Articles Archives

Coupon Clipping Gone Wrong
By Sue Tabb

A question for you to ponder: If a tree falls in the forest but no one hears it, does it still make a sound? And another: If a coupon requires you to purchase 20 tubes of toothpaste to save a dollar, is it really a bargain? And what if, after five or six tubes, you decide you prefer the minty-fresh gel over the peppermint paste?

Call me fickle, but I just can’t make the kind of commitment these coupons are asking of me. I don’t want to open my pantry one day to find 17 cans of creamed corn and eight cases of couscous. I don’t even like creamed corn. And why are the deepest discounts on the least appealing products? I can save a boatload when I buy six vats of vegetable hummus; no such deal on Edy’s Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream. I’d be happy to buy six of those.

So why can’t I just get one of something and still save? I want to get more for my money, but not that much more. It reminds me of a book I was reading to my youngest daughter the other night called “One of Each.” Author Mary Ann Hoberman captures my sentiment:

“And inside the cupboard one pear and one peach,
One plum and one apple, just one, one of each.
One plum and one apple, one pear and one peach.
Just one, only one, simply one, one of each.

I’ll use my sister to illustrate my point. She has become a bona fide coupon-obsessed food horder. She gloats weekly about her grocery shopping conquests. “I bought 10 loaves of bread and got three free! I spent only $3.54 for an entire week of groceries!” Sounds impressive enough but I know the ugly truth behind this success story. I’ve been to her house. I’ve seen the stacks of toilet paper, the towers of canned goods, and the pantry with the sagging shelves. Try opening a cabinet at her house and you will see first-hand what I mean as you run screaming from the falling cans of – you guessed it – creamed corn.

My nephew’s bedroom closet has taken on the overstock. The poor kid has to weed through cases of shampoo and gallons of laundry detergent just to grab a pair of pants. When he goes down into the basement to his playroom, he must maneuver a virtual obstacle course of paper products. Let’s put it this way, if there was a natural disaster, my sister’s family would be able to survive for about 172 years. Maybe a little longer.

Okay, I admit that I buy some things in bulk as well. I do have a membership to Sam’s after all. But there are certain things – like a jar of pickles – that I simply don’t use enough to buy five of them. I don’t care how much I save; I don’t want five jars of pickles!

And why can’t these silly little coupons be more durable? Why can’t they be made from perforated cardboard? Instead, the manufacturers challenge our eye/hand coordination by requiring us to cut out a quarter-inch square along tiny dotted lines without ruining the bar code or cutting off any of the fine print (requiring we buy 27 boxes of cereal). And all this before you’ve poured yourself your first cup of coffee; it’s inhumane.

Now try finding the right coupon when you need it. I’m usually in the grocery store fumbling through my purse, scraping the crumpled papers off the bottom and squinting to see which brand and how many. By the time I figure it out, I’m four aisles past the product in question drooling over a giant package of Double Stuff Oreos.

Maybe I just need a better system. Or a bigger pantry. Or the Coupon Mom to come to my house and show me how her ‘system’ works. Oh I’ve seen her on TV, smiling all the while she tells us how she paid 10 cents for a pound of pasta and 59 cents for her laundry detergent. Maybe I’m jealous but she’s really starting to get on my nerves, but not half as much as clipping these crazy coupons. See you at the checkout. I’ll be the one paying full price for the gallon of Edy’s Ice Cream.

Dinner Do’s and Don’ts
By Sue Tabb

Dinnertime is an interesting phenomenon in my household. Interesting in an odd, unpredictable sort of way. It’s like a freak show at the carnival; you are inexplicably drawn in, all the while knowing it will be an unpleasant experience.

It begins the same each evening. “What are we having for dinner, Mom?” Whatever the answer, the reply is the same - “Gross!” Pork chops are gross, hamburgers are gross, seafood is gross, pasta with red sauce is gross, and any sort of casserole is nasty beyond compare.

It seems the only foods that don’t fall into the ‘gross’ category are fruit snacks, Rice Krispies squares and anything that contains chocolate. Therefore, the only meal that might be acceptable would be a Krispies fruit snack casserole topped with hot fudge. That would be cool.

Despite the fact that my family would be happy eating Cheez Whiz on crackers, I persist with the idea that one day they’ll greet a healthy, balanced dinner the way you see on TV commercials. “Yum, thanks Mom - this meal is simply delicious!” Instead, they all wrinkle their noses as if I’ve offered them pig’s tongue. Why don’t I learn? Even a dog will stop a behavior if he isn’t rewarded, for the millionth time. Am I soft?

If you’re family is anything like mine, you’ll relate to the dinnertime do’s and don’ts that apply in my household. If your kids eat fruit-stuffed pork loin and soft-shell crabs Amandine, stop reading here. Consider yourself lucky and know that the rest of us don’t want to hear about it. Ever.

1. Never use the terms “casserole,” “sauté” or “creamed” when explaining what will be served. These terms elicit a very strong, negative response from any child under the age of 12. Never, ever let on that there is a mushroom anywhere in the food that is being served. It’s just something they don’t need to know.

2. Too much information can be a dangerous thing. There is no need to list the ingredients in any meal you create. If pressed, just say it’s a new way to cook chicken. I have found that chicken is a fairly safe answer to any meal inquiry.

3. Do not bother making any sauces, glazes or marinades. Children dislike anything that is embellished. Plain and simple is best. You can go ahead with your fancy apple brandy glaze or Gorgonzola cream sauce, but don’t be surprised when you are the only one ‘enjoying’ the meal while your family members run for the nearest box of cereal.

4. Do not spend more than 15 minutes preparing any dish. If it takes longer than that, the family will not like it. Trust me. The shorter the prep time, the more they’ll like it. Grilled cheese, pancakes, Spam on Wonder Bread – all well received. Roast lamb with peppercorn crust? Forget about it.

5. If you ignore rule #4, spend the extra time making dessert because the moment you put a dinner plate in front of your child, they will ask: “What’s for dessert?” You better have a good answer.

6. Replying that “nothing” is for dessert is never a good answer. Despite what childrearing experts will tell you, bribery works. Use it to your advantage.

7. Don’t expect to get any “quality” time with your children at dinnertime. By the time you get everyone what they need and finally sit down yourself, they will have finished eating anything that wasn’t gross (a.k.a. nothing) and be long gone.

8. Do expect complete cooperation when it is time to clean up after dinner. In that, I mean your children will suddenly feel the urge to do their homework or take a bath, neither of which involves helping you load the dishwasher and scrub the pots and pan.

9. Do go out to dinner as much as is financially possible. If you go out to dinner, you can bet that your children won’t be as repulsed as they are by your home cooking. Additionally, they cannot leave the table until you do. You will have a captive audience for a short time. Take advantage of the time.

10. Refer to rule #9.

So you can see that dinnertime is a blissful event in my household. In fact, it’s almost time to get supper started now. I can’t wait to whip up something really gross.

Ode to Exercise
By Sue Tabb

‘Twas the week before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a scale could be found, nor a good-fitting blouse;
I knew I should diet, and exercise too,
But what fun is that? Who likes it … do you?

I’ve read all the news, no diet’s enough,
We have to work out to get rid of the “stuff;”
The stuff is the fat and the flab and the goo,
Which I’m getting used to, what else can I do?

I do hate to exercise, I have to admit,
Which makes it so hard to try to be fit;
Some people like it but for me it’s a chore,
I’ll wait until January to be flabby no more.

Okay, I’m no Clement C. Moore, but you get the basic idea. I don’t like to exercise. I really, really dislike working out. I pretty much loathe the whole concept of staying fit, at least the part that makes you sweaty and sore. And also the part that makes you hate the people who aren’t sweaty and sore. Maybe hate is too strong a word … nah.

And by the way, when am I going to look like Minna, the blonde vixen on Exercise TV? How long will it take exactly - a week, a month, four score and seven years? I know the answer. I’m never going to look like Minna.

But watching her 10-minute workout through my “On Demand” service is still more tolerable than going to a gym where I have to see 100 Minnas, all in their spandex half-shirts. These girls seem to do the workouts effortlessly (some are even smiling) while I’m as red as a tomato, huffing and puffing as if I’d just completed an Iron Woman triathalon. So that, my friends, is why my gym membership tag has only been used three times this entire year. I am the member who shows up every third Tuesday when there is a full moon and the planets are fully aligned. I still don’t know where the locker rooms are.

My theory is that there is an exercise gene. You are either born with this gene, or not. If you are lucky enough to have it, your day is not complete – or even worth living - without a vigorous workout. The rest of us think you’re nuts since a day is not complete for us without a Snickers bar and a chocolate-frosted donut (with sprinkles). We top that off with at least two hours on the couch watching Grey’s Anatomy and The Nine. Now that’s some fine day!

So lately I’ve been trying to determine the “have it” people from the “have nots.” In my case it is painfully clear since my neighbor – you know who you are - takes out his video camera if he sees me break a sweat. And by this I mean things like stringing some lights around my bushes or walking to my mailbox. Sadly, he hasn’t much on tape.

So I’ve decided to devise a set of conditions so you can easily determine which category to put yourself in. If you fit the description for any or all of them, you are on my side of the dumbbell – the side where you would never attempt to actually pick it up. That would require exertion. Here they are:

• You own a treadmill but don’t know whether it still works or even where it is. It may be under a large stack of clothes in the basement. Instead of looking for it, you opt for the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-through to satisfy your urge for a Mochaccino with whipped cream.
• You have a gym membership, as is evidenced by a tag on your key chain that is in mint condition, almost like it’s never been used.
• You go out for a jog, make it around the block before discovering that your sneakers are too tight, your ankles are sore, it’s starting to rain and the wind is blowing in the wrong direction. You quickly head home.
• You take Vitamins B, C, D, X, Y and Z. You take Calcium, Iron, Zinc and anything with antioxidants. You eat your fruits and vegetables. Look, shouldn’t that be enough, what do they want from me?

There you have it. Now it’s clear cut. You either have the exercise gene or you don’t. If you have it, enjoy the gym. I’ll be eating a cheese pizza. No hard feelings though.

‘Nightlife’ has new meaning
By Sue Tabb

Our babysitter laughs at us because we come home so early. She openly mocks our attempt to embrace the nightlife we once knew. “Big plans again tonight? So I’ll expect you back…around nine-thirty?”

Imagine being the butt of jokes made by the teen you are paying to eat your food and rack up your long distance charges (and who you didn’t actually give birth to.) This is when you really start to take a hard look at your social life and wonder why you have none. Is it kids? Is it age? Is it the inability to pull off low-rise jeans and a tight-fitting tank?

In my case I’m exhausted before I even step out the door, just from the planning. Coordinate sitter, make reservations, write down phone numbers, shave legs. Go to grocery store and buy Doritos, diet cola and a gallon of Edy’s Double Fudge Chunk. Don’t forget to shave legs.

Oh, and get cash for the sitter. I always feel like I must pay a babysitter with cold, hard cash. I would stuff it in her pockets myself if I could. You see, most parents fear that if the reward is not immediate and plentiful, we will never see these young people again. A check just doesn’t seem to cut it. They need to leave with the smell and feel of cash that can be readily spent…maybe on some new Gap jeans, like Madonna wears.

And the more children you have, the less stringent you are in terms of babysitter qualifications. It’s not that you would put your children in harm’s way, it’s just that, well let’s be honest, the babysitter is really more at risk. With the first child I remember actually interviewing sitters, getting references and making sure they were certified in CPR. With the second you make sure you know their name and age. With the third, well any breathing mammal will do who’s willing (i.e. stupid enough) to take on the challenge.

Once we manage to get out the door, I immediately begin checking my watch and calculating wages. Let’s see, we left at 7 but actually picked her up at 6:30, so if we get back before 10 we’ll have enough cash otherwise…I just can’t help but feel like I’m on a short leash that has a ticking time bomb attached. Time is money, chop chop! Let’s hurry up and relax and have a great time!

And we do have fun; don’t get me wrong. But it’s a high-pressure sort of fun, which makes having fun more like work. You actually begin to see fun as a cost/benefit equation. How much is this fun really costing us? In light of the cost, can it really qualify as fun? Isn’t free fun more fun?

When I was a babysitter, I would make one dollar an hour. For years I was led to believe that I was the most sought after sitter in the neighborhood. In truth, I was simply the cheapest gig in town. For a measly eight bucks, the parents would go out until 1 or 2 a.m. and stumble in to find the house all picked up with their little angels tucked neatly in bed. Nowadays, eight bucks doesn’t buy you an hour; and you can be fairly certain you won’t walk in to find your sitter running around with your Swiffer Wet Jet – she’s much too busy watching Big Brother 4.

My point is that once you calculate that a burger and beer is actually costing you about $85, you begin to discover other ways of having fun. My husband and I have actually designed three different ‘nightlife’ packages that we are currently testing.

Package 1: Parisian Night begins with a family viewing of “Madeline at Cooking School” (she lives in Paris) followed by a dinner featuring French fries and burgers on French bread. Mom and Dad continue to celebrate after the kids are in bed with a six-pack of La Crème yogurt. Oui, oui.

Package 2: Italian Night kicks off with a heaping portion of Spaghetti O’s and meatballs followed by some Italian ice. The kids make cannolis with Nonna while Mom and Dad drink cheap red wine and watch season one of “The Sopranos.”

Package 3: Austrian Night begins with the 3-hour DVD of “The Sound of Music” which includes your own family rendition of “Edelweiss.” Once the kiddies are in bed, Mom and Dad are free to munch on Wiener schnitzel and cuddle up with “Terminator 2.”

If any of these packages sound appealing to you, welcome to the “I have no social life” club. Glad to have you with us.

The Art of the Return
By Sue Tabb

Tell me if this has ever happened to you: You decide to return a $25 sweater. You imagine walking out of the store with $25 in cold, hard cash. Instead, you go to the store, and despite your intention of walking directly to the return counter, you get sidetracked when you eye a great-looking pair of shoes. You notice they are on sale for $75, marked down from $150. These shoes are half price you tell yourself; this is practically a steal. You think you would be crazy to pass up this type of offer. You grab the shoes - in both colors they come in. You proceed to the check-out counter only to discover you’ve paid $125 to return the $#@! sweater.

This is precisely why I should never be allowed to return items. I have never once walked out of a store in the black since my return inevitably becomes an exchange. (As in I will return this $15 scarf for this $86 jacket.)

My husband does not understand this behavior. He can actually walk into a store and go directly to the check-out counter, return an item, and walk out with cash or a credit. This is virtually impossible if you are female. Something will beckon you; something will draw you in; something in the female brain says that if we’re returning something we must find something that is at least double the price to replace it with.

For me, it’s the feeling you get when you walk out of a store. I want to have something in hand. I want to feel like my trip was worth something. A credit slip just doesn’t do it for me. But if I exit with a great pair of earrings or a new purse – we all win. I’m a satisfied consumer and the store has unloaded more merchandise and snatched more money away from me. (Although that makes it sound like it’s a bad thing.)

This year my Christmas returns cost me $374 (so far). I can see how this might be alarming to someone who doesn’t share the same exchange philosophy as me (i.e. my husband). So, in an effort to appear as though I am compromising – did I say that out loud? – I have come up with some guidelines to help reduce this number or mask it in a way that will make all parties happy.

Here are my five “Rules of Exchange:”

1. Always round up and approximate when discussing how much the return item is worth with family members. For example, if you are returning an item worth $19.99, simplify by saying you are returning an item for “around $50.” This will make the loot you come home with slightly more palatable.
2. When choosing items to exchange, always grab a little something for your husband. That way, when he asks what’s in the bag, you can surprise him with your thoughtful gift. This momentary diversion will prevent him from asking what’s in the other five bags.
3. Speaking of bags – consolidate. If your return produces more items than what you started with, put as many things in a single bag as possible. If you have more bags than you can carry in one trip, leave a few in the trunk and go back for them later. No need to bother your husband for help. Let him relax.
4. Bring your children with you when making a return. This tactic will minimize your time in the store and reduce the number of purchases you are able to make. They will also talk you out of several items saying things like: “You look like a dork in that hat” or “Those jeans make you look fat.”
5. If you really want to cut down on the amount of money a return will cost you, don’t make the return at all. Let the ugly sweater sit in your closet. In the long run, it’s a heck of a lot cheaper.

Okay, so these are some pretty ridiculous rules to live by I know. But if you’re anything like me, they really are relevant when it comes to this art form. And it is an art - I just haven’t quite mastered it yet.

Therefore, based on my stellar record of diminishing returns, I will be forced to surround myself with bad sweaters, shoes that don’t fit and that pair of Santa Claus socks that plays “Jingle Bells.” If you are interested in any of these items, they’re all yours – or better yet, would you like to return them for me?

Class Act
By Sue Tabb

I’m getting ready to attend my 20th college reunion. That’s right, do the math. I’m old! But I’ve gotten past that part of it. Now I’m just figuring out how I’m going to lie my way through the darned thing.

It’s not that I’m ashamed of my accomplishments, it’s just that they don’t seem as, well, accomplished as those of my classmates; all of whom are Heads of State, entrepreneurs and Ambassadors to third-world countries. That is if you believe the Smith College Alumnae Quarterly, and who doesn’t? I don’t think anyone would embellish their life’s work just to impress their peers, although I’m seriously considering it.

If I could just concoct a convincing story, I might be able to impress some old acquaintances, but my good buddies will definitely give me away. What is this Psychology major going to say – that I’ve had a change of plans and I’m now a nuclear physicist? That I’m an aeronautics engineer, President of the PTA and bankrolling a wing of a children’s hospital? Their belly laughter might make some suspicious. Sure, one is a professor and the other is a doctor. They can afford to laugh.

I’ve actually had some very rich and interesting work experiences; I’ve been a Boston radio personality, reporter, news writer and columnist. I’ve rubbed elbows with celebrities, wrote feature stories for a magazine and performed “Livin’ La Vida Loca” in front of 30,000 people at the Tweeter Center when I was 8-months pregnant (There was a lot of Velcro involved.). I guess it’s just that my path has been a little different from someone who, say, has been teaching life skills to the impoverished in Zimbabwe. Interesting, but not as worthy.

So all of this has led me to re-examine my life’s work. Does my work have meaning? Do I help others? Do I feel satisfied and valued? And will Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes ever marry? Hey, it’s hard to stay focused on all that inner satisfaction stuff when there are so many distractions. You know what I mean; things that tear you away from volunteer work or joining the Peace Corps, things like spending quality time with your family or watching the finals of “Skating with Celebrities.”

I guess I’ll just have to make peace with the truth, either that or your reading the work of a Pulitzer Prize winner who spends all her free time running marathons and volunteering in a soup kitchen. Okay, who am I kidding? My real life will bleed through, sooner or later it’ll come blasting through as I mistakenly reference a “Jimmy Neutron” episode I was watching with my kids, they see the dust on my gym key tag or spot the soccer ball in the back of my Volvo station wagon.

That’s right. I am a suburban soccer mom who works part time and reads
”People” magazine. I am not out splitting atoms, curing diseases or saving the rain forests of Borneo. Okay, I said it. It’s out there. Now little Miss “Vice President of European Operations” can smirk at me from across the reunion dinner table. I’ll be ready for it.
I don’t need a fancy title to feel validated. I don’t need a six-figure salary or fancy trips to exotic locales. I’m a struggling writer with a yearly pass to Salisbury Beach. It’s really not a bad life. Plus, I have the flexibility that allows me to spend a lot of time with my kids.

And I do have a purpose: I entertain and inform. I mean, haven’t I entertained you for the 3.6 minutes that it has taken you to read this column? And isn’t that worth something? You could have been doing something much more mundane, like packing lunches, paying bills or returning the dozen calls left on your machine. I took you away from all that. If only for a fleeting moment, I allowed you to suspend some of the drudgeries of life and to think about lighter topics. For instance, have you considered who might be kicked off of “American Idol” tonight? Now there’s some food for thought.

You’re darn right I have a purpose. You can thank me later.

An Apple a Day Keeps the Nurse Away
By Sue Tabb

I almost kept my daughter home from school today because she looked tired. Can you imagine? When I was a kid, my mother didn’t even entertain the idea of keeping me home unless I had a diagnosable, contagious illness that included vomiting, diarrhea, fever, headache, body pain and an unsightly rash. And I mean all of them; it had to be the whole package. If you only had diarrhea, you were going to school. You could sit near the restroom and wear dark pants. Ba-bye!

And I never remember my mom worrying about whether the school might call during the day, in the case I had severed a limb or was near death. There were no cell phones or Blackberries or beepers or even voicemail. If the school called and Mom wasn’t home, you were just plain out of luck. Grab a bucket and get back to class.

But times have changed and we are either more vigilant parents or raising a generation of wimps. If one of my daughters gets a sniffle, coughs or is slightly constipated, the school can reach me in one of seventeen different ways. They have emergency contacts for the emergency contacts I provided. They have the number of the first guy I ever dated. That way, if the first sixteen people can’t be reached, they can give him a try.

I love getting the notes from school, informing you that a student in your child’s class has Strep throat, influenza or head lice. Now, if my daughter scratches her head, I’m convinced there’s a small army of vermin swarming her scalp. Better stay home from school!

It was so much harder to score a sick day when we were kids. You had to really work it. I remember blowing on the thermometer and splashing water on my forehead to mimic ‘cold sweat’ – it never worked. I inevitably found my derriere at school, sitting next to the kid with head lice.

But seeing the school nurse was a dreadful experience in our day. I still remember the horror of it all - the cold cot, the wooden tongue depressors and the suspicious glare. And it seemed that no matter what your symptoms were, they still gave you that silly eye test. Your foot hurts? Okay, look into the projector. Is the apple on the table? Is it? Is it?

And perhaps this is a digression, but the apple was never on the table for me (which probably explains a lot). It was always floating off to one side and yet I knew it was supposed to be on the table. My husband is still shocked when I tell him this story. It wasn’t on the table? And you said it was? Really? (Oh, get over it.)

According to most specialists, and many of the Web sites I consulted, you should keep your child home whenever they have a temperature over 100, diarrhea, vomiting, a blistery rash or heavy nasal congestion.

While these guidelines are all well and good, I have adopted my own set of standards to help determine whether my child is too sick to go to school. It’s a system based on five simple criteria. All criteria must be met in order to be eligible for sick time. It’s very straightforward and doesn’t require a thermometer.

The child must be too sick to:
1. watch the latest episode of Hannah Montana or That’s So Raven;
2. use Floam to create a sculpture of the cat, using the cat;
3. fight with her siblings, as evidenced by allowing them to borrow clothing;
4. realize she is missing the best field trip of the year or possibly the Best Field Trip Ever;
5. ask if you will be taking them bowling, skating, shopping or to the movies.

If you answered yes to all of the above, I would have to say your child is really and truly, undeniably, certainly, beyond-a-doubt sick. And if you do send the little darling to school and they suddenly become ill, no worries. The nurse will let them relax in a La-Z-Boy recliner, make puppets from inflated rubber gloves, and let them eat ice cream.

I know this is nothing like when we visited the nurse. Is the apple on the table? No, no it’s not! There. I said it.

Not that I’m Worried or Anything…
By Sue Tabb

The saying goes that if worrying were an effective weight-loss program, women would be invisible. Based on that assumption, no one has seen me in years.

And it is the women who worry. Not the men. Don’t get me wrong; men are not insensitive creatures, they just worry about real problems. We worry about the real ones and the imagined – regardless of statistics, probability, and in my case, common sense.

Let’s use this week as an example. My daughters are attending summer camp. Sounds simple enough on the surface and to my husband it is. They go to camp; they come home. Done. Over. End of story.

Not for me. I have the following thoughts each morning as I’m getting the girls ready: Did I put enough bug spray on them? Did they inhale any? Would they die if they did? Will they remember to reapply sunscreen? Will my youngest – who is prone to motion sickness – vomit on the bus ride? Will they be placed in a group with kids they know? What will happen if there is a thunder storm? Hurricane? Nuclear holocaust?

Back to my husband who is at work thinking he could really go for a cup of coffee right now. I’m not bashing him; he’s got a high-pressure job and a long commute. But he wouldn’t worry about the girls until he had a reason to – a really good reason (i.e. severed limb or nuclear holocaust).

My boss, who is the father of three young daughters, explains the difference between sexes and the way we worry this way: He says that men can “compartmentalize” things – simply put things “away” they can’t control or don’t need to worry about. Like storing something in a box that doesn’t need to be opened unless crazy Aunt Martha visits unexpectedly. Huh? Is this pig Latin or some type of riddle? What on earth is he talking about?

At any rate, most of my friends who are mothers seem to have the same problem. To see if you are a worry wart like me (and if so, be very scared), take this short quiz:

1. It is your daughters’ first day at summer camp and you drop them off at the bus stop. As they board the bus you:
a) Wave good-bye, throw a kiss, get in your car and drive away.
b) Linger just a bit, watching wistfully as the bus pulls away.
c) After doing both a and b, start weeping, jump in your car and follow the bus to camp, just to be sure the kids get there in one piece.

2. Your oldest daughter returns from camp the first day, upset that she was placed in the lowest level swimming group. You:
a) Figure they’ll move her up if they see improvement. She’ll get over it.
b) Console her, then make a mental note to talk to her counselor when you get a chance.
c) Wonder if you’ve failed as a mother. Why isn’t she a better swimmer? Why doesn’t she have more self confidence? Guilt-ridden, you immediately sign her up for more swimming classes.

3. There is a severe thunder storm while your kids are at camp. You:
a) Assume the camp has dealt with this situation a million times. The kids will be fine.
b) Wonder if they might be scared, but conclude they are in safe hands.
c) Worry that there isn’t adequate shelter or they’ll be struck by lightning. Furthermore, there could be flash flooding or worse. Better pick them up a little early.

If you answered “c” to any or all of the above, join the club. Based on the people I know, you are in good company. But I really do believe it’s a difference in the way the sexes are hard wired. Neither is good or bad, right or wrong, - we’re just different. Different in that our husbands will outlive us by several decades.

So we trudge through life, bearing the burden of both the real and imagined, always anticipating the unlikely disaster, the improbable catastrophe. The good news is that they rarely come; but if they do, my question is this:

Will we be ready? How bad will it be? Will my children be scarred for life?

Okay so that’s more than one question. Wait … is that a bad thing?