Category Archives: The Natives are Decidedly Restless

April 14, 2026 · 1:25 pm

I’m with the Band

Since our kids abandoned us and went off to college, my husband and I really miss the noise in our household. Sounds almost inconceivable, but it’s true. They had friends over frequently and we miss their noise, too. Really, we do—because they were delightful. There were countless Halloween parties, marching band sectional get-togethers, musical cast gatherings and just ordinary meetups for snacks and shenanigans around our kitchen island and sprawled across our back deck. I remember a veritable din of music and laughter emanating from what can only be described as a small herd of high schoolers, and I remember wishing it would never end.

I pine for the kids, of course, but mostly it’s the music they created that I long to hear once more. To say that our home was filled with music is an understatement, largely because of the encouragement and tutelage of Aegina and Bobby Leidhecker, Amanda Haney, Lee Saville-Iksic, Donna Elkin, Miki Rebeck, Ryan Bulgarelli, Jared Whitford, Meg McQue and Dr. William Ciabattari. Our twins ended up being music education majors so someone was always singing or playing an instrument at all hours throughout their middle and high school years. I’ll never forget witnessing them playing a riff from “Smoke on the Water” as fifth graders in the middle of our kitchen floor. Seriously. That happened.

My favorites of all time, though, were listening to the French horn as well as vocals accompanied by the strums of a ukelele. I’m sad to say that part of me took this beautiful soundtrack of our lives for granted. Somehow, I thought it would always be there, a constant in the background. Now the house is quiet, and they’re off on their own in the world, adulting, mostly.

Since the “free concerts” we’ve enjoyed inside our house have been egregiously discontinued, my husband and I have had to settle for the next best thing—attending concerts outside the house. Of course, this isn’t exactly a new thing for us, but it’s something we’ve certainly done more of lately. We’ve seen everything from Brahms Requiem at Carnegie Hall, the Philadelphia Orchestra, the Williamsport Symphony Orchestra and Uptown Music Collective to Tom Petty, B.B. King, Smokey Robinson, Fleetwood Mac, the Stones and Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young. Needless to say, we’re music appreciators and we have eclectic taste.

And although we continue to enjoy a variety of music, our priorities have changed somewhat over the years. Earplugs are more important than ever and if we forget them, we wad up tissues and jam them into our ears. Decades ago, we never would have dreamed of doing that. The louder, the better was our motto. Never mind that we couldn’t hear for three days. And now that we’re suffering the consequences of our own actions, we regret not taking better care of our precious ears. I remember distinctly watching an overhead light shatter and fall to the floor during an Alice Cooper concert because it was DEAFENING. And almost without fail, I can feel the music resonating deep within my chest even if it’s not rock ‘n’ roll.

Another change we’ve observed is that we’re not necessarily the youngsters attending anymore. Sometimes we’re smack in the middle of the pack, while other times we’re surrounded by throngs of people who likely color their grays and carry AARP cards. Nevertheless, and no matter the age, it proves once again that music is the great uniter.

That said, we met some lovely people who sat near us at a Collective Soul concert recently and remarked how similar our taste in music was. What’s amusing is how I ended up there in the F. M. Kirby Center on a Tuesday night in the first place. It’s because I held a grudge. For 30 years. I know it’s juvenile, but I couldn’t help myself. You see, my husband invited some friends’ teenage son (who was a musician himself and slightly obsessed with the band) to see them perform in their heyday over 30 years ago. I, of course, was also slightly obsessed with the band, but did not score tickets. Hence, the grudge.

Lo and behold, my husband redeemed himself by gifting me tickets to see the very same band, albeit three whole decades later. Better late than never, I guess.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably listening to music of some kind). Visit me there at www.Facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

A Sacrilege of Sorts

There are but two kinds of people in this world—those who brazenly read the endings of books before the endings are actually reached and those who would never dream of a crime so heinous. I myself fall with the masses into the latter category, always mindful of the tenets we must uphold: Thou shalt not spoil the endings of good books no matter how dire the circumstance or how great the temptation.

Of course I’ve been so bold as to glance at the last page while contemplating a purchase in the aisle of a bookstore, allowing my eyes to sweep across the fuzziness of passages, to graze but not actually rest on hallowed words, erasing all hope of ever being rewarded for my ability to resist that which is sinfully alluring. If nothing else, I can be proud of that.

However it wasn’t until I was deeply immersed in The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane (Chapter Seven of this scrumptious read-aloud, more specifically) that I became painfully aware of a terrible truth: my children would (and, in fact, had) flipped ahead 20 chapters in said prized piece of literature, to the very last page (gasp!) “…because I wanted to know what would happen to Edward, Mom. I was worried about him. He lives, you know.”

Of course, I was horrified. And profoundly disappointed. I had higher hopes for my progenies—hopes that they would grow to become upstanding citizens, embodying all-that-is-righteous-and-good. Principled people who knew better than to commit sacrilege. Instead, it appears, my wayward bunch has embraced the dark side of life. Even my oldest daughter has admitted to that which is a sheer disgrace—she reads the very last sentence of every novel—as a rule. Needless to say, such a divulgence rendered me speechless and unable to move from the spot where I stood, slack mouthed and struck with horror.

“Why?! Why would you do such a thing?!” I had to ask finally, eyes fixed upon the creature I thought I knew.

“I don’t know. To pique my interest I guess.”

“To pique your interest?!” I shrieked, shaking my head in disbelief. “Good grief! Where’s the mystery in that?! Where’s the long-awaited pleasure that a grand culmination promises?! The delicious sense of satisfaction derived from having journeyed far and wide across the vast and uncertain terrain of a narrative gem?!” I demanded to know.

She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “What’s the big deal, Mom? It’s just a book.”

Of course, this was wrong on so many levels that I couldn’t begin to wrap my mind around the unspeakable horribleness of which it reeked. Nor could I forgive the other two rat finks for having stolen my joy. I wanted to discover for myself Edward Tulane’s fate—to continue devouring the book, page after succulent page, and eventually, to drink in the magnificence of the grand finale that surely awaited me.

But it was not to be. Those devilish creatures continued to fill my ears unmercifully with details of the story, doling out bite sized blurbages just to watch me writhe in pain. “No! NO! Don’t tell me a syllable more!” I pleaded, wondering from whence this penchant had come. I don’t remember anyone bursting at the seams to tell me all about Goldilocks or Little Red Riding Hood, Chicken Little or even the Poky Little Puppy. Back then, apparently, it was a non-issue. The end was something that would be revealed in due time upon turning the last page. As it should be.

I’d almost rather my heathens wantonly fling caterpillars across the living room and stuff them inside their backpacks (oh wait, they’ve done that!), saturate thirsty bath rugs at will (done that, too!), fill countless drawers with water enough to make hair brushes and blow dryers float (and that!), or plaster the dog with lipstick “…’cause we wanted to give him purple-ish lips, Mom!” than to rob themselves of the parting gift of a fine book.

Sadly, this represents yet one more area of life I cannot control. I must come to grips with the fact that my children will choose friends, careers and eventually mates—almost entirely devoid of my (infinitely sagacious) input. And ultimately they will decide whether to continue as card-carrying members of the Flip-Ahead-to-the-Last-Page Club. Ugh.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/notesfromplanetmom

Comments Off on A Sacrilege of Sorts

Filed under "S" is for Shame, Bookish Stuff, In the Trenches of Parentville, motherhood, Rantings & Ravings, The Natives are Decidedly Restless, The Write Stuff, Unplugged

Tagged as books, children's literature, parenting, parenting humor, read aloud, reading

December 13, 2025 · 3:47 pm

Countdown to Christmas

It was painful to stand there and simply watch. To idly witness, that is, a little boy, no more than three, seized by a desperate longing to ride on the horse-drawn wagon that had circled the park more times than we could readily count in the hour or so that we waited. Again and again the team of Belgians passed us in the frigid night, pausing ever so briefly along its winding path to load and unload hoards of people who had come to this festive event—to soak in some Christmas cheer, to perhaps get a glimpse of Santa in his red, velvety suit and to feast their eyes upon the spectacle of lights that blanketed the grounds, casting a warm glow upon the darkness that sought to swallow us whole.

The boy’s frustration was decidedly palpable as he wailed in vain to his mother and to the starry sky above, arching his back and clenching his tiny fists in indignation—hot, angry tears streaming down his baby face. Inconsolable, as it were. Aside from diverting his attention from this sorrowful reality (i.e. that he was NOT sitting in the aforementioned wagon, lulled by the gentle rhythm of the horses’ gait and the muted sound of their hooves as they hit the pavement), there wasn’t much anyone could do to comfort him.

So many times I’ve watched my own children suffer through the misery of waiting for that which promises to remedy all ills, to satisfy all desires and to deliver instantaneous joy. The interminable wait for Space Mountain at Disney World. The intolerable chasm between ordering a Happy Meal and wrapping one’s pudgy fingers around the cheap plastic toy contained within said Happy Meal. The insufferable gulf that exists between falling hard on the gritty sidewalk and being swooped up into a parent’s arms, where soothing assurances await.

And though they’ve grown immeasurably since that time, my children loathe the process of waiting even still—especially during this celebrated month of December, on the veritable cusp of Christmas. Over the years it has become tradition, shortly after Thanksgiving and perhaps before any other bit of holiday décor emerges from the depths of the attic, to haul out the handcrafted, Santa-inspired DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS thingy—the one that is cleverly outfitted with removable wooden blocks upon which numbers have been handily painted. We do this, of course, because we cannot find our Advent Calendar—the endearing square of felt-like fabric filled to capacity with a crop of tiny pockets and tethered to a small, cottony fir tree intended to mark the days until the 25^th. Needless to say, I had a deep and abiding love for that calendar, but sadly it disappeared—along with my girlish figure, every intact set of tumblers I once owned and the stain-free carpeting I once enjoyed.

At any rate, Thing One and Thing Two are patently delirious over all that the Yuletide embodies, so thickly immersed are they in the important business of crafting gifts for friends and family, taking part in a good number of caroling excursions through school and church and (much to my dismay) quoting the lyrics of The 12 Pains of Christmas far too often. They’ve also spent an inordinate amount of time composing wish lists that appear to change with the wind, instilling me with a fair amount of panic as we inch ever nearer to Christmas Day. Indeed, the ratcheting effect of the official countdown has begun in earnest. “ELEVEN DAYS TILL CHRISTMAS!” the wooden blocks seem to shout—reminding me of both the joy this season brings and of my glaring ineptitude as it relates to the enormity of the task ahead.

Cleansing breaths and great volumes of prayer are in order at such times, which, with any luck, will serve to ground me and to give me pause—especially during this grand and glorious season of hopeful expectation.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Comments Off on Countdown to Christmas

Filed under Holiday Hokum, motherhood, Mushy Stuff, The Natives are Decidedly Restless, Unplugged

Tagged as anticipation, Christmas, December, family, holiday, parenting

October 27, 2025 · 1:25 pm

All Hallows Eve…The End is Near

I’ve been informed it’s over—my brood’s love affair with trick-or-treating, that is. I knew it would happen eventually. I just wasn’t expecting it to happen now, seemingly minutes before Halloween. It’s possible I’ll need weeks of therapy in order to cope with such tragic news. Please send candy.

I guess I was kidding myself to think my kids’ enthusiasm for harvesting gobs of chocolate and fistfuls of candy corn would last forever. And I probably missed some important signs last October when my progenies disguised themselves to the nth degree (one wore a disturbingly realistic horsehead mask while the other donned a ginormous set of bat wings), but then sort of dragged their feet when it came to traipsing all over the neighborhood, treat bags in hand. At the time, I simply pushed it out of my mind. Denial, as it were.

As the stages of grief are classically defined, I suppose I haven’t progressed much since then. I still reject the idea that the fun is over, defending the fact that “…even adults like to dress up in ridiculous outfits and solicit candy. Who wouldn’t?”

Almost immediately, I learned how incredibly stupid that question was. In no uncertain terms, I was enlightened as to how “completely done with that” they were.

“We just want to stay home, answer the door and scare little kids to death.”

Egads. I wasn’t prepared for that sort of response. I guess I just want to hold on to the past, or maybe even live it a little longer if possible. I liked it when my twin daughters were just babies—most of the time anyway. They were pumpkins their first Halloween, kittens their second, and burly lumberjacks their third year I think. I remember dotting their cheeks with dark eyeliner, giving their faces the suggestion of stubble. I also fondly recall piling warm layers of clothing beneath red and black-checkered jackets to complete the look.

For the first several years, my husband and I lugged them around the neighborhood in their red Radio Flyer wagon, using blankets and coats to prop them up and cushion the bumpy ride. Hats and mittens were a must, cleverly incorporated into the ensemble. At each house we visited, friends would crowd around the door to see how adorable our children looked, each year’s costume topping the last.

As they grew older they were able to walk with us, tightly gripping one of our hands while clutching their coveted treat bag with the other. Each year we journeyed further and further away from home, eventually canvassing the entire neighborhood in one night—which was no small feat.

More recently, they’ve met up with their friends on All Hallows Eve, eager to wander the streets of our close-knit community, a smallish herd of mask-toting teens and tweens in the dark of night, some carrying flashlights, some entirely too cool to carry a flashlight, their raucous laughter filling the autumn air. By evening’s end, they would return home, sweaty and utterly spent, usually hauling all or part of their costumes—either because they were too hot or they broke somewhere along the way. Treat bags bursting with candy. Smiles all around.

But this year will be different. No more ambling from house to house. No more bags of loot to dump on the kitchen floor to better sort and ogle. No more little red wagon or mittens. At least my kids have assured me there will still be the wearing of costumes, however. So there’s that. I guess I’ll just have to accept reality and embrace a new and different Halloween tradition—as scary as that might be.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live lamenting the end of All Hallows Eve (sort of). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.