Swim team season has started, and I think I'm finally getting into the groove of the afternoon practice schedule. We get home with T. about 4:00, and the kids have approximately 40 minutes to "rest"  (of course the rest time doesn't apply to me) before we have to begin the process of getting on suits and applying sunscreen. The kids practice from 5-6 and during their practice the deep end of the pool, where the high and low dives are, is open to other swimmers. The teenagers, who practice an hour earlier, usually hang out there, girls bobbing around in the water on one side, boys on the other.  Very few parents ever go in the deep end during swim practice, but I like to, so I'm often the only grown-up person bobbing along in a corner surrounded by teenagers. Sometimes I try on being sixteen again for size, in my head; mostly I just tread water and keep an eye on L. and T.

The other day I was in the water watching L., and was only half-aware of an intense and giggly teenager conversation going on near me. I tuned in just in time to hear one girl say something a little gossipy and, perhaps, a little naughty, too.

"Shhhh!" Her friend whispered to her, sharply, with a side-long glance in my direction. "There's somebody's mom right there!"

Somebody's mom.

That's me!

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When I read the Chatterbox post yesterday about the Australian dad who had his children arrested for bullying a younger boy, my first reaction was to feel immense gratitude and admiration for this father.

One film I just can't wait to see is "Race to Nowhere," the grassroots film that is making its way across the country via scheduled screenings (it's been unavailable to me over Netflix for months now)--the film is coming to my town next week, and I'm looking forward to going.

A friend and neighbor called on Sunday in a slight panic mode. She was trying to burn some CDs for her sister's little boy as a Christmas gift but their family computer picked that inopportune time to stop working. I invited her to come by and use my laptop and she rushed right over, a pile of CDs in hand.

When I was out walking with my neighbor last weekend we got to talking, as we sometimes do, about those early days of parenting. She has two kids, ages 3 and 4 1/2 (yikes) so one could argue that she’s still in those early days of parenting.

After yesterday's heavy post, I thought something more light-hearted was in order--it is the holiday season, after all, even if it doesn't quite feel like it yet.

The new movement du jour circulating around Facebook these past few days directs us to change our profile pictures to our favorite cartoon characters:

Change your Facebook profile picture to a cartoon from your childhood & invite your friends to do the same. Until Monday (Dec. 6), there should be no human faces on Facebook, but an invasion of memories. This is for violence against children.

We've settled into a strange place with L. and this whole Santa business. He doesn't talk about Santa much, and we haven't revisited the conversation we had that afternoon at the craft store. We continue our traditions and L., for the most part, has been good about keeping a lid on his doubts.

It all started about three weeks ago. L. and I were getting into the car at 8:00 am on a school morning, and just as he'd slammed shut his car door and I was doing my routine three-point turn around on the cul-de-sac so we could head off to school, L. said: "Mama, I know you and Papa have been lying to me."

There's nothing like being accused of lying--by your oldest child, no less, to make your heart go pitter-patter very rapidly. Even at 8:00 am.

"What do you mean?" I asked.