Maybe at Christmas, everyone wants a happy ending

I have a confession to make: I'm addicted to the Hallmark Channel.

Oh, not all the time. In fact, the channel has been available to me all year and I didn't even know it. But something happens to me around Christmas. I get ... softer. Sappier, even. I want cute stories. I want happy endings. I want everything tied up with a bow and a smile in 90 minutes.

It's so out of character, it's alarming.

"WHAT are you watching?" my husband said as he peered in on me curiously the other day.

"Trading Christmas," I said promptly. "It's a really cute story about this widow who trades houses with  . . ." He hurried down the hall. "No, that's fine," he called back. "I was just wondering."

But it didn't start with Trading Christmas, which is also a very fun book by Debbie Macomber. First was Mrs. Miracle. Then there was Call Me Mrs. Miracle. Both of those, coincidentally, are also books by Macomber. I'm betting she loves the Hallmark Channel, too. But it doesn't stop there. There's Holiday Engagement and Mistletoe Over Manhattan and Lucky Christmas and, well, you get the idea. It's Hallmark's Countdown to Christmas.

The movies are sweet, charming, formulaic. The set-up, the situation, the glitch and the solution. Normally, that would make me crazy. Where are the plot twists? The car chases? The murder, mayhem and mystery?

But not these days.  I'm settling in with them with my blanket and my cinnamon tea and I'm perfectly content.  Maybe, around Christmas, everybody wants a happy ending

A few minutes of mom support can change everything

I made it to the elementary school this morning in the nick of time, bedraggled and out of breath. It wasn't even 8:30, and I had already made three breakfasts, walked the dog, found lost homework, conducted a mock spelling test, located misplaced socks, cleaned up cat barf and packed three lunches.

Now it was time to go to work. You know, real work. The kind where you collect a paycheck.

I felt beat.

A pretty blonde woman sidled up next to me, also dressed in office clothes. "You know, I have to wonder," she said as she trotted past, "Does this ever get easier?" We both broke out in laughter.

And I realized, suddenly, that my morning wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Moms - and dads - all over the world were doing the exact same thing, every day.

"I hope so," I replied. "I feel like I'm barely making it as it is."

She stopped and turned toward me.

"Really?" she said.  I nodded.

"That makes me feel SO much better," she continued. " I feel like I'm the only one who's saying, 'Hurry, hurry, hurry - it's time to get in the car.'"

I shook my head. "No way," I told her. "Half the time, it's time to go, and my son has wandered back to his room and is playing with his Angry Birds."

We both laughed again and parted ways.

I felt immeasurably better. Our little exchange only took about two minutes, but it's amazing what a little mom support can do.

8-year-old filmmaker finds inspiration from the toy chest

I watched a very special episode of American Idol the other night. Mickey Mouse was the host. Raggedy Ann was a pretty awful contestant. And Woody from Toy Story sang the theme from the popular show "Victorious," besting competitor Barney by a mere boot length, as noted by Judge Mario.

It was put together by my young son, who has a new hobby - raiding our expansive, little-used toy chest in the basement for characters, then making up skits and filming them on our new video camera. I think that, so far, he has put together at least 30 shows.

Kermit battled Mario and Luigi to a truce, while Winnie the Pooh and Arthur are often  leaders of an evil lair. Ken has lost his suitor status, and now often plays a villain chasing the beleaguered Mario. And at one point, a few oranges with faces drawn on them became bad guys, as well. (Those came from the kitchen, incidentally, not the basement).

It's hilarious. I have to remember when to laugh, and when not to laugh, though, because even though I think that drawing faces on fruit and making them villains is funny, the filmmaker often does not. Sometimes, in fact, if my prying is too intrusive, my young Spielberg will shut the door to his room, only divulging his masterpiece when it's complete.

He wants his own YouTube account - he watches videos other kids have out, and he wants his uploaded, too.  But I'm hesitant to go that route - I've seen the cruel comments other videos get. So for now, he'll just have to settle for a toy chest brimming with heroes and villains and a devoted family audience.

Boo! Are you ready to take charge of the Halloween party?

I love Halloween. I love it so much I decided to head up my little boy's class party for the holiday. Now, assuming that someday you, too, will want to head up a class party, allow me to share a few things I learned:

• Find out if the other moms are wearing costumes. That way, you won't come in dressed like a cat - complete with painted-on whiskers - and find out no one else dressed up. (All together now: Awwwkward!!)
• Find out if you're in charge or if you're just "helping." If you're in charge, you want to have your problem-solving hat on.  Because a few unplanned scenarios might pop up -  like, how do you serve apples with caramel dip when no one was assigned to bring a knife to slice apples? (Answer: Run to the teacher's lounge and borrow)
• Bring Halloween music. Or don't complain when you hear the theme to "Ghostbusters" about 12 times.
• Be patient. Really, really patient. Yes, you want to start the games, but six grandmas want to take pictures with their adorable Ghostface or Demon Hunter. Smile and wait.
• Don't bring treats designed for grown-ups. Like "witches' fingers" made of string cheese with a bell pepper fingernail. Grownups will say, "I love it!" But a lot of kids will make faces and say, "What's that red thing?"
• Smile and eat the leftover candy. It's Halloween, after all.

Racer's death leaves little boy searching

I saw my son get kicked in the stomach this weekend. It was hard to watch.

He was sparring at tae kwon do class, and he let his guard down. His sparring partner didn't mean to hurt him, really, but he saw an opening and took it.

My boy didn't let on he was hurt, though. He just took a deep breath, gave me a thumbs-up and sat down.

That was Friday. Sunday afternoon, he was watching an IndyCar race with his dad when tragedy struck - popular racer Dan Wheldon was killed in a horrific, fiery crash.

My son, 8, is a big IndyCar fan. Like thousands of others, he was a fan of Wheldon. But he didn't see the crash - he'd left the room briefly. My husband had to tell him later. My husband, a former sports editor, was upset, too. He'd interviewed Dan several times, knew him to be a genuinely nice person.

He told Sean straight out what happened. "That's terrible," my son said. And he shut his door.

Later, though, Sean started talking about the crash. "I didn't see what happened," he told me. "Maybe I should watch it on YouTube."

"No," I said. "I think you should just remember him as a good racer and a nice person."

"Okay," he said.

He came up to me later. He was clicking his tongue, a nervous habit he has. "I didn't get Dan Wheldon's autograph when we went to the track," he told me. "I wanted to, but I was out of paper, " he said.

Click, click, click.

"I was out of paper."

"It's okay," I told him, and I gave him a hug.

He walked away, still clicking and frowning.

I watched my son get kicked in the stomach this weekend. Twice.

The birds and the bees and the bunk beds

Sometimes, moms just try too hard. Consider this funny anecdote I came across:

Little 9-year-old Tommy had been playing outside with a few other kids when he ran in, breathless, to ask his mom a question:

"Mom!" he said. "What's that called when two people sleep in the same room and one is on top of the other?"

Well, Mom was a little taken aback, but she decided to tell him the truth: "Well, honey, it's called sexual intercourse." And before she could say more, he said, "Oh, OK," and ran back outside to play with the other kids.

Five minutes later, he was back. And he wasn't too happy.

"Mom," he said, annoyed. "It's not called sexual intercourse. It's called bunk beds. And Jimmy's mom wants to talk to you."

(Hee hee!! I'd love to take credit for this, but I can't. I read a version of it in a little magazine called The Body Mind Spirit Guide. I adapted it just a little. There was no author, or I'd happily give a name.)

It's School Picture Day! Are you ready?

Ahhh, School Picture Day. If you're lucky, your little darling gives you the flyer, and you know it's coming. But sometimes, it's just a last-minute surprise.

Regardless, it's a big day. Grandma's waiting for those updated photos, after all, and those new frames you bought on sale won't fill themselves. So you need to be ready. But there's something about School Picture Day ...


That makes your children forget how to smile and only bare their teeth like angry wolves, thereby making you wonder why you sprung for Package D for $29.99.

That reminds you your daughter needed her bangs trimmed. A week ago.

That lets you study the complexity of a cowlick up close.

That makes your son extra chatty while he's brushing his teeth that morning, resulting in the inevitable dribble of white toothpaste down his brand-new, straight-from-the-closet brown shirt.

That tells everyone what an inept seamstress you are, since all the threads are hanging from the top button - the only one showing in the photo.

That reminds you your children might not own any shirts without cartoon characters on the front.

That makes you really, really happy there's such a thing as Retake Day.