t’s been years since I was on the preschool ‘playdate’ circuit, where I scheduled my kids’ social interactions, but I still remember one of the best perks, which was when I discovered a mom with whom I clicked. I’d go over to retrieve my kid, and we’d end up chatting for another hour, thrilled to find someone to talk to in complete sentences. At that age, the kids were young enough that they’d play with just about anyone, so it was easy to make most of their playdates with kids whose moms I enjoyed.

One of those preschool moms has become one of my dearest friends, so yesterday we met for a quick lunch at the Nordstrom Cafe, where we used to meet when our older boys were in preschool and our 2nd kids were in strollers. We reminisced about those ‘good old days’, remembering where Hannah (her perfect little girl) charmed the grandmother at the next table, or looking at the dent in the chair I’m sure was left by Ben (my rambunctious one). And we fretted that as our schedules (and kids’ lives) have gotten more complicated, we no longer have those long, leisurely playground outings and Burger King lunches.

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My first-born turned 16 recently, and that was just the latest in a series of reminders of my own aging - roots that need touching up way more often than I can afford, having two children with hair on their legs, my own dear husband referring affectionately to his ‘50-something’ sweetheart (I’m 50, not 50-something!). But it wasn’t so much the fact of the birthday that made me feel old - it was the celebration.

Between starting his summer job and exhaustion from the end of the school year, David was too wiped out to plan anything but let me know he’d be okay with it if I took over (by saying discreetly, “Mom, just in case you feel like giving me a surprise party, I wouldn’t mind, and Danielle might know who I would want to invite, because you know my guy friends are clueless about this sort of thing.”) So with the help of his friend, Facebook, and a quick trip to Costco, I was ready for our house to be invaded by teenagers.

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The latest entry in the ‘Real Housewives of . . . ‘ series is going to be set in New Jersey, where for a change of pace (not) we’ll get to watch rich, tacky, shallow women shop for size 0 designer clothes and fret about important priorities like redecorating their stadium-size powder rooms and getting a last-minute Botox appointment. This time I guess the difference will be even tackier accents and the vague suggestion of mafia ties, but overall it’s the same excuse for ‘real’ real housewives to snigger and feel superior: “I may not have that kind of budget, but I’m a better mom and I don’t sound like such an airhead on national television.”
Come on, we already have tons of shows where we can watch shallow, tacky people make idiots out of themselves, from reality competitions to daytime talk shows to most sitcoms. What about a ‘real housewives’ show featuring REAL people, with real problems, like how to keep your kids from bickering in front of your neighbors, or what you can make for dinner with 3 frozen chicken breasts and an expired jar of salsa? 
I can see it now - Real Housewives of San Mateo, featuring me and my neighbors as we cope with such thrilling challenges as an excursion to Costco (where I promise I’m only buying toilet paper and batteries!), or Carol loaning me her carpet cleaning machine even though I think my carpets are beyond hope. We don’t have any trampy neighbor to have affairs with the pool boys none of us can afford to hire, but there is a rather hunky UPS guy we can occasionally ogle, and instead of comparing notes about our designer shopping sprees, we can let each other know when there’s a sale at Old Navy, or a special on ground beef at Safeway.
Hmmm . . . I’m even bored, and it’s my life!, so I can understand why producers aren’t clamoring to make a reality show about reality. Watching normal people cope with typical problems we all face doesn’t give one that thrill of schaedenfraude (taking joy in the misfortunes of others - I still remember my SAT vocabulary!), because it’s fun to feel superior to superficial morons with too much time and money, even as we envy them, not just for the expensive trinkets but for having lives that are interesting enough to merit a TV show.
That’s my dirty little secret - I’m ashamed to admit that sometimes I wish I had a more glamorous, unusual life, even though I love my family and can even find joy in some of my more mundane moments. Oh, I know raising kids and teaching music (and all my other odd jobs) are much more important than getting on television because I’m an airhead with a sugar daddy, but every now and then we all yearn for a bit of glamour, something novel to break up the routine. I think I’ll go wild on my next trip to Costco and spring for some new socks.

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I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with Ikea, the build-it-yourself furniture superstore. One the one hand, even before the recession I appreciated a bargain, and I like to think that even if I had $5,000 to spend on an end table, I wouldn’t be so wasteful. Walking through Ikea’s beautiful but maze-like showroom and seeing the ridiculously low prices gives me the same high I got the first time I went to Loehmann’s (back in the day when it was a real outlet with real discounts; heck, I went to the original one in the Bronx, where I fought for mirror space with an entire Mah Jongg club, only to emerge triumphantly with a beautiful lined wool coat for $40). 

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I am the classic pear shape: tiny upper body with a rounded lower body. I’ve never had breasts bigger than an ‘aa’ cup.

You can imagine how excited I was with my first pregnancy about getting “porn” breasts. I told my husband that I was going to buy a special lacy bra so he could take many a photo of me and my breasts. I even told my close male friends they could look at the photos—which sounds weird, and I guess it is weird but that’s how excited I was about getting big boobs.

In the end, my breasts only got big enough to fill an ‘a’ cup bra with a little spillage over the front. They grew, of course, when I started to breast feed but never enough fit into a maternity bra. (The photo is of when my breasts were at their biggest.)

PHOTO

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Usually, I delete those unsolicited emails offering tips on anti-aging superfoods (acai berries! no, tofu!, actually, now it’s quinoa!), positive thinking (”send this to 5 supportive friends, and something amazing will happen in the next 9 minutes!”), and income (”Yes, you can turn your journalling into a 6 figure book contract!”). But one popped up the other day which I couldn’t resist, promising ‘Brand New Ways to Banish Bad Behavior for Good!’ (Come on, the only person who could resist that title is the supermom down the block, you know, the one whose perfectly-dressed kids ASK for extra chores and love broccoli, the ones who’ve never heard of Burger King?)
So I read the article, which said that our culture gives kids too much of a sense of entitlement, and the only way to improve their behavior is to teach them gratitude, expressing thanks and by noticing small blessings. (This is brand new?) I can just see some harried mom, pulled over for speeding with 2 screaming kids in the car, doing her deep breathing and saying, “Justin, Ashleigh, let’s say thank you to the nice officer for doing his part for our community.” Or a frazzled mom breaking up a fight with “Boys, tell each other how grateful you are that this time neither of you actually drew blood.”
I mean, come on. Kids act up, no matter what we do, and you can read 5,000 articles with tips on influencing their behavior, and have the exact same results. I’ve tried the gratitude thing - we say grace before meals by having each family member say two things he or she is grateful for. Usually I get a sullen, “I’m grateful for, food and family, um, do I HAVE to eat the tuna casserole?” Or the boys use the ritual as an excuse for pushing an agenda: “I’m grateful mom MIGHT let me stay up and watch Family Guy, and I’m grateful that Ben isn’t been as annoying as he usually is.”
Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for trying to limit this entitlement thing, where kids feel the world revolves around them. I give them regular chores, I’m sticking with being (in their opinion) the meanest mom in the world because we only have one television set in the house, and I not only make them do their own homework, I have never yet referred to a school project in the first person plural. (You know, “WE got a bad grade on the science experiment . . . “) But beyond that, I guess I sort of feel like bad behavior is part of childhood, and part of what we get to make them feel guilty for when they’re grown. 
Besides, if there really were brand new, fail-safe strategies for making kids behave perfectly, there wouldn’t be such a proliferation of articles and web tips and emails advising us - the articles don’t really help, but they do provide outside work for a whole bunch of moms who are probably thrilled to have something to do besides trying to make their own kids behave!
As far as I’m considered, my strategy for dealing with my kids’ unpleasant behavior is

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