At 5:47 this morning*, my son Lucas let it be known that he had an urgent need. “Mama! MaMA! Maaaaama! MamaMamaMamaMama! MAMA, I NEED YOU NOW!” Any casual witness (like, say, our next-door neighbors, who most certainly could hear him) would assume that he was either a) dying, b) trapped between the bed and the wall or c) covered in a bodily fluid. I had my doubts, but nonetheless stumbled blearily into his room to assess the threat level. And do you know what he wanted? What he needed the way asthmatics need air during an attack? He required that I pick up the half-deflated Patriots’ balloon …

I’m not yet 40. And this is not a review of the movie of the same name as the title of this column. But if someone would like to pay me to write a review of that movie, I would gladly accept an advance copy. Which reminds me. Pretty much the best job I ever had—other than the one for which I was paid by a beauty website to flit around Los Angeles and write about people nicknamed things like “The Fastest Bikini Waxer West of La Cienega” (I have never BEEN so well-groomed!)—was when I briefly wrote previews and reviews of “Sex and the City” episodes for a big newspaper. Because I received …

Between the advent calendar treats, the stocking stuffers, the grandparent booty, the assorted neighborhood and friend gift exchanges and the obscene load of swag Santa has taken to dumping under our tree, Christmas is out of control at our house. That’s why my boys will each receive just three presents from Santa this year. Perhaps you’re saying to yourself, “Just? Three is a lot, you revolting first-world consumer-whore.” And yes: It is a lot, when you consider that there are plenty of children in the world who will get nothing. And when you consider that my children DO NOT NEED ANYTHING. …

My 7-year-old has taken to pointing out when he thinks I’ve not slept enough. “Mom, I think you need a nap,” he’ll say kindly. That his kindness is almost always in response to some high-volume freak-out I’ve had makes the whole exchange especially shameful. He could hold a grudge. He could give me the cold shoulder. He could make me pay. Oh, and I would. I’m supposed to be the adult here, after all. I should be able to hold it together, even after six straight hours of whining. Or when my boys’ umpteenth wrestling match of the day results in a broken dining room chair. Or after telling …

My grandmother sewed beautiful costumes for my sister and me, but now that she’s dead, I can admit it: My favorite Halloween get-up of all time consisted of a plastic mask and one-piece jumpsuit that together turned me into Woody Woodpecker. (And lest you think me callous, I should add here that I’d much prefer my grandmother still be alive than be relieved of my long-buried secret about the thrill of impersonating animated woodpeckers.) This costume felt (and sounded) like I was wearing a plastic tablecloth. It was surely made of cancer-causing materials. It took me more than a month of …

When I was growing up, my mom used to say that my younger sister made friends more easily than I—that while she always had a wide circle of buddies, I was more comfortable with a few, very close friends. I don’t think our positions on the continuum were (and are) quite as far apart as she portrayed. (And incidentally, I think this is a common trap parents fall into as part of a need to define, differentiate and label their kids. And, take it from me, kids hear these offhand comments—and remember them for the rest of their lives. Did you know, for instance, that my sister, Alex, is also much …

The other day, my husband casually remarked that I’d be much more likely to get Alzheimer’s than he.  Can you even imagine saying such a thing? Given the fact that we’re neck-deep in gut-wrenching family Alzheimer’s drama right now, his comment was particularly nervy. Someday in the extremely distant future, I may speak to him again. Either that or I’ll forget he said it by the weekend. Oh, wait… Anyway, since then, I’ve been doing what any sane and rational person would do: completing crossword puzzles and furiously trying to remember things I want to remember when I can no longer remember …

This morning, my friend Denise was marveling about how productive she was yesterday after work: “After I got home, when usually I’m totally exhausted, I made a lasagna, did two loads of laundry and prepped everything for another dinner. And I could’ve kept going—it was like I was on speed!” “So were you?” I asked. “Was it Adderall? Did you take a nap at lunch? Stop at Dunkin’s on the way home? WHAT IS YOUR SECRET AND WHERE CAN I BUY IT?” And do you know what it was? It was the little-known, black-market pill called HerBoysWereAtBaseballPractice. Normally, from the second Denise walks in the …

  I’m not a fan of guns. To the point where I’m slightly embarrassed that Charlton Heston and I share an alma mater. And before I became a mother, I was damn sure my offspring would not be fans of guns either. Well, guess what? You can add that to the list of parenting issues I had no business having an opinion about before I was actually a parent. I apologize to the friends and family I silently judged for letting their kids wage pretend war against an endless assortment of pretend bad guys with an endless assortment of pretend weaponry. Because I’m pretty sure my boys would put the inventor…

One of my proudest moments as a parent was when my son, Finn, told me to shut up. Well, I’m paraphrasing. He was reading a book, and I asked him a question. Seventy-four times. Finally I told him (and everyone else within 10 miles) that if he did not answer me THIS INSTANT, all of his Legos were going out the window. I may or may not have violently brandished a minifig-filled Tupperware container for emphasis. So that got his attention. “SHHHHHH! PLEASE, Mom! Let me just finish this chapter!” he hissed. Immediately, my eyes welled up and I started sniveling noisily. Not out of hurt or anger. …

Just so you know, my 3-year-old never wets his pants. He’s just sweaty. And if you push him on it, he only becomes more adamant. Me: “It’s okay, sweetie, no big deal at all—we all wet our pants sometimes.” Lucas: “Even you, Mama?” Me: “Uh, yes, absolutely. But more when I was 3.” Lucas: “Oh. Well I don’t do that. I’m DEFINITELY just sweaty.” If that seems suspicious to you—and you dare to suggest that his sweat might not be quite so fluid, nor copious, and that maybe he should consider putting on new pants—well, watch out. The fire of a thousand suns will power his ire. There will be foot-…

Not too long ago, a 15-year-old girl named Madison* was suffering from bulimia and depression, removing herself from the day-to-day activities of teenage life and prompting her classmate Ava to became anxious for her friend’s safety.  Ava approached her own mom—my friend Izzy—for assistance. Together, the pair helped Madison face her problems—and her parents. They helped her find a good therapist, and they spent many hours just being with her and listening to her talk.  Less than a year later, Madison repaid her good friend Ava by turning her back on her without explanation.  Ava, you see, …

I have the Tiger Mom’s book, which a friend passed on to me several months ago, but I’ve only gotten so far as to crack open the cover slightly and squint at the first few pages with one eye closed. I’m afraid, I suppose, that I might see a chapter titled “Why Every Parenting Decision Sarah Corbett Makes Is Wrong.” Or, in author Amy Chua’s parlance (otherwise known as her preferred word-choices when scolding her daughters): “Sarah Corbett is a Fatty and Also Garbage.” The problem is, if I saw a chapter like the first one (and some days the second one, let’s be honest) I’d probably believe it—…

This morning began the same as the few before it, with a barrage of requests and demands. She was hungry (and loudly!) and then threw a tantrum because she didn’t get juice but everyone else did. She needed help getting dressed, since navigating a turtleneck — does it go on before or after the sweater? — can be complicated. And then there was a “situation” in the bathroom that led to an urgent cry for assistance. If you’re the parent of a young child, this may all sound familiar. In this case, however, the “she” is 70 years old. My husband and I are members of the “sandwich generation” — …

I have never penned a newsy holiday letter to send out to far-flung relatives and friends. I used to think that’s because I have never been organized enough to write it, make copies and send it in time. While that may be true, I think I know the real reason: I don’t actually like newsy holiday letters. I do, of course, read the ones that arrive in the mail. And I am grateful for the tidbits of information about people’s lives that they offer, especially things I hadn’t heard about in the previous year.But they leave me with an odd feeling. And I am not inspired to spread it to those on my …

I’m furious with myself. I just paid $175 for a Leap Frog LeapPad Explorer Learning Tablet. Twenty minutes ago, I hadn’t the foggiest what a Leap Frog LeapPad Explorer Learning Tablet was. But now I know: It’s the Cabbage Patch Kid of 2011.  The Leap Frog LeapPad Explorer Learning Tablet—which, given its not-exactly-pithy name, will heretofore be referred to as the Shame-Maker—is, apparently, one of the top five toys of the year. Multiple websites and magazines told me so. And as Santa didn’t have any inspired ideas for my 6-year-old, I jumped right on board. Or I tried to. The Shame-Maker …

When I was a kid, my always loving, usually patient mother told me and my three siblings that she couldn’t understand why our behavior worsened right before Christmas. “Why would you act like this when Santa is watching?” she used to ask us. Now that I’m a mom, I think I know the reason. We were probably reacting to the stress that resulted from receiving less attention while all the holiday preparations took precedence over our normal routines. While the radio is assuring us that It’s the hap-happiest time of the year, many of us are panicking about getting it all done. “It” is different for…

My friend Diane works full time in a demanding role at a fast-paced company that requires she occasionally do things like run conference calls at 10 p.m. and fly to Switzerland for a few days on short notice. It’s a job that requires just as much—and sometimes more—of her as her husband Rob’s job does of him. They also have three young kids—and like nearly every other pair of parents I know (regardless of whether one or both work outside the home), Diane and Rob argue over the sharing of parental and household duties. And despite the fact that her job is just as (if not more) taxing as his—…

A few weeks ago, my husband, Ken, made an unusual announcement during dinner.  Telling me and our teenaged kids that “a first” had occurred, we waited to hear what he would say. Here’s what he said: “I got booed today.” “What? Why?” we all asked in unison. “I don’t really know,” he said. “I think it was because I was wearing a suit.” This was the kids’ introduction to the movement known as Occupy Boston. Put simply, some strangers saw their dad walking near the State House, wearing a jacket and tie, and assumed…what? It appears that they assumed his profession was something worth protesting. …

My extended family has never been touchy-feely. Not once, for instance, did we all hold hands around a Thanksgiving table and describe our blessings and our gratitude. Before I had kids, focusing more on the food and the football was fine. But once my two boys came along, I suddenly wanted to incorporate the let’s not take this all for granted, shall we? side of the holiday. I still wasn’t quite ready for the handholding, so I looked for a blessing-sharing activity with a runway. Enter the Leaf Thanking Tree. So-named by my then-5-year-old, the “tree” consists of a couple of branches (…