School Bells Ring

Just hear those Sleigh bells jingling? Ring ting tingling too.

Wait a minute. Wrong season.

Just hear those School bells ringing, ring ting tingling too. Come on, it's lovely weather to walk you back to school.

As you can tell, I am giddy these days, full of song and cheer. ‘Tis the season. That would be the back-to-school season. Only 10 days and 12 hours left. Not that I’m counting.

Don’t get me wrong; we have had a wonderful summer full of swimming pool parties, early mornings at the beach and family vacations to Manhattan and San Diego. My personal favorite was hanging out with relatives staying at the Montage. Sitting by the kiddy pool while waiter Joseph tended to my every need, such as an iced non-fat latte with Splenda, approached the divine. But alas, we only have a few wealthy relatives and those Montage moments were over before I knew it.

“I’m sad. It’s gone by so quickly, “ my girlfriend Lisa confides. She has a husband who not only cooks dinner and but also does the dishes.

Sad. Talk to me in July and I felt like that. Talk to me in August and all I can say is “24/7.” Ask me anything. Like my favorite type of chocolate or my latest Weight Watchers entry and the answer will be “24/7.” That is how much time I spend with my kids which gets me back to my counting. Counting down.

“I didn’t have a summer,” complains my girlfriend Susie. “I’ve spent my whole summer shopping for items on the supply list. A $300 calculator took me two weeks to find.”

Her daughter goes to a shi-shi private school where they obviously don’t provide supplies.

“Aren’t you happy that the shopping will end and school begins?” I asked her, searching for some common ground here.

“Well then the homework begins.” she grumbles.

Since my eldest daughter is just entering kindergarten, I have not yet crossed that homework bridge. Or the back-to-school shopping. But I get the hard work that the school year entails.

Schedules. Driving. Planning. And more driving. It’s a drag.

But what about the quiet time? The moment in the car after you have dropped off your kids and you know they are settling into the day. That is when I truly enjoy a few sips of my latte and contemplate the day that lay ahead of me. Hopefully a few moments of me time mixed in with some work. And some laundry. And some grocery shopping. But let’s not go down that depressing path. Let’s get back to me time.

And do I have plans for me time.

First of all, my rigorous and did I mention, daily exercise schedule will consist of yoga, tennis clinic and weight lifting. My body will be so svelte that I will only be able to shop at the boutiques in Crystal Cove Shopping Center.

A few more colors to pick out and my house will practically be painted before you can say parent-teacher conference. While that may not seem like a me time activity, every since my mother declared my house “cold,” I have wanted to warm it up. To make me (and my mother) happy.

And then there is the Big O that will ultimately change my life. Organization. My family will finally be organized and our lives will run smoothly as if I were Martha Stewart under house arrest.

But as I write this, it occurs to me that my fall list looks an awful lot like my summer list did. There was yoga season pass I used once. The outdoor chairs I never painted. And did I mention my obsession with plastic storage boxes that promised to breed organization?

Alas, each season, whether it is summer fun or autumn school, brings its own expectations and set of emotions. I know that as soon as I drop off my kids at school, my giddiness will turn to tears. Watching my baby walk into kindergarten is a guaranteed Kleenex moment. The summer ending sadness will finally strike and I will become in desperate need of a latte and a chat with Lisa and Susie. I will forget all about my great plans for my new body and a “warm” house with carefully filed contents.

The opportunity to re-connect with my friends and myself is the me time I deserve.

All names have been changed to protect the emotional. Christine can be reached at cfugate2000@yahoo.com.

Note to readers: As I send this to my editor, my heart feels heavy with the devastation of Katrina. I am in touch with mothers in the area who may need support.

The Mismanaged Stage Mom

Well I did do one thing right. I bought a great handbag, a Juicy couture knock-off outfitted with a multitude of pockets.

But that was about it.

Being a stage mom should have come easily to me. My work for the past fifteen years as a television producer trained me to cater to the best of them: Pouty actors; irritating publicists; and executives angered by the pouty and irritating. But the cobbler’s children’s having no shoes, as my grandmother used to say, rang especially true in my house this summer.

Miss Linda and her Magic Castle School of Dance were holding their annual recital and both of my daughters were to perform. Caterina, my four-year-old, had spent almost half of her life under the auspices of Miss Linda. This would be my three-year-old Sara Jeanne’s first recital. And it was the double duty stage responsibilities that sent me, shall we say, to that familiar place, called “the edge.”

God knows I don’t want to be one of those whining women, but please I was responsible for an elf, a bug, a teddy bear and an Alice in Wonderland. How many bows and bit-bits can one person keep track of? Hair bows, ruffled bows, shoe bows, and bobs for the show bows. I stuffed them all into plastic bags and headed off to Picture Day.

Well I had obviously missed the hand out on the child size garment bag and suitcase monogrammed with the first letter of my child’s name. I emptied out my plastic bags and realized we were missing many a bow and costume piece. I frantically scanned the room. My fellow stage moms were calm, cool and collected. And I was a mess.

Caterina became frustrated, “Mom where are my bug shoe bob bows?” She added in her wiser than thou four year old tone, “And Sara Jeanne can’t be Alice in Wonderland without her bow.”

One mom nicely located extra bows and such for my girls. I felt rescued yet defeated. Was I going to be one of those moms who embarrassed their kids? Was this just another moment for which I needed to donate to the Future Therapy fund?

That evening, I did a little research. In her stage mom guide, Suzanne Schacter, a stage mother of three, claims that “show biz can be a wonderful and rewarding experience for children. It can broaden their minds and develop their self confidence.” At least my parental intentions were on track. And if I played my cards right I might even get nominated for the Annual Stage Mother Awards.

I located all bows and costume paraphernalia. I sorted, organized and loaded up the handbag with safety pins, snacks, extra elastic. I was ready for tomorrow’s test. The Dress Rehearsal.

Except then my car didn’t start. Fifteen minutes before call time at Laguna Beach High School. I phoned the car keeper, my husband Jeff, who informed me the problem was not something a quick stage mom jump would fix. My girlfriend Annie came to the rescue loaning me her PT Cruiser. Stage Mom Suzanne would have approved. I was looking cool and my children were going to be stars.

I blazed through the dress rehearsal. And even gloated a bit over how smoothly I operated the costume changes.

The Big Day arrived. I was bow-ful and confident. Running late—not a good stage mom rule—everyone was dressed and ready. The only thing missing was the quintessential Alice in Wonderland bow for Sara Jeanne’s hair.

I ripped the house apart. No bow. Ran over to Annie’s house to search her car. No bow. She gave me Christmas ribbon with snowflakes on it. The only problem is that I am bow-disabled.

“Those were a special order. There are no MORE bows available,” shared one of Miss Linda’s helpers.

After all that, Alice/Sara Jeanne would be bow-less. And that would have to be okay.

Before the final kiss back stage, I reached into my handbag’s “special place” pocket for a piece of gum. There was that darned Alice bow.

My elf, bug and teddy bear performed beautifully. I was so proud that like any good stage mom, I cried through a Kleenex or two. My grandmother would have been happy to see that, in fact, the cobbler’s kids did have shoes.

When the Alice in Wonderlands took the stage, Sara Jeanne refused to dance. Instead, she smiled and waved to the crowd.

I laughed so hard. I was no dance recital stage mom. Backstage at beauty pageants was where I belonged.

That would be after I fly my mini-van to the moon.