and counting with no power" to "come to our neighborhood to trick or treat."  Resilient moms (and dads) in "dark" neighborhoods just moved their troops to neighborhoods where the pumpkins were glowing and the bat wings were flapping.   

In the end, this Octo'easter will likely be a Halloween that our kids will remember not because of the power outage and broken trees, or even the postponed or cancelled parties; they will remember it because it snowed on Halloween. Kids are great that way!

Motherhood, Like a Fine Wine by Margaret Hart

I'm excited to start blogging for Motherhood Later. I've been a professional writer and editor for more than 20 years, but this is my first time as a blogger. In thinking about my qualifications, I guess I've been blogging since I was a kid. In elementary school, my mother said I'd lay on the living room floor and hum, while writing a story or a poem. In middle and high schools, I wrote letters, had pen pals, and like every teenage girl, I kept a diary. In college, I wrote poetry and short stories, and I kept a journal, encouraged by professors during my semester abroad.

So where to begin? A good introduction, I thought, would be the start of my motherhood journey. I was well over 35, but to be honest, I didn't feel older. Being older has been a gift. While other, younger moms were having their first kids, I was observing and learning, and taking mental notes. When it was my turn, I was scared, but calm and more self-assured. My friends would comment how I just didn't seem to get flustered by the baby and toddler years. It's true no one is ever truly prepared to become a parent, but being an older mom definitely gave me advantages often envied by younger moms.

When you get right down to it, though, whether you become a mom at 25, 35 or 50 (a good friend of mine just became a first-time mom at 50!), we are all faced with most of the same challenges and joys of parenting. Still, I often can't help doing the math. When I'm in my 60s, my son will graduate from college, and hopefully I'll still be cool enough to throw him one hell of a graduation party! When he's in his 40s, chances are I'll be in a nursing home, despite my efforts to stay fit and eat right. I probably won't be here for him like my parents are here for me today. That's reality, but I don't have to like it, and it makes me cry. But being a "glass is half full" kind of person, I tell myself I'm doing everything I can to be the best parent, and hopefully when my time comes, I will have left my son with a legacy of independence, strength, courage, and love to face life's challenges without me.

I admit I sometimes feel sorry for myself, wishing I had married younger and started a family sooner. But had I taken that path, I would have missed out on all the bright lights of the big city that I experienced living and working in New York City in my 20s and 30s as a writer and editor, traveling the world for business and pleasure, and not to mention, dancing until dawn at most of the famous clubs of the 1980s. It wasn't a conscious choice, I just lived my life knowing that when the time was right for me to get married and have a family, it would happen.

Today, I don't really think about being an older mom a lot, and I try not to let myself do the math. When I feel my thoughts drifting there, I remind myself that I am blessed with the most incredible little man in the world. I try to refocus, and to just live in the moment, enjoying the simple and complex pleasures of being a mom. As weird as it sounds, I've enjoyed staying up all night changing bed sheets after rounds of vomiting. I wear it as my badge of motherhood! I know I'm stronger having survived my son's severe allergic reaction to penicillin that nearly hospitalized him. I've developed a thicker skin defending my son against bullies and honed my diplomatic skills with parents who have no boundaries for their children. I've also loved every off-key concert performance, and cherished every home-made Mother's Day present. And I have way too may boxes filled with school projects and artwork.

Most of all, I am grateful for the love and laughter my son brings to me every day, and the opportunity to be a mom -- his mom! Speaking of laughter, I almost peed my pants from laughing so hard when, on the way home from a Halloween event, my 6 1/2 year old son handed his vibrating pumpkin lantern to his best friend and said, "Put this on your penis--it feels good!"

For me, motherhood just keeps getting better, like a fine wine! And I drink it every day!