I may not be the most adventurous eater around, but I have come a long way from my childhood when I thought that iceberg lettuce was exotic and that potato pancakes were the height of ethnic cuisine.  In Bratislava, I have blindly ordered from a menu written in Slovakian only to be presented with a dish that might have been goose liver or honestly could have come from any other related species. I’ve smiled politely while dining at a Korean professor’s home and happily munched on whatever delicacy he presented. While I may not seek out the most outlandish dishes that various cuisines have to offer, I’m not dining on pot roast and potatoes every night either.

My four year old son, however, has recently shown me up. On a recent trip to Baltimore the whole family sat down for a late lunch outside on a sunny afternoon. While the adults dined tapas-style, the children grazed on their grilled cheese sandwiches and fruit. Suddenly my son looked up from his plate, pointed across the table, and exclaimed, “What are those shells doing over in that??”

Calmly, his grandmother responded that that was paella and those shells were actually mussels that you could eat. Disbelieving, my son reached for a mussel and looked inside the ridged dark shell. My heart stopped and my eyes bulged out when my mother-in-law explained how to eat mussels, and my son deliberately put one in his mouth, began to chew, and ate it.

Clearly, I have been underestimating my son. While I know that given enough exposure to different foods children will eat almost anything, I have never seen my son so deliberately choose to try something new and to stretch himself. You couldn’t pay me enough to pop a mussel into my mouth, and here is my young son tossing one back like it was no big deal and then telling everyone that it was truly delicious. I am in awe of his spirit.

Back at home and preparing his uninspired breakfasts and his lackluster dinners, I am reminded of this lunch in Baltimore when my son proved to me that at the tender age of four he is capable of so much more than I suspect. His palate is not yet locked; his destiny is far from written. Given a little encouragement and opportunity, he will continue to surprise and amaze us with what new snacks he might munch on and with what wild, new adventures he might choose to embark on. Not only is it time to start sharing my curry dishes or my husband’s favorite okra and tomatoes with him, but it’s time to start challenging myself and moving out of my comfort zone just like my son is.

This summer, like so many Americans, we made our annual voyage to the beach. For ten days, we planned to soak in the sun, play in the sand, and simply enjoy time away from the daily demands of life at home. Even though I grew up near the beach, I honestly don’t think there was a summer in my childhood that didn’t include a vacation on the water. For people throughout the world, there is something about time at the beach. Life seems simpler, calmer. Stresses melt away with the sound of the surf meeting the shore.  It’s relaxing and exhilarating all at once.
In recent years, our annual trip finds us on the coast of South Carolina, in a small town my brother-in-law and his family call home. My husband Kevin and I chose the beach they live near as our wedding location. Who could ask for a better backdrop for reciting lifelong vows than the edge of life-giving water and the site of the renewing tide? Since that day, Kevin’s family has grown considerably. With a whole new crop of Phelan’s, beach trips have become a mainstay as a way to reunite when school is out and the sun sticks around for a bit longer.  Our special beach is the perfect place.
And so this year we found ourselves headed to the coast with one small difference. We were bringing Annie P – toddler Annie P. Last year, Annie didn’t spend much time in the sand. She was still napping frequently and had just learned to sit. The inside of the beach house and a trip or two to the pool made up her first trip to the beach. Not so this year. As a beach lover, as this trip approached I grew nervous. I am the type of person who can sit from sunrise to sunset, reading a book (or two) and staring out to sea. What if Annie didn’t share my opinion? What if she hated the sand between her toes and found the waves alarming, even downright scary? I prepared as best I could. We came armed with an arsenal of beach toys, sunscreen in many forms, floats, snacks, and even a pair of water shoes in case she simply couldn’t stand the sand. If it took downright bribery, Annie P. was going to hang at the beach.
I’m sure you can guess where this is going. That’s right. All my fears were for naught. From day one, the girl was sold. For ten days we watched her jump in the surf, chase sandpipers, dig in the sand, and run along the shore as fast as her little legs would take her. Unbelievably, we only hit the pool a couple of times the entire trip. I personally found the daily trip to the beach exciting and new, like I was seeing it for the first time.  Through my daughter, I saw the simple beauty and raw excitement the seashore brings. I used all of my senses to take it in, as I knew she was. It had been a long time since I played in the sand. It really is a great time.
Although we were sad when the trip ended, I am pleased with the outcome.  Sure, the toys and snacks helped. But when we returned home, I found the water shoes at the bottom of a bag, seldom used and long forgotten. Beach lovers never mind the sand between their toes.

Maybe it’s the haunting whistle at five in the morning or perhaps it’s the gleaming steel curves of the engine, but there is something about trains that taps into a deep corner of my soul. It could be the romance-the vagabond lifestyle, the ease of which one can hop off of a train and instantly be in the heart of a new city. Or maybe it’s the pioneer spirit-looking at the open countryside filled with infinite possibilities. Regardless, as I contemplated the best way to get my family from Minneapolis to Milwaukee on a recent family vacation to the Midwest, I couldn’t shake from my mind the idea of taking the train. Sure, flying would be faster and maybe even more economical, but an airplane would be just one more opportunity for our luggage to get lost. We could have rented a car, but that option would have left us with children complaining of the monotonous views from the windows and wanting to stretch their legs. So, the train it was.

While it was no Japanese bullet train or the Orient Express, my children could not have enjoyed their six hours on the Empire Builder more. From the moment we boarded the train and climbed up a narrow staircase to our seats, the fun never stopped. There were complicated footrests to master and train table charts to look at. There was the observation car with its oval side tables and views of the Mississippi. There was the excitement of the dining car where we sat at a table with strangers and ate ice cream with tiny paddles. Every moment held a breathtaking discovery.

Watching my children embrace the experience of traveling on a train, I couldn’t help but think of the first train trips that I took in Europe and the indelible memories that they have left. How could I ever forget sitting on my pack in a cramped hallway while 70 German teenagers on a school holiday trip chattered the night away? And my heart still skips a beat when I remember the shock of having a border guard in Hungary burst into our train compartment in the middle of the night with his German Shepherd growling at us.

In a world that measures achievement by tasks accomplished or the distance one has gone, traveling by train forces one to slow down. The calming rhythm of the train and the measured pace of the scenery slipping by the window always has a meditative effect on me, and it had the same effect on my children. As we gazed idly out the window, we commented on the birds that we saw or the red barns in the distance. And perhaps that is the romance of the train-this communal experience with one’s fellow passengers and with the landscape, all of which is something that kids seem to be hardwired to enjoy.

Flying doesn’t scare me. For some, the mere mention of an airplane elicits panic. Not this girl. Often, when a plane passes overhead, I’ll glance up and wonder what exciting place it’s bound for. And I’ll sigh with a brief moment of envy before returning to the day’s activities. I’ve flown often and for the vast majority of my life. My first flight was at 4 weeks old and I haven’t slowed down since.
Recently, I flew alone for the first time in quite a while. To celebrate my birthday, I met my husband at the tail end of a business trip for a long weekend in California. It was our first trip alone together since Annie P joined our family. The traveler that I love to be, I picked a place that left a whole country between my daughter and I. Better to just close my eyes and jump rather than dip my toe in the water by way of a close location, I say. I’ve flown halfway around the world, for goodness sakes. I figured I could leave Annie P on the east coast for a couple of days. So off I went.
The first thing I noticed about traveling alone for the first time since becoming a mother was the absolute tranquility of the experience. I don’t think that’s something you often hear people say about a plane trip. But for a mother, it can be downright therapeutic. Let me elaborate with a few examples.
On the way to the airport, I filed my nails – don’t worry, I wasn’t driving. I sat in the car with no sippy cups to dole out, no nursery rhymes to sing and filed my poor neglected nails. I chatted with my friendly limo driver (part of the birthday present). I took part in the excitement of a trip to the airport where I would be leaving for somewhere other than home. This was going to be good.
Once I made it to my gate, I just sat and watched my fellow travelers. People watching is a too often overlooked perk about traveling. When people go somewhere, they are inclined to hurry from one overrun tourist attraction to the next, without truly looking around them. One of the easiest ways to experience a new culture is to grab a seat in the center of the action, be it a market or a town square, and just watch how people live. Throw away the agenda and just be. That isn’t easy to do with a child. All your focus is on them; are they safe, where did they get the mystery object they’re chewing on from, are they bothering the person next to you. You get the picture. I’m not saying it’s impossible, but it’s surely not as easy to come by. So I soaked it in. At one point they came over the intercom to announce that our flight would be slightly delayed. For the first time ever, I truly didn’t care. I didn’t have any real place to be. I’d get there, my dear husband would be waiting, and we’d carry on.
We did eventually make it on the plane. And here’s where my trip truly began.  I ordered a drink. I drank slowly, and without having to share. I read the vast majority of a book. I ordered a movie that I watched in the middle of the day with no interruptions. It was almost like a spa day. All I needed was the robe and slippers. Unfortunately, I wasn’t in first class.
I did see a few uneasy travelers around me, sweating out the flight all the while reassuring themselves that eventually their feet would be on solid ground again. But me? I kicked my feet up as far as the space between seats in economy class will allow and enjoyed the blissful sounds of someone else’s kid crying.

A few days ago I came down with a night fever. My body was achy, throat soar and i justed wanted to crawl into bed. I finally gave into the extra-strength Tylenol, which definitely helped me sleep well. I knew that I couldn’t just call in sick to work the next day — my work is being home with my child. I seriously needed good sleep to have enough energy the next day.

I realized the next day that there are ways to take care of a child while you’re sick. Specifically, ow key things you can do without walking miles (literally) or exhausting yourself. Living in a metropolitan area, we are usually on the go, everyday — unless one of us gets sick. Here are some things we did:

- Played on the bed. My son likes playing with stuffed animals now, especially bears and dogs, and he will talk to them, have them talk to each other (with my help), and feed them. And i can lay down on the bed the whole time. yay!

- Played at home. We found stuff to do around the house — no chores of course, though I was so tempted to do some. I kept reminding myself that I was sick and should just take it easy. We played with all his toys, took out some toys he hadn’t seen in a while, and read a bunch of books he hadn’t read in a while.

- Gave my son some homemade popsicles — this is one way he’ll sit still for a loooong time at the dining table. Gives me a moment to just sit and eat and relax.

- Took him on his tricycle around our building. He rode his tricycle (I helped push him along) up and down the hallways and to the little courtyard, where he played with rocks in the rock garden. Completely walled off garden so no need to run after him.

- Watched videos. I am not opposed to him watching videos in moderation, as long as it’s appropriate and educational.

I was also thinking of home remedies for myself. I always thought eating pineapples was good to ward off a cold, but also heard it’s not good to eat when you’re sick. What’s the verdict? I tried to drink lots of water. I also ate some honey (yum, good excuse, huh?) and gargled with warm salt water for the sore throat. I really don’t know if the honey and salt water work, but they do make my throat feel a ton better.

One thing my mom told me is, moms cannot get sick, because everything will fall apart, and it’s difficult to take care of children when you’re sick. Plus, it just takes so much longer to get better because it’s hard to take it easy when you’re running after a toddler, plus doing chores, cooking and so on.

Anything you like to do when you just want an “easy” day with your tot? Any home remedies when you’re sick or not feeling well?

When the weather turns warm and the skies keep their light until late, our family’s thoughts turn to the evening stroll. And while it is lovely to walk around our block and greet our elderly neighbors on the corner taking in the firefly show or to stop and swing for a spell in the park, I have begun to realize that I am looking for a little more interaction or a truer sense of community from our evening summertime walks.

At least once a week since summer landed in North Carolina, we pack a picnic supper and head for the Sarah P. Duke Gardens on the campus of Duke University. After spreading out our checkered tablecloth on a spot of the South Lawn in the shadow of one of the great magnolia trees, the adults proceed to dine upon the salads, fresh bread, and couscous that I packed. My children and their friends humor us by eating a stray bite of chicken or melon as they run by chasing each other, kicking balls perilously close to the reflecting pool, and rolling down the hills toward other picnicking families.
After we all accept the illusion that the children have had a full supper, we have to make The Rounds. Even my two year old daughter knows the route that we take through the gardens after supper. First stop: the pond at the base of the formal gardens to check on the koi and to hope that the bullfrog will make an appearance. Next we are off to the iron bridge to admire the bride who is having her photograph made in the dreamy, dusky light. By the now the children are tiring as they trudge up the grassy hill towards the ultimate pay off-the duck pond where, if we are very lucky, the great blue heron will take off over the water with its wings almost grazing the glassy surface.
These evenings spent at the gardens are more than a meal; they become a communal event. Not only do we usually arrange to meet friends to share our supper, but we often serendipitously run into old friends, former coworkers, or “that woman from the coffee shop who is always so pleasant.” Out on the great lawn, there are generations of families eating together and laughing and kicking around the soccer ball. Older girls are holding the hands of their little cousins who are struggling to walk on their chubby little legs. There are people from all walks of life and from many different cultures in the gardens in the evening, and we are all there for same reason: to enjoy life with the people that we love and in a natural surrounding that is serene yet full of life and grace.
My husband calls these outings our evening promenade, and we are not alone in these events. Around the world, people celebrate life by meeting on the steps of a church, strolling around the village plaza, or walking down a wall on the edge of the sea. From North Carolina to a village in Mexico to a bustling European capital, we are all looking for that connection to each other and making an event out of celebrating the gentle close of another day through our evening promenade.

Traveling around the world with your child is a gift that keeps on giving. Our little citizen of the world has continued to amaze us with her adoption of other cultures into her ways. I adore that she kisses friends hello and goodbye on both cheeks. It pleases me when she answers the question “how are you?” with “nos nos” which is Arabic for so-so. It is entertaining when she looks to a pointy sculpture and exclaims “hey, an obelisk!” It is silly when she adamantly refuses ever returning to Mexico because there are “too many mosquitoes.” A recent conversation with Olivia validated all our past travels and all future travels.

First, let me tell you, fighting for a kindergarten school in San Francisco is quite a battle. Private schools require you participate in a specific tour prior to applying. We, of course, were out of the country for the tours. This left us with the choice of public or catholic schools as our only options. My husband and I are recovering Catholics. That left us with public school. Currently, kindergarten at Olivia’s public school is nearing an end and I felt it was time to shop around for the potential of other school’s 1^st grade. Test the waters and see if there was a better option. I woke Olivia up on a Sunday morning and said, “lets go check out St. Brendan’s!” She moaned and groaned and very clearly but politely told me “I really don’t want to go to a Church school.” Perhaps it had to do with my teaching her to say the pledge of allegiance with a “one nation, under science” and ending it with a giggle to each other. Yes, I am thinking that may have been a catalyst. What never occurred to me is that she has absolutely no idea what Christianity is about.

I took her, against her will, that morning to the Catholic School’s open house. Olivia is a very calm, go-with-the-flow kind of girl. On the drive to the school, I was hit with an uncharacteristic barrage of question after question with moments of contemplation between. “Mommy. Do church people go to lunch?”

“Yes Sweetie, people who go to church are like everyone else.”

“Mommy, do church people play outside?”

“Of course Honey, church people are people.”

“Do they study science at Church schools?”

“Yes Darling, it is a school like every other school except for the whole evolution part.”

I could tell I wasn’t communicating to her the normalcy of “church people.” She had a fear of the unknown and every answer I was giving her was making no progress so I went another angle and said to her, “Baby, remember when we were in Saudi Arabia and Egypt? Remember how they went to the Mosque five times everyday and prayed, remember the voices over the loud speaker calling to prayer? Church people are the same as that but they don’t go to a Mosque, they go to a church and they usually only go one time a week.”

With a tone of complete understanding, a true “why didn’t you say so sooner” moment, Olivia said with her voice rising and falling, “Oooohhhh. Like Muslims!” It was all clear to her at that point. And in my mind with a tone of complete understanding, I thought… Wow, how special is it to briefly explain religion that is evident daily and everywhere in our own country with an explanation from a culture so radically different such as the one she experienced in Saudi Arabia. The only way she understood that christians are just people like everyone else was in terms of Islam. I love that. Olivia is truly a citizen of the world.

As I was feeling a inner sense of pride for being able to parent such a unique way, we drove up to the school located next to the Church and Olivia said, “Wow Mom, Church people have nice flowers.”

Turkey has the “it takes a village” mentality when it comes to children, even in the metropolis of Istanbul. Turks trust each other with their children and they expect us, as visitors to their country, to trust them with our children as well. Everybody notices children and jumps to help with them, cuddle them or soothe them during a tough moment.

Turks simply love children and have created a culture where it’s fine to express that. The most common form of attention is the cheek-pinching. I’m surprised Grace doesn’t have bruised cheeks from the number of pinches but she has endured it with surprising, well, grace. A maitre’d standing outside his restaurant as we passed noticed her face was dirty and summoned a waiter to bring him a cloth to scrub it clean. As we boarded a public bus heavy-laden with bags and a stroller a kind young woman scooped up Grace, held her on her lap and sang songs to her as if she were her own. On a scenic boat trip up the Bosphorus where Grace quickly became bored, a young man who spoke no English picked her up and read her one of her picture books. She’s been given many pieces of candy from strangers, led away by a security guard museum to show her off to his friends, had shopkeepers adjust her clothing and received all kinds of free food in restaurants from thoughtful waitstaff.

Such lavish attention from strangers is disarming for us Americans, so accustomed to adults in keeping their distance from children unless they are 1) related to them 2) know them well or 3) have some kind of malintent. At first we (Grace included) were a bit taken aback by the attention total strangers would shower on our tiny two-year old. Once we realized the approach was universal and well-meaning though, we relaxed and, as long as Grace still felt comfortable, we tried to be as well. As we head home after two weeks in Turkey we’ll have to readjust to strangers remaining just that, while trying to maintain that caring attitude towards other children ourselves.

Each spring, the world outside our home is invaded. Not by aliens or evil monsters, but they might as well be. This invasion is a thick dusting of yellow pollen which sends innocent victims clamoring for tissues and the safety of the indoors. The simple phrase “in bloom” sends me into a panic. For any seasonal allergy sufferer, there is only one cure – skipping town.While this is not an option for all, Annie P is my current ticket out.  With mandatory school attendance still years away, I book a flight south, to my hometown, to paradise.

Since the railroad made its way through Florida at the end of the 19th century, the allure of the healing properties of a tropical climate became one of its main selling points. The social elite from the northern states found places like Palm Beach a respite from the cold weather and a balm for winter ailments.  For some, they literally came south on doctor’s orders. Those doctors were no fools. Who doesn’t know the benefits of salt water alone? I consider myself fortunate that, as a child, many a cut and scrape were soothed in the healing waters off Miami’s beaches. Have a cold?  No worries. Just take a dip. Or breathe in that dewy air. You’ll feel better in no time.

Annie P and I left home sniffling, sneezing and coughing. To top it off, Annie P had a nasty case of eczema. So we came, gave it the recommended two days necessary for the winds, the sun, the air itself to work its magic. And wouldn’t you know it – by day three the tissues were put away.

As for Annie P, her grandmother’s backyard is a whole new world from the last time she visited. Feeling herself again, eczema clear, our newly walking toddler couldn’t wait to head outside each morning. The flora and fauna of the tropics fascinate and soothe her, just like her mom. Hibiscus and jasmine tempt her to touch them. Birds sing to her from the rooftops. The palm trees, almost whimsical in appearance, elicit giggles from a child who lives surrounded by oak and pine and cherry. Stumbling through her this tropical jungle, I can only describe her demeanor as one of pure delight. The marketing campaign luring people to the Sunshine State all those years ago was spot on. With all it has to offer, South Florida can still soothe the soul.

Moving creates stress. Moving fosters arguments and moving SURE adds an extra level of uncertainty to your relationships.

Moving can even breed bitterness and contempt as one starts the process of packing. How could something that people do every day, cause such anxiety? How could the things that are contained inside of four walls create such havoc?

It’s because we as humans – and even more so as mothers – attach our memories to things. We cling to physical objects in the hopes that maybe we can allow our little ones’ childhoods to linger a bit more. We desperately want to never forget the small moments that helped to form who our children are becoming.

What about looking at it from the opposite side of things? What about finding the positives of purging, cleaning out and making do with less. What if we all took a more creative approach to protecting memories, instead of holding on to the clutter?

When we started purging the house for our upcoming move to India, I got incredibly overwhelmed. How could I possibly take a home, that we had all lived, loved and played in for so long … and simply label everything either “ship” – “store” or “send away to Salvation Army”

We had alot of stuff. Sure, some of it was memories and some of it was necessities, but most of it … well, most of it just collected dust, interrupted our daily routine and caused more worry than any of it is really worth.

I decided to start with the kids’ bedrooms, followed by their toy room. As I spent several days sorting and creating various piles, I found that the “memory” pile was growing larger and larger. Toys that we had spent hours playing with, or artwork that the kiddos had labored over. Board games that we enjoyed together as a family, collections of matchbox cars and legos. Dressup clothes that no longer fit or were tattered and ripped.

All of those things somehow ended up in the “keep forever” pile. It wasn’t because they were worth anything monetarily. It sure wasn’t because I would ever mend the dressup clothes for continued play and most of those toys they had long outgrown and forgotten about.

That pile of things ‘to keep’ simply had memories attached to them.

In the several weeks that have gone by since I started sorting and purging, I have begun to let go of the attachment to these things, and have begun to journal my memories instead. I’ve replaced the physical ‘holding on’ mentality with a written form of keepsakes. I am choosing to do away with the stuff, and instead keep a longer lasting recollection of the emotions and moments that go along with the stuff.

By writing about those experiences (the puppet shows, the 100s of dressup escapades, the family board game nights, and arts & crafts time) and capturing what they meant to me, I am creating a much more important treasure box, so to speak, than if I chose to keep the items that were attached to those memories.

What creative ways can you keep memories alive, without keeping the stuff? How can you preserve your children’s childhood and keep it alive in your minds, without cluttering your living space?