Bicycle helmets save lives and prevent bike riders (and many others) from serious injuries. Plain and simple.

Why then, do the teenagers and tweenagers, in my town, and probably in yours, ride around on their trendy small bikes, half standing, without appropriate safety headgear? It’s ugly? It’s not cool? It gives “bad hair day” a new meaning? And what’s up with these parents? They let their tweens and teens pedal around suburbia (population 9200) and don’t send them on their way with more than a kiss and a warning?

“Be careful,” isn’t enough at 30 or even at 5 miles per hour. There are cars whizzing around corners, past parks, and down our sometimes crowded two-way streets. These cars are filled with parents hurrying home from work and moms with kids scurrying to ballet and to soccer. We’re not always as careful as we should be when we’re driving, are we? So why don’t parents equip their children with a simple, inexpensive way to protect their um, what is it that the helmet protects? Oh yeah, their BRAIN!

Obviously, I don’t get it. Not one bit. Neither my 11 or 14 year old are permitted to even ride their bikes in our neighborhood without a helmet. Their dad was, (as I reveal more than I have before), a physician, and witnessed more injuries from bicycles and motorcycles ridden without helmets than anyone ever should. He spoke on this issue in my kids schools, and on a national level. My kids get it, even if they don’t like it. For the Kvetch clan, it is a rule that is not meant to be broken.

So when someone rolls their eyes, because NO ONE else wears a helmet, I just tell them that obviously I love them more than the parents of the unhelmeted kids love them. They laugh, I laugh, but I’m serious and they know it. They also know they don’t have to wear the helmet, but if they don’t, they can get a ride from me, or walk. Walk to a friend’s? Yes, folks, it’s been done before and even by me. Up hill both ways don’t ya know.

I bet your little ones will wear helmets when they start on their tricycles, and move to their tiny two-wheelers with training wheels. The helmets will have Barbie or Spiderman, sparkles and dinosaurs. And your kid will love that helmet. And all the pads you’ll buy and they’ll wear. They’ll barely be able to walk, but they’ll ride their bike almost looking like they’re in bubble wrap. Safety first, you’ll tell them.

Just don’t turn your back when they’re older and it’s time to take a stand. Letting go of the reigns a bit doesn’t have to mean having no hold at all. Bike helmets may be unpopular but they prevent serious injuries and save lives.

And what’s so uncool about that?

Disclaimer: I am far from a perfect parent nor do I profess to be. Inherently flawed in a zillion ways, I don’t always do what’s right, but I do make my kids wear helmets.

I don’t even say ‘Yo’ once. Promise. But please don’t count the um’s, uh’s, like’s and this strange ‘tuh’ sound I seem to make.

I hope you will still respect me in the morning.

As if listening to me isn’t enough for one day, here’s more.

Today was a Monday.

It was reminiscent of dozens of Mondays, 18, 15, 12 months ago, yet not so prevalent in the past six. Like riding a bike it was easy to find my cadence again, of holding and rocking and reassuring this boy who now stands taller than I do or his father ever did. It was still as painful to hear the sobs of the same boy, yes boy, who is becoming a man and usually busy doing so many things. The boy who a year and a half ago could not raise himself or even be riled out of bed, but who has come so far as to be considered normal and well-adjusted by all. But a boy, a young man, without a father, never feels normal. Of this I am quite sure.

To think that there wouldn’t be times when it would all come crashing back was hopeful, yet foolish. It is to be expected, always acknowledged, and in some ways, embraced. I felt like a surfer riding out a big wave. I just waited for it to land on the shore, silently using my skill to direct it toward a peaceful smooth end, though never knowing. This time we rode it out together, and went on with our day. A little worse for wear, and windburnt with exhaustion.

I know very well is that it doesn’t have to be any special day for this to happen. It doesn’t have to be a birthday, a holiday, a graduation, or Father’s Day. We don’t have to have an obvious reminder, have seen a relative or have flipped through old photos.

It can be as it was today. Simply another Monday without his dad.

And that’s enough.

I am now a Fairy Blogmother to a blogging neophyte. Cinderella or Cinderfella? Doesn’t really matter, so please go share some of your blogging pixie-dust (whoops, wrong Disney movie) via comments over here.

But be back by midnight.

Not wanting to be left out of the early career choice parade led by his sister the geneticist (see below), Kvetch Teen has circumvented all safety features on our desktop and, unbeknownst to me, become a computer whiz. I’m so proud. Oh, and a voyeur. Not so much.

Or so my spyware says.

Two hundred and thirty two traces were found that linked back to some very unsightly sites. Some of them were normal spyware and adware, but many were not. Something tells me French school girls dot com has nothing to do with learning algebra, although I am sure he got quite an education.

When I had him captive in the car I told him, in no uncertain terms uh, no more, exactly what I had knew, in many more words than that. I also made up some stuff about how I found it, and what it did to the computer. Hell, why not? I did this with calm and reserve and tried to sound as un-mom-like as possible while still sounding parental, knowing full well we BOTH wished his dad was alive to handle this one. So, I put on my “I’ve got to be the dad too” hat, and did my best. He didn’t look at me, he didn’t argue, or comment, and it was over, although not fast enough for either one of us.

And while part of me was mortified, part of me was relieved. I suppose this is the 2006 version of sneaking peeks at your dad’s Playboy, which, for obvious reasons are no where to be found in this house. So if this is a right of passage, I guess he’s right on schedule. They don’t list THAT in the latest edition of “What To Expect The Fourteenth Year,” now do they?

I do believe this incident has repositioned me as Big Mama who knows all and sees all, eventually. The longer as he believes that, the better off he’ll be.

And the fact that I know it’s not true at all, even right now, means I am still one step ahead of him, shooing away those French girls.

At least for now.

With a sense of humor well-beyond her years, a gift for irony, sarcasm, and wit, as well as the art of imitation and physical humor, my almost eleven year old daughter obviously also has a PhD in Human Genetics.

We were looking through family scrapbooks. More precisely we were looking through her scrapbooks. Ah, the swing where she swung for months, and months, the pacifier she had til she was don’t tell the in-laws three and a half, the special baby doll that used to have hair, the dress-up clothes (my favorite being the Daniel Boone cap worn backwards) and silly faces. It brought back so many memories for me and she loved listening to the stories of her silliest endeavors.

I sat and told her how her dad and I would just shake our heads in awe, laugh at her escapades and say, in unison,

OH. MY. GOD. She is so funny. How the hell is she SO funny?

And, out of the mouth of a babe, or in this case, a tween, came:

You’re so funny mom. And dad was funny. THAT’S why I’m funny.

She’s pretty smart.

She thinks I’m funny.

And very perceptive.

Ok, I’m not. But I should be.

In my new show, in front of presumably millions of viewers, I’d kvetch while demonstrating ingredient-laden family-friendly recipes. I’d wear some snazzy apron (and a different one on every episode) that you’d just be dying to purchase through my online store. Not that I’ve ever worn an apron, but this is my marketing angle.

Then I’d explain, to my studio audience’s relief and delight, that when I make these recipes one of two things happen, either a) my kids won’t touch it or b) they scarf it down in seven minutes and ask to be excused. While the latter is preferable, it’s not ideal. And it’s just not realistic on most nights for us to sit down to a 30-minute-meal (cough). I need to ploy my children with delicious, attractive (kids don’t eat ugly food), healthy meals, that didn’t take me all day to think of, or make.

So, I would then dedicate the rest of the show to executing the same recipe in real-mom, real-kid style. And I’m not a aiming to be sued for libel folks, I’m not aiming to make these meals in half an hour, I’m aiming for uh, something delicious and nutritious in like, 15 minutes. Max. Because face it, you can’t cook dinner while you’re driving carpool. You can’t have the rice and diced onions sauteeing in one pan and the chicken in the oven and the green beans steaming - when you’re in the pickup line at band practice and then shooting over to the local Hebrew School and dropping off a stray without a ride here or there. And while crockpot meals may work once-in-a-while, but none of those whiles are between April and October, and for the most part, my kids just don’t eat that stuff. Yes, sometimes there is more time to cook, wait, and eat. Absolutely. But in the hectic lifestyle of coming and going right around dinner time, this mindset works, for me.

My first episode will consist of a recipe for ribs that included a sauce made with cherry cola, cherry preserves and a laundry list of other ingredients (which I’ll happily email to anyone who wants it). Considering the 48 ounces of cola has to be ‘flat’ combined with the fact that I double the recipe (I am a Jewish mother, even if I am making pork ribs) it literally takes overnight and well into the next day to make this sauce, and includes standing over a hot stove watching (this is the kvetching portion of our program) and stirring the better part of the day away. And the ribs need to be cooked for hours and hours in a hot oven.

Granted, the ribs, and sauce are scrumptuous. And I’ve made it more than once. But tonight, with quick-cooking chicken tenders on the grill, I took 1/2 jar of cherry preserves (generic brand, duh) and added my favorite bbq sauce. I just did it until I liked the way it tasted. I stirred, and then heated it in the microwave, in a plastic cup no less, for a minute or two. Chicken tenders from the grill, “special” sauce, apple sauce and cucumbers. That’s a summer meal for kids on the go between dog training, day camp, foot ball camp, baseball games, and therapy blogging. I don’t see slaving over a hot stove in there anywhere, do you? And I like to cook! You may wonder why I didn’t just use bbq sauce, or heck, no sauce at all. While simplicity is key, I do believe that a little effort has great reward, and the more senses that are involved in any meal, the more memories you’re going to make. Perhaps this will be “mom’s special bbq sauce” that my kids will tell their kids about. Undoubtedly a better story than how good Gram was at opening the ol’ bbq sauce bottle on a hot summer’s night.

And, not only did my kids love the sauce, they were impressed with my ingenuity. Truly.

Which is infinitely more valuable than even a Tuesday night early bird special in Boca.

By the way, the sauce also rocks on salmon.

Stay tuned.

I’m over at Mommies Magazine today.

Today there was a amazing young man where my little boy used to be. He looked familiar, but his deep voice was only vaguely so. This tall, broad, clean-cut young man got out of my car, red logo duffle bag over his shoulder, head up. He walked confidently toward a a huge field. It was a the size of a football field.

Oh.

He was on his way to football camp. Freshman football camp for high school freshman football. I saw him ask someone something, perhaps if he was going the right way, and continued walking along with his newfound teammate, and one can only hope, friend.

He didn’t look back.

Good thing, because I’m not sure the tinted windows would’ve hidden the tears.

This seems to have infiltrated the Geek Squad world.

I’ve gotten a few new comments on this old post that clued me into the fact that I’d been discovered. When I check my site meter, there are many, many hits from Best Buy dot com and a Geek Squad Agent online forum. I can’t access either one, but apparently there are links to my site and this post. My blog is making the rounds.

My blog is a slut.

At least one of us is getting hit on.

Everytime I think it’s time to do a big “reveal” I’m once again relieved that here and now I am simply faceless Kvetch in imaginary Mayberry. Because in reality, I’m not ready to be Mrs. Robinson or to have the responsiblity of being discovered, for real.

But if you know a nice 40-something single Jewish guy, I may be willing to reconsider.