One of Harrison’s and Olivia’s biggest treats is reading past midnight. This has seriously cut into my opportunity for late night television, something I indulge in just a few times a year. So, when the kids left for Tahoe with Michael, I surrounded myself with DVD’s and munchies and ended the night with an episode of  CSI: New York .

There are a few seductions to this show, and they all reflect a sampling of my  fantasies: of being a detective, of having curls like Melina Kanakaredes’, of having a job with cool, high-tech gadgets, and of having Gary Sinise as my husband. On this particular night, I had the added bonus of hearing a new musical artist – an unknown actor who played a recovered homeless man-turned-struggling musician.

As I listened to his soul piercing voice, I was entranced. A shame he’s so old, I thought. If he had started younger, this guy could really have potential. I thought he was a little dated in his skinny jeans and black t-shirt, but I faulted the show’s wardrobe designer for that. His passion was mesmerizing, and his voice had incredible range. I wondered if the show was promoting this new singer and his band. I’m going to shock my kids and find out the name of this guy, I decided.

It was my chance to vindicate myself. I really don’t listen to the radio a lot, save NPR, classic rock or country. My iPhone reflects my tastes, and according to Harrison and Olivia, it’s woefully pathetic. Woeful would be enough, but it’s the pathetic that makes me wonder how bad off I am. They swear there is not hope for me, and I don’t bother arguing.

But now I had them. They were going to come home from Tahoe in a few days and find out their mom was edgy. She knew new artists before any of their friends – even before their father! It would be a sweet moment.

I waited and waited for the credits to roll, until the very last trademark symbol scrolled by. No artist. I went to the computer and searched through Hulu till I found the episode. I scanned the cast list and found the artist’s name. I clicked to Google to find the name of his band, and then to iTunes. Oh, yes, it involved a lot of digging, but the vision of redemption was my motivation. And I knew from my detective shows that motivation is key. Who was that dark-haired, elderly artist?

And there it was.

Train.

I concede.

But I have to say, I’m enjoying the newest artist on my playlist.

… I wonder if the kids know that Pat Monahan came out with his own solo album?

The conversations that ensue are often enlightening. One night Harrison and Olivia shared articles they had had read in Newsweek. I was amazed, considering I hadn’t picked up an issue from our coffee table in months. Other times we recap our days. There are the sibling spats and the kids telling me not to respond to my beeping iphone, too – all in a night’s conversation.

Tonight Harrison and I were alone, and he was in the mood to express his latest brainstorm. A filmmaker, a consumer advocate and a budding entrepreneur, he was rarely at a loss for ideas.

“Hey, mom. I have an idea for a reality show,” Harrison told me through a mouthful of turkey melt.

“Yeah? What is it?”

“It’s an Olivia reality show.”

I grinned and held my chuckle in my stomach. I thought better not to encourage him prematurely.

“Tell me about it.”

“Well, each week, we place Olivia with a different family. And we see what happens!”

“Harrison….”

“It’ll be amazing. The audience will see how each family handles the Olivia Storm!”

I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help but laugh. How would another family negotiate the ups and downs of our own little Tazmanian Devil? When she is in a room, everyone knows it. She is either scaling someone’s body until she settles in their arms – and she is eleven years old – or trying to talk someone into a piggy back ride.  She is playing the electric keyboard with her hands and/or toes, or preparing a snack for the entire table. One second her belly laugh is bouncing off the plaster walls, the next it’s an ear-piercing shriek. Energetic, ethereal, loud, emotional, physical, silly, cuddly, she is a lot of girl. One moment I am sure she is destined to be an engineer, the next a rock star. I’ve entertained thoughts of stashing bail money now, while also envisioning her a poet laureate.

To encapsulate Olivia, the best I can do is offer up a visual image. I am sitting at my dinner table at Harrison’s bar mitzvah reception last May. Olivia runs up to me and asks me to dance to the slow song playing. It is the first time all night that I turn her down, finally taking a moment to talk with friends.  Moments later they say, “Sally, look at your daughter.” I turn to the empty dance floor to see Olivia, in her black spaghetti-string pleated cocktail dress, dancing with the DJ, the sole dancers alone in the middle of the dance floor. They are holding hands and leaning back away from each other, arms straight and elbows locked, swaying in circles. They release one hand and create their own slow-motion spin, one direction and then the other, and return to their two-person circle. Her blonde bob is falling loose from her ponytail. Her head is tilted back, her smile pointing to the ceiling. She is wearing enormous inflatable clown shoes.

I’m not giving her up to any other household, not even for one episode. They may never give her back.

Harrison, Olivia, my niece Stephanie, and I were enjoying a Saturday morning pancake breakfast at the dining room table. We love it when Stephanie spends the weekend with us.  At 25 years old, Stephanie, who lives in Daly City, brings a special effervescence to our household. She somehow manages to be both an adult and a playful child. One moment she and I are sitting on the sofa, talking about spirituality and philosophy, and an hour later I spot her climbing out of a steep incline of bushes, pulling twigs out of her hair, holding high a red rubber ball.  Last month I pulled out of our driveway and came to a screeching halt when I saw Olivia and Stephanie sitting on toppled chairs in the street.

“Stop. Go. Stop. Go,” I heard from my right, as Harrison stood a few yards away, directing them in a stop-motion film.

This morning we were still smiling after last night’s Music Man movie night, complete with popcorn, chocolate, licorice, soda and lots of sing-a-longs. The night had a particular poignancy to Stephanie, who informed us she used to don her own marching band pants to watch this favorite film when she was a child.

“Cleaning?!  We don’t want to clean! That’s not fair!” Olivia’s shoulders slumped, and Harrison shoved his chair away from the table, crossing his arms across his stomach.

I felt heat rise in my chest. I didn’t want to clean the house either. I just returned from Chicago after a week away from Harrison and Olivia and I would much rather skip our weekly chores and enjoy of day of play with them. Their moaning and groaning made it that much more difficult to see the chores through. What I needed was a positive attitude. I just wanted to do it, get it done, and have a fun day with my kids.

“You guys! Cleaning is fun!” Stephanie declared, face luminous with anticipation. I looked at her sideways. What was wrong with this woman?

“Fun? What is fun about it?” Harrison challenged. “Do you want to clean the bathroom? Or my bedroom?”

“Sure!” Stephanie cheered. “We’ll do what I did when I was a kid. My mom used to crank the music and we’d dance and clean. It was so much fun!”

I quickly set aside the mental note that there are much more effective mothers than me, and considered her scenario.

“Will you clean with me?” Olivia pleaded.

“Absolutely!”

Harrison and I went out to run an errand, and when we returned I entered an entirely different energy field than that which I had left.  I walked gingerly down the stairs, trying to locate the voices I was hearing. They were coming from my bedroom.

“How about you clean the top, and I’ll clean the bottom?”

“Sounds good, Olivia.”

I entered my room to see Stephanie standing on her toes on my long wall of closet mirror doors, and Olivia scrunching below her.

“Mom!” Olivia beamed. “We cleaned my room, two bathrooms, your bathroom, and most of the mirrors.”

I had been gone one hour.

“And I vacuumed the living room and your room after doing my room.”

Dense is the word I use to describe my current lifestyle. Between parenthood, consulting, writing, traveling, studying and the occasional hike, most of my minutes are pretty much accounted for. So when I walked into my room and saw that two lovely angels had taken care of my haven, I had to touch a finger to the teardrop forming at the edge of my eye.

“You two are awesome. I’m so touched.”

I grabbed a dusting cloth, stepped over the threshold to my iPod hub, and turned the music louder.

“I love this song!” Stephanie hollered.

I love this moment, I thought.

This is a new system for us. It was spawned by a classic Mom Mess Up.

“Mom, it’s minimum day,” Olivia’s sweet voice came through my phone.

I looked at my watch. I needed to pick her up from school in precisely 30 minutes – about 3 hours earlier than I had planned. Although I had checked the school’s website that morning, I hadn’t looked at the newsletter that my daughter brought home on her first day of school – a week ago.

“No worries, sweetie. I’ll meet you at the upper playground.” I knew this location would be faster than our usual meeting point, buying me an extra ten minutes in my office.

Yet, all well-intentioned spontaneous plans can go awry. And this one did. I knew it as I wandered the school for 20 minutes, searching for Olivia. I was embarrassed when the principal delivered her to me from the lower playground even later. There was only one solution after our mutual blame game with one another: we needed a family calendar.

Olivia claimed the pink marker. I got the red. Harrison was happy with the blue, and the black was for “all members”. Before we knew it, the calendar looked like the brainstorming board of a mad scientist. And there was a lot more red than I expected. In fact, the calendar was predominantly crimson.

Standing back, fingers on my chin, I pondered what lay ahead for me. I was going to be on the road a lot in the next few months.

“I’m not sure about this,” I mumbled at Harrison. “Maybe I should skip Boston. Or Chicago – I could postpone that interview.”

“Mom,” Harrison answered. “How long did it take you to write The New Jew?”
“About three years.”
“And you’re published.”
“Yes, I am.”
“That’s a big deal.”
“Yes, it is.”
“Well, then. Don’t you think you ought to get behind it?”

He was right. It had been eating away at me – I desperately wanted to make my book a priority. By the end of the day I felt a wash of relief when I decided to take a break from graduate school to make room for my passion.

My daughter had given me a wake up call. Our calendar displayed the facts. And my son gave me perspective. That’s what can happen when a Mom Mess Up is put to good use.

I pressed my back up against the wall, trying to predict his exit route. I knew he was in the middle of reading a book, which was splayed spine-up on the living room table below. I thought he might walk through the hallway on my left, the most direct path to his destination.He had his treats, and he was in a zone. Sure enough, I heard the pad of his jock-sock footsteps.

Timing was everything. I had to scare him at the precise moment he was parallel with me, when his shoulder aligned with mine. If I jumped out too soon, he would see me round the corner, and the element of surprise would be gone. If I leapt too late, I’d be the fool who tried and failed. Thank goodness he was still humming.

“BOOOOO!!!!” My arms flew out in front of me, fingers clawed like a creature. My feet hit the ceramic tile hard, and the thud rattled the china cabinet.

“ARRGGGH!” Harrison ran backwards, red drink swishing against the side of his glass.”MOMMM!”

I clapped for myself, and leaned back laughing, mission so perfectly accomplished. 

“WHAT KIND OF MOTHER ARE YOU?”

I was still giggling, but my eyes got wider. I was so taken aback by the question. It had never occurred to me that perhaps a mother should not be going out of her way to startle her children. 

As Harrison proceeded down the stairs, shaking his head, I had to consider the question. Although I was raised in a household where my siblings and I pounced around corners, I can’t say I recall my mother and father joining in. Rather, they were the grounding forces, hollering “Stop it!” from the other room when tears or squabbles broke out.  Was I not enrolled in motherly behavior?

I had to go to the expert. My sister Chrissy.

“Chrissy, I had this experience the other day…. I need a reality check.”

After I recalled the events followed by my son’s accusation, she said,”Oh, Jake and I scare each other all the time. It’s a blast.”

I felt better. Until I considered the source. This was the same woman who stood up from the sea of blankets at the 4th of July community picnic to dance by herself. “Mom, you’re embarrassing us,” her teens told her. She chuckled. “Why do you think I’m doing it?”

This is my sissy  who used to talk with me on the phone, and suddenly stop responding in the middle of the conversation.

“Can’t you hear me?”

“Yes. Shhh,” she would answer in a barely audible voice. “My kids just walked by looking for me. I didn’t want them to hear me.”

“Where are you?”

“Hiding in the bathroom. Shhhh!”

She is a complex woman. Because she is also the mother who the kids bring friends home to hang out with, and the mother who single-handedly plans every outing and family vacation. Perhaps none of can answer What Kind of Mother are We?   I’m just figuring it out as I go along.

But I’ll tell you one thing – I am definitely going to be the kind of grandmother who jumps out at her grandkids.

I always love movie night at home with Harrison and Olivia. We make popcorn on the stovetop, pour sodas and sports drinks over ice, grab a bag of sweets, and load it all onto a tray with our special old-fashioned red-and-white striped individual popcorn containers.  We spread two blankets over our three laps and feel festive before we even hit “play” on the DVD player.

So I was a little taken aback when, after my announcement,  Harrison and Olivia sighed in unison and say, “Oh, no.”

 ”What? What is it?”

They exchanged knowing glances. ”Is it an inspirational movie?” Olivia shook her head.

I flinched. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Is there a stray dog in it?” Harrison asked.

“Or a thinking-out-loud cat?”

“Or a girl that bonds with a horse?”

“Is there an overage or underdog athlete?”

“Or a coach that is changed by a bunch of kids?”

I tried to cover the fact that I was flustered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know what we’re talking about! Please, mom – no more inspirational films!!”

I couldn’t believe that after all these years, Harrison and Olivia finally figured out my hidden agenda in movie night. Apparently the popcorn and treats didn’t cover it up anymore. My kids knew me. I’m an inspiration junkie.

My google homepage is littered with motivational quotes. I love them so much that I’m compelled to cut and past them onto my Facebook wall.   I love an uplifting conversation with a girlfriend, my sister, my brother or my mom.  I read biographies because other people’s lives inspire me, and I was motivated to write one myself.  I’ve been known to watch snippets of inspirational DVD’s while I get ready for the day, and my CD stacker in the car is loaded with books on tape that make the day seem a little brighter. It’s always been this way, evidenced by the fact that Tony Robbins was my idol when I was a child. 

But I didn’t have time to defend myself. There was movie night at stake, and I had a daunting task at hand: how to sell my kids into watching a movie about a professional basketball player who is court-ordered to coach a kids’ hopelessly losing team. I think I saw a kitten on the DVD cover, too.

“Is this film inspirational? Just tell us now.”

“I think it’s more of an urban film. About a bunch of school kids. Looks fun!”

As we carried our tray downstairs, and cheered and cried our way through the night, I smiled. Who doesn’t like a little inspiration?

We enjoyed  a day of leisure, but when Harrison awoke the second day still sick, I knew it was time to take him to the  doctor. He stepped into his hospital scrubs – his latest favorite article clothing – and off we went.

The attending nurse noted how appropriate his medical garb was. Harrison grinned. He had only worn them because they were the closest thing to pajamas to wear in public. The doctor entered the examining room and urged Harrison not to contaminate the operating room or his fellow surgeons. He wondered aloud what Harrison’s specialty was.  As the jokes continued – their eye contact never faltering – I suddenly felt like I was excluded from a club. The real doctor filled out a prescription for allergy eye drops, and off we went to the pharmacy.

As we stood in line, amongst an array of runny-nosed children and exhausted mothers, I felt back in my element. In that environment I was what I had been for the last 13 years – a loyal mother, committed to her children’s welfare. I had taken off of work, no questions asked. For the last two days I had pressed the back of my hand against my son’s forehead, made him warm meals, and tucked him into my big feather bed. Now, Harrison stood next to me, rubbing my back in gratitude, smiling up at me. When our smiles met and our bond was cemented, he disengaged himself and wandered off to the nearby display of pain relievers and ear plugs.

I stood there, congratulating myself on the close relationship I shared with my adolescent son. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned.

“Are you aware you have a Clone Wars sticker on your back?”

“A what?” I eyed at the woman standing behind me, scanning her face for clues to the meaning of her question.

“A Star Wars sticker,” I heard the crinkle of paper beneath her finger on the center of my sweater. “He got you.”

I arched my back and reached my hand over my shoulder, pulling off a shiny square picture of Darth Vader. “You have got to be kidding me.” My son had put the equivalent to a “kick me” sign on my back.

Harrison strutted over, glowing, proud of his coup. But what he didn’t realize was that he had stepped into my club. I had a fellow mother watching out for me. She literally had my back.

“Very funny,” I said to Harrison. “But we got YOU. This mom told me–”

I couldn’t complete my sentence. My jaw dropped as my compadre raised her arm above her hand and arched it low, initiating a high-five with my criminal offspring.

“You got her GOOD, boy! Nice work!” I could see I had no friends in that medical center at that moment.  As Harrison clutched his stomach, laughing, I turned to her, incredulous.

She shrugged. “I found a Barbie sticker on my shoulder yesterday,” she said. “And that was when I was getting ready for bed.”

It made sense. I was in a medical center. And misery loves company.