Sasha fidgeted during the conversation which revolved around city schools and taxes. She was not sufficiently occupied. What fourteen year older would be? I could relate to those days, feeling stuck at the dinner table with adults, anxiously awaiting to be excused.

Her relief was evident when Margie stated, “You don’t have to sit here. You can go.” Without hesitation Sash gobbled down her chocolate cake and vanished to her room. I imagine she called a girlfriend, seeking out more relevant conversations – gossip over school happenings, makeup and boys.

Sasha’s departure stirred familiar memories of younger days when I experienced the same boredom at my parents table. I was often amazed at how they could talk with friends for hours about a new washer/dryer, or a recipe for chicken while consuming bottomless pots of coffee.

As Sasha’s bedroom door closed, I caught a glimpse of the pink frilly curtains and posters thumbtacked to the wall. Memories of my childhood room – sky blue walls, and a pastel flowered bedspread with matching curtains washed over me like a retreating tide. The child in me that could clearly recall my days in Sasha’s shoes felt betrayed and confused by the adult willingly engaging in gossip over recently separated or divorced friends and new programs in the city schools. Suddenly I had the urge to run after Sasha and deny the hands of time.

While mourning the passage of my youth, I struggled to pinpoint the tangible moment of transformation. When did conversations shift from dating to divorce? Entertainment, from movies to a DVD on Saturday night? When did I stop watching The Late Show and start watching Nightline? When did my definition of wrinkles become laugh lines?

Could this really be me I wondered picking slowly at the chocolate cake, concerned about my expanding waistline? Fat content? Cholesterol? No turning back now I thought as I graciously accepted another cup of coffee. I don’t feel old but tell tale signs gnaw at me. I’ve lost the ability to stay awake past eleven when I used to dance till dawn. I would have lost those fifteen extra pounds sooner if I really believed how hard it would eventually become. You know, that day in the future when your metabolism slows down.

But here I am. Losing count of the times I find myself pausing mid-sentence to place a faintly familiar phrase. Ah yes, something my mother said…a long time ago. Was it really that long ago? Who thought I’d be here so quickly, mimicking conversations I ran from, while prisoner at my parents dinner table. Ageing is yes, just a state of mind and perceptions formed in youth – mercilessly destroyed as we reluctantly pass through life cycles. At twenty-five-years old I was sure that by thirty-five I’d be settled, by forty-five I’d be old and by fifty-five, well, I’d have all of life’s answers and retire.

Rethinking that timeline I realize twenty-five is young, at thirty-five people are still discovering, forty-five is an age where you hope to be finally content and at fifty-five, you’re lucky if you can retire. The frightening bit of knowledge imparted from my youth is that, at no point does anyone have any of life’s answers. The body ages, but the mind…the mind is always that child, looking to be excused from the table.

These days when visiting my parents, decaf coffee is served and the conversations revolve around retirement, grandchildren, tax shelters, and smaller homes since yes, the children have grown. I know they feel my anticipation as I fidget, fighting the obligatory tugs to tune out their words, grab my desert and call a friend – seeking out more relevant conversations. But I graciously accept the decaf, realizing I’ll be repeating those words at one point in the not too distant future. Knowledge I owe to a fourteen year older named Sasha.

Okay, I’ll admit it.  On September 8th I danced through the house singing the kids are back in school to the tune of Thin Lizzy’s, “The Boy’s are Back in Town.”  Now don’t get me wrong, I love my children. But there’s peace in my kingdom again, at least from 8 a.m. – 2:30 p.m., the Queen rules.

The kingdom was severely rocked last week though when my 7 and 8-year olds came home toting a school fundraiser. They were asked to sell cookie dough at fifteen bucks a pop. Two kids, one each, that’s thirty dollars, I thought. For cookies?! It was a bit excessive. After all, could they really be better than Chips Ahoy? I can get two packages of those on sale for $5.  And they’re already baked.

My son didn’t want to hear about it. Turns out, it wasn’t the cookies or the fundraiser that he was interested in.  It was the mini refrigerator he’d win if he sold enough units to reach Level 9.  My daughter coveted a stuffed bear at Level 4.

I glanced through the paperwork to see just how much cookie dough I’d have to buy for his mini refrigerator and her stuffed toy.  It didn’t take long before I realized it was much more dough than I was going to spend.

The prince pitched a royal fit.  His crying and screaming reached a higher pitch when I explained that he’d have to continue using my Frigidaire. Nothing I could say would pacify him. Not even the promise of his own special space on a lower shelf in the family fridge.

“Okay JJ, if you want that little refrigerator you have to sell one-hundred-seventy units to get to Level 9.  Do you know how much that will cost?” I asked, handing him a calculator.  “One-hundred-seventy times fifteen. Do the math.”

His little fingers gingerly found the numbers and he paused while trying to read the calculator window.  “Twenty-five dollars and fifty cents Mamma,” he responded.

“Don’t think so,” I corrected him, “That’s twenty five hundred and fifty dollars.  Now let’s see how much Lara’s teddy will cost.” I couldn’t take the suspense so I swiped the calculator and punched in the numbers.  “Not bad, her bear will only cost $300.   So $2550 for you and $300 for your sister takes us to $2,850 for cookie dough. JJ, I can’t afford that.”

Struggling to turn this into some kind of lesson, I tried explaining fundraising basics. JJ didn’t care that the prizes were just a token for a greater good – raising money for the school. He wanted the refrigerator. Lara was just in it for the ride. She knew that if JJ got his refrigerator, she’d be adding a teddy to her collection without having to shed a tear.

I suggested we search for the prizes on eBay to see what they really cost.  Then, if JJ still wanted the refrigerator and Lara couldn’t live without the bear, they could purchase the toys with their own money.

JJ ran to the computer and typed in eBay.com. “They don’t have the one I want Mama,” he said after glancing through several pages of mini refrigerators, the majority costing under $100.

“Okay JJ,” I said.  “Do you want to close your savings account, sell all your toys and forgo allowance for the next 15 years so you can spend $2,550 on a refrigerator that costs under $100?”  I prayed he wouldn’t call my bluff.  That would open a whole new conversation about rhetorical questions, and most likely escalate the situation.

“Let me think about that,” he responded tentatively.

It’s been a week and JJ hasn’t mentioned the refrigerator. I’m betting it’s a thing of the past. And I’m pleased that the experience seems to have taught him a life lesson.

JJ may not have learned the value of a dollar – but he did learn the value of his dollars.

The roller coaster began Friday after school and didn’t stop till late Sunday. I knew it was not going to be an easy weekend, so I mentally prepared myself for the ride.

The weekend activities began Friday night with basketball practice. On Saturday there was a neighborhood parade, kids, cars, lots of noise and lots of walking. Saturday night was movie night at school – two movies, lots of sugar, lots of kids and lots of tired parents. Sunday morning after church was an afternoon birthday party for one of the children in my son’s class. I just wanted to hibernate.

Saturday, while prancing down the boulevard in the parade, my children and I ran into Jan, a mother in my son’s class. Her feet were dragging much like mine.

“Can you believe this weekend?” she asked forcing a laugh.

“I’m just counting down till Sunday night,” I responded. One consolation was that many of the mothers in my children’s classes shared my pain.

We agreed that going home to make lunch would further complicate the weekend, so we stopped at a local pizza place.

Jan grabbed her cell to call her husband. “Did you do the laundry?” she rolled her eyes and I knew what the answer was. “What are you doing?” This time she just shook her head and closed her eyes. I could only imagine. “Okay, I’ll bring something home for you,” she said with disgust in her voice. “We’ll be home in about an hour.”

Hanging up she turned to me and said, “He’s home watching the game and I’m bringing him lunch. Why is it that he gets to lay around all weekend while I do everything with Bobby and he doesn’t even pick up a finger to help out around the house? It’s not fair. I’m exhausted.”

Jan paused for a moment and pursed her lips. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “It must be much harder on you.”

“It’s difficult,” I responded, not wanting to tell her what I was really thinking, and happy to take some recognition for what I do. Yes, I have two jobs, two kids and a house to take care of on my own. I have no one to help out on crazy weekends with the children or the house. But then again, neither did she. And she didn’t even see it.

Sometimes I think being a single mom has its advantages. Yes, I’m the one at all the children’s activities – but so are the other moms I know. As a single mom there’s no question as to what my responsibilities are – and who is going to do them. Yes, I go to bed tired, but so do other moms. Only when I put my head on the pillow, there’s no resentment towards someone lying next to me who sleeps soundly because there’s nothing on his mind other than football. Finally, I have two children – not three.

There are many times I look at other moms and fantasize what life would be like with a partner, someone to help around the house and with the children. At those times I think about Jan’s reality and I know in my heart that the grass is not always greener.