Southern Leopard Frog

Southern Leopard Frog (Lithobates spenocephalus)

The Son of Never Stops Eating and I were out for a walk at the nature preserve yesterday, and found this frog just hanging out.  It was a great observation because the frog was willing to just sit there and let me get a few pictures of him.  Usually they flee as soon as they sense human presence.

We had been having an interesting discussion about why wild animals aren't interested in getting close to people.  My son has been learning about predators and prey in class, so I was explaining that these critters probably view us as predators, and my son wanted to know how to tell the animals that he didn't want to hurt them.  Then we came upon this frog, and for a minute or so he got to get up close and look- until the frog decided to hop away and go somewhere else.

Candy Tax

I believe in teaching kids that life isn't always fair.  Sometimes the world is a harsh place.  For example, when the teenager was much younger, she'd saved up her pennies to buy some toy at Target. When we went to buy it, she saw that she had just enough money.  She was so excited until I had to break it to her that she actually didn't have enough money because of sales tax.  That is SO UNFAIR! she yelled.  Kids shouldn't have to pay tax! We're just kids! 

Well, welcome to the real world, kid.  Suck it up, buttercup. 

That was probably the same year that I broke it to them that there was also a Candy Tax.  It comes due every Halloween, right after Trick or Treat is over.   They come home, dump out the loot on the kitchen table, and I go through the candy and pick out all the banana flavored Laffy Taffy and the Three Musketeers bars. 

At first, there was resistance to the Candy Tax.  It was pointed out that it was their candy, and they worked for it, while I just stood on the sidewalk yelling at them to remember to say "Thank you!'. My daughter, who has an outstanding future as a trial lawyer, told me that I could go buy my own candy instead of taking theirs, since I had a car and money.  Finally, I pulled out that ancient but still effective and true parental debate-ender:  you live in my house- you pay the Candy Tax.

Unfortunately for me, however, the Candy Tax has a fatal flaw: the taxpayers grow up.  This year, the Candy Tax will yield half the revenue it usually does, because I have only one trick-or-treater.  The teenager has a band contest. In a few years, there may be no more Candy Tax.  If I want banana flavored Laffy Taffy,  I will have to go buy my own.

And that really is a sad story.

Happy Halloween and be safe!

Survival of the Fittest

The Mom of No is a huge fan of sci-fi post apocalyptic literature.  You know, Stephen King's "The Stand".  The entire Novels of The Change series by S.M Stirling.  Justin Cronin's "The Passage" and "The Twelve".  Stories where the world ends because of plague, or zombies, or vampires, or nuclear warfare, and only a few survivors are left to hash it out for supremacy in the ruins of the modern world.   And every time I read one of these books, the same thought comes to mind:  If something like that actually happened, I'm a goner, because I have no actual real survival skills. 

The people who survive in these books are people who know how to do things- build an entire archery set from the remains of an automobile, for example, or grow crops, or heal extensive wounds using herbs.  The Mom of No knows a lot of things, like how to use Excel and drive a car in rush hour traffic, but these don't seem like marketable post-apocalyptic skills.

In the ideal post-apocalyptic world, the situation would unfold like this:

Mom of No (approaching the gate of a walled in group of survivors): Let me in!
Survivors:  What skills do you have to offer?
Mom of No:  I am the parent of teenagers.
Survivors (opening gate and bowing low)  Please come in.  We need a leader.

However, it would more likely go like this:

Mom of No: Let me in!
Survivors: What can you offer?
Mom of No: Awesome Powerpoint skills!
Survivors: Go away.

I'm not completely helpless. I know how to cook- using an electric oven, and ingredients obtained at the grocery store.  The Grandma of No taught me to sew, using an electric sewing machine.  I am quite good at unclogging toilets, and I am skilled at writing letters to health insurance companies explaining why they are wrong and I am right.  But I can't see that there is much application here for a world without electricity, plumbing, or health insurance.   In other words, if the zombies come, I'm doomed.  With teenagers in the house, I can't even keep more than a 5 hour supply of food around.

I was explaining this to a friend of mine several months ago, and she pointed out that I do know a little bit about mushrooms.  Yeah, enough to know not to eat anything I find, I said. Eat the wrong one, and you die a painful death.  That's it, she said.  You could be an assassin- stealthily killing evildoers by feeding them poisonous fungi.

Well, there you go.  Hapless middle-aged woman by day, stealthy fungi-wielding assassin by night. I hope I live out my years only reading about the end of the world, not actually living it; I prefer to keep my day job. And electricity and indoor plumbing. 

Transition Fair

This weekend, I performed an annual Mom of No ritual, which is called "Attending the Special Needs Transitions Fair".  In the past, I've gone mainly to see what programs were out there and get a general idea of what I would be facing as the Son of Never Stops Eating got older.  However, it's getting real now- when I looked at the paperwork for his upcoming annual ARD*, I realized that he'd been invited to participate for the first time.  I'm glad; he should be involved in his own educational decision making.

Transition planning for a special needs child is like trying to climb Everest in a blizzard while wearing bedroom slippers and a blindfold.  When people see homeless people in downtown areas, they think various things- he's a drunk,  he must be crazy, she could get a job at McDonald's instead of panhandling, he uses drugs.  I think this:  If I screw this up, that could be my son someday. 

I enjoy my kids, but at some point in their adult lives, I do want them to move out**. I can't convert a bedroom into a quilt sewing room/library if an adult kid is actually still using it, right?   The teenager seems to get that; she doesn't even want to share a state with her parents once she turns 18 since she's looking at out of state colleges.  My son, however, is a different story: I asked him what he wanted to do after he finished school and he said "I want to live with you".  He seems to have the idea that once he's done with school, it will be nonstop Legos, iPad time and Nickelodeon 24/7; that is not the plan that the Mom of No has in mind.  The Mom of No's plan at this time is actually not really a plan, it is more of a nebulous concept of bits and pieces that sound promising and that are going to be held together with duct tape, sweat and prayer.

The issues that adults with special needs face regarding employment, housing, transportation and other aspects of independent living are not a priority for policy makers. In this country we like complicated problems to have easy answers, and in this case the answer is that families with special needs members are on their own.  I suspect that when people think of "autism", they think of little kids, with little kid issues- but kids grow up (as I am finding out), and they can't stay in school forever.

I have about 10 years to plan, and I hope that it is enough time-  I pray that my son can find meaningful work, that he can eventually live in a home of his own, that he will have friends, that he will be part of a faith community where he will be welcome, that people will watch out for him so that he won't be abused or taken advantage of.  Above all, I hope that the safety net that our small family-and hopefully, our extended community- will weave for him will be strong enough to last his entire life.

It's a hike up Everest; I have my hiking boots on, and off we go.


*If you are reading this and you are lost, then you are probably not a special needs parent; an ARD is an acronym for "Admissions, Review and Dismissal", also known as a periodic meeting with your school regarding your child's special education placement.

** He's actually welcome to live with me as an adult although at some point he probably won't want to.  I said something once to someone about how my goal was for him to live independently as an adult and the response was that I was a horrible heartless person. I'm really not, but I do have a finite life span (like all of us), so he can't live with me forever.

The Mom of No: NOT a candidate

The other day I was hanging out with the Son of Never Stops Eating, and he looked over at me and said, "Mom, you should run for President."

Now, I am absolutely honored that my kid thinks I'd be a good President, but in reality this is a bad idea.  First of all, I'd have to quit my day job to run, and I like my job.  Also, I have no political infrastructure, or money, or even any real interest.  The teenager would be furious if I told her that she had to change schools, and I'm not sure the Secret Service would be too excited about providing protection for a kid in the marching band.  My Band Mom days would be over.  Logistically, I'm not feeling the love.

Also, to be honest, I'm certain that I could never get elected, because the minute I opened my mouth I would be sure to alienate potential voters.  That smooth political talk doesn't come easily to me.  I just don't possess that kind of filter.  I can also envision the commentary that would come along with my first debate:

Commentator #1: Our next candidate, the Mom of No, is taking the podium.
Commentator #2: Is she wearing hiking boots?
Commentator #1:  I think she's tracking mud in on the floor.

I'm also too much of a pragmatist, and I'm way too sarcastic to be a good candidate. For example:

Moderator: Mom of No, what would be your administration's top priority?
Mom of No:  Infrastructure.
Moderator: What about family values?
Mom of No: Well, it's kind of hard to have dinner with the fam if you're stuck in traffic, capisce?

I'd also feel the urge to dispense mom advice to my opponents:

Moderator: What do you say about your opponent's attack on your candidacy?
Mom of No: Instead of saying nasty things about other people, you should worry more about your own business. At your age, you should really know better.

Moderator:  What would you do to help the economy?
Candidate #1:  Well, that's a great question. We really should be talking about the economy, because the economy involves answering some tough questions about how we should be addressing the issue of the economy, and by talking about the economy perhaps we can start having a dialogue about the economy.
Moderator: Mom of No, what is your response?
Mom of No: Maybe he should try again- he didn't answer your actual question.

I'm not sure why my son thinks I'd be a good president; knowing him, he's probably got some ulterior motive in mind like thinking that he wouldn't have to go to school, or as the First Son he'd get unlimited access to Legoland whenever he wanted, or he could have chicken tenders for dinner every night.  I can, however, assure the five people who might actually consider voting for me that I will not be running.  I just can't see the Secret Service agreeing to pull over to the side of the road every time I saw a bird or a mushroom I wanted to look at.  The Mom of No has her priorities straight.

A Confession

The Mom of No has a confession to make.  It's something that I need to say, but some may find it to be heresy.  At the risk of being strung up by my toenails in the town square, here it is:  I like my kids better now that they're older.

It isn't that my kids weren't cute babies and toddlers.  They were both adorable.  I have plenty of funny stories and great memories from those years.  But young children are also high maintenance.  Going anywhere, even to the grocery store, was a logistical nightmare.  I don't think I ever did get the whole car seat thing straight.   Talking to other mothers was like walking through a minefield. Every issue had potential for intense disagreement, whether it was breastfeeding, working or not working, or where the baby was sleeping.  For the first three years of my daughter's life, everything sent me running to "What to Expect The Toddler Years".  I suspect that the Grandma of No did a lot of eye rolling when I'd talk to her on the phone, because I was the Mom of Clueless. 

I remember people telling me when my offspring were small that the teen years were some horrible stage where one night your sweet compliant child went to bed and woke up looking and acting like something out of The Exorcist, and  that he or she stayed like that until they hopefully moved out of your house at 18, at which point (if you were wise), you would change your name and move.  The teen years are God's way of preparing you for the empty nest, people said.  Enjoy them now while they still want to talk to you.   

Then the dreaded transition started happening to me. My daughter outgrew girls' sizes.  You'll have to go over to juniors', the saleslady said.  The registration forms for sixth grade showed up in the "go home binder".   One day, she -gasp- ROLLED HER EYES AT ME.  The situation was dire! I was about to become that most pitied of creatures: the parent of a TEENAGER.  Even worse, her brother was only a few years behind her. It was time to start thinking about running away from home.

However, I also started noticing that she was becoming more independent, as was her brother.  If I needed to run to the market for a dozen eggs, I could leave her and her brother at home. She got braces and when I asked the dentist what she needed to do to take care of them, he said "We've already talked about it, Mom- it's her responsibility to do it". No one expected me to help with school projects (not a strength of the Mom of No). 

It's not all happy fun times.  Eye rolls, attitude, the stress of high school academics, the looming specter of young adulthood.  Teenagers use all your data, eat all your food, and cost you a fortune in auto insurance.  They use slang that baffles the Mom of No. They seem to prefer clothing stores that play really loud music. As a parent, you pray that they can get to adulthood without making horrible life-changing mistakes.  Their risk-assessment skills are not yet fully operational. But talking to teenagers can be fun.  They have interesting ways of looking at the world.  They have amazing amounts of energy, and they often have the willingness to use it for good causes.

Teenagers can also bake.  One night last summer, the teenager suddenly said that she wanted chocolate cake, and she went into the kitchen. I went to bed. When I woke up the next morning, there was a half-eaten, freshly baked chocolate cake in the kitchen.  The sink was full of unwashed bowls and measuring cups, sure- but there was chocolate cake.  Chocolate cake that someone who was NOT the Mom of No had baked.

Toddlers don't bake chocolate cake.

Groceries

The Mom of No has learned a valuable lesson, and it is this:

Do not take teenagers to the grocery store. 

I don't know if anyone else has had the experience of taking a toddler to the grocery store and finding out at checkout that the little darling slipped some Oreos or animal crackers in the basket while you weren't looking, but shopping with teenagers is like that - only on a grander scale. Instead of one package of Oreos, we are talking $100 worth of groceries that will get eaten in two days because teenagers do three things: eat, sleep, and roll their eyes at you.

The Mom of No recently made a quick stop for "just one thing" at the store, but unfortunately for my budget, I had the Son of Never Stops Eating with me.  As I wheeled the buggy around looking for the one thing I was there to get, the conversation starts going like this:

Son: Mom, we need more milk.
Me: No, we don't.  I saw two gallons in the fridge yesterday.
Son:  I drank it all.

Son: Mom, we need more pudding.
Me: No, we don't.  I saw some in the pantry this morning.
Son: I ate it all.

Son: Mom, we're out  of bread.
Me: No, we're not.  We had two loaves yesterday.
Son:  It's all gone. I ate three cheese sandwiches for breakfast.
Me: Are you serious?
Son:  We need more cheese, too.
Me: Is there anything left in the house to eat?
Son: Just yucky stuff no one wants like carrots.

Then I made a bad, bad mistake.  He looked up at me (ok, down at me) with his adorable brown eyes and said, "Can I get some cereal?"

Sure, I said. Go get what you want.  I'm trying to work on life skills with him, and grocery shopping is a life skill. However, he seems to be much better at finding the stuff he likes, as opposed to the food items he doesn't like.   He runs off and comes back with Cap'n Crunch Oops All Berries (don't judge).   The family size, of course.

Finally we go through the checkout line.

The friendly, helpful cashier looks at me and indicates that I owe her an unexpectedly large sum of money, considering that I was only planning on buying one thing. I look at her and say, "This is two days worth of groceries!" She smiles in sympathy and says, "You must have teenagers at home".  The woman in line behind me says "I have four boys.  Be glad you're not me.  I spent $250 yesterday and here I am, again".  Parents of babies bond over sleep deprivation; parents of teenagers bond over groceries.

I am in shock as I fork over payment. Almost $90 for one can of black beans and a few other things?  I get in the car and look at the receipt, half convinced that errors were made.  I didn't buy that much, did I?  Cheese.  Bread.  Milk.  Eggs.  Oreos.  Yogurt.  Bananas (see, there's something healthy!) Black beans (one can).  Cap'n Crunch cereal, $4.99.  Yes, I know.  $5 for a box (family size) of sugary cereal.

It got eaten in two hours.

Fungi Find!

My fungi hunting has been on  hiatus due to a dry, hot summer.  However, the other day I was driving down the road and spotted something promising in a road median.  It was a day or so before I was able to go back and take a look, and when I did I found this:

This is not the usual green spore parasols that I tend to find in road medians around here.  The caps were dry to the feel, and there were several growing in clusters.  I pulled one out of the ground and got this:

Mushrooms can be hard to identify,but if  you want to at least narrow it down a bit, you would need to know what is underneath the cap.  In this case, hopefully you can see the pores.  This tells me that this fungi is a member of the bolete family, but to narrow it down further, it's necessary to get a spore print to see the color of the spores.   To get a spore print, you take the fungus and place it on a piece of paper, spore side down, and place a glass cup or bowl over it:

And leave it, preferably overnight.  Sometimes the fungus will start dropping spores the minute it's set down on the paper, but this one was probably old and I got almost nothing from it, even after letting it sit all night.  Since you don't always know what the color of the spore will be (the color of the fungi isn't necessarily the same color as the spores), it's helpful to get two samples if you can and try one on black paper and one on white paper.

I took another fungi from the field and cut it in half and got this:

It immediately started turning blue once it was cut in half.  Sometimes that can help in the ID, as can the shape of the stem. 

The one field guide for fungi in this area is out of date, and there are a lot of variables to consider, so getting a good ID isn't always possible.  In this case, I'm going to stick with "bolete". Without a spore print I can't be 100% sure of anything. Even though I can't be sure, though, I still have fun finding and observing what I find.  One thing is for sure:  I do not eat anything I find- even if the field guide says it could be edible.  I don't want to find out the hard way that I am wrong! When I am in the mood to eat mushrooms, I stick to the ones for sale in the grocery store.

Shopping Day

The Mom of No is in need of an adult beverage and a week on the beach.

The reason:  I took my on-the-autism-spectrum son shopping for winter clothes this morning.

Three things you need to know about my son before you can appreciate the situation I find myself in: (1) he won't wear anything that is not soft, and by soft I mean no tags, no itchy, no scratchy, no texture, no stiff fabrics, no waistband, no jeans, no khakis. (2) he cannot be bribed, incentivized, cajoled, or threatened. (3) he had a huge growth spurt over the summer and his hem of his pants from last year is now located right below his knees.

So off we go to the local branch of a national department store chain to do some exploratory shopping.  For years I have gotten away with boys' sweatpants at Target for winter, boys' shorts from Target in the summer, and shirts from the Lands End kids' catalog, but now he has outgrown the biggest sizes in all these and the Mom of No is in uncharted territory.  Oh, now I need to mention one more thing you should know: he hates change.  For months I tried to get rid of a beloved orange shirt he'd outgrown.  I'd put it in the Goodwill box; he'd go get it.  I'd take it back; he'd reclaim it.  He wore it every other day forever even though it was two sizes too small and full of holes; his teacher was probably convinced that he only had two shirts to his name. He had other shirts but they weren't the favorite shirt.

We walk around the store and I show him various styles and fabrics of pants. I pick out a pair of very soft khaki pants made out of some synthetic fabric and present them to him, sure of immediate victory.  I mean, these pants are like butter. I'm already mentally congratulating myself on a very lucky find. 

He feels them for a minute and just when I think I have him, he points to the mesh pockets.  "They're itchy!" he says.  "I don't like those pants".   I point out that he hasn't even tried them on. "I'm not trying them on! I know they're itchy!" he says, glaring at me.  Okay, back on the rack.

"How about jeans?" I ask.  He shakes his head furiously.  "I HATE JEANS!" he says, waving his arms around.  "JEANS ARE EVIL!". Ok then, no jeans.

I show him another kind of soft khaki pants but the waistband is set in.  He stands in front of me, arms crossed. "I HATE PANTS!" he declares. "NO PANTS! I just want to wear SHORTS!"

Now, at this point, you are thinking, just TELL him he has to wear what you pick out. Be The Mom of No! Lay down the law! Tell him to suck it up! Tell him it's a sad story!  I did that once, with an itchy shirt for a boys' organization that he was in, and let's just say that it did not go well.

Finally I pull out yet another pair of soft pants, with an elastic waistband, no mesh pockets.  He lifts his arms up to the sky and throws out his hands in front of him.  "NO!  I just want sweatpants.  None of these pants are SOFT".  His refusal is complete and final.  It's the showdown at the JC Penney Corral.  I resort to logic and reason- the only tool in the Mom toolbox left to me since bribery and cajolery have been proven ineffective time and time again.

But you've outgrown everything you have, I tell him.  You need to wear more than sweatpants.  You can't walk around naked. What are you going to wear when it starts getting really cold and it's not warm enough for shorts? 

He looks at me like I've given him a gift and I realize I've just walked into a trap.   He gets a look of glee in his eyes, starts jumping up and down, and says  "Yay! No clothes! NO SCHOOL! I can stay home FOREVER!". 

We are now heading off to the sporting goods store for sweatpants.

Band Mom

The Mom of No is a Band Mom.  Not a good one, because I am not really a joiner, and I don't do booster clubs very well.  But I do own a Band t-shirt now, so that makes it official.

Having a teenager in marching band is like being in a cult.  You are sucked in slowly, starting in sixth grade, and before you know it- bam! You're wearing a band mom T-shirt, working in a concession stand at football games, and putting band stickers on your vehicle. 

I should have known something was up at the end of my daughter's fifth grade year, when we went over to the middle school to sign up for band and get an instrument assigned.  It was determined that she and the clarinet would be a good match, so I went over to sign up for a clarinet.

Music store guy:  The clarinet will be $40 and then the insurance and loss waiver is another $10.
Me:  $50? Wow, that's not bad at all. I thought it would be more.
Music store guy:  A month.  For four years.
Me: Are you serious?  $2500 for a clarinet? (thinking, does it HAVE to be band?  What about choir?)

Then the clarinet came home.  The first month it was like hearing a dying elephant. The sound was horrifying.  Our elderly border collie went and hid under the bed, whimpering.  The noise-sensitive sibling would walk around with his hands over his ears, grimacing in pain.  The entire household and the neighbors surrounding us for about a 5 mile radius were all suffering.  But lo and behold- one evening I was in the kitchen, baking- and instead of screeching and wailing, I heard actual music coming from the sixth-grader's room.  It was a MIRACLE!

Three years later, I'm sitting in the high school band hall, listening to the Head Band Mom explain the rules of the Band Family Cult.  For example, you have no life between August 1 and the end of marching season in November.  Make no plans.  It reminded me of being a park ranger, when you worked on the 4th of July unless you had a funeral to attend (your own) or you were in active labor (female rangers only- if your wife was in active labor, you were out of luck).  At first I thought they were kind of joking, and then I got the Band Schedule, which started out:

August 1:  First Day of Marching Practice, 7AM-12 Noon/7 PM to 9 PM.

7 AM, I thought. That's not too bad.  We live 5 minutes from the high school.  Then my daughter clarifies the situation for me.

Me: I guess we can leave around 6:55 AM for the school.
Teenager:  MOM! We have to leave around 6 AM! That means be ON THE FIELD READY TO MARCH AT 7 AM! I have to do all this (band related preparation stuff that the Band Mom of No does not understand, but is obviously extremely important to the teenager).

Then, a few weeks later, I find myself in a concession stand.  Making nachos.  Working in a concession stand is also a lot like being a park ranger, except you stay in one place and you have no citation book.  Just like in the parks, most people are great, but you have the occasional kid that wants to give you a $100 bill for a $.50 piece of candy, or the guy that said "Maybe if they paid the employees more they could get faster workers".  Uh, dude, seriously?  We're volunteers! Chill! You can wait 3 minutes for a churro!

Band kids are probably some of the most dedicated teenagers on the planet.  They get up at 0530 hours in the summer to march around on a hot parking lot in 100 degree weather for hours.  They have no weekends free in the fall. They're either playing at a football game or at a marching contest.  They arrive home after an away game at midnight and then sit at the kitchen table until 2 AM doing their Geometry homework.  They have no time to get into trouble because they're either marching, doing homework, or sleeping.  Somehow, they manage to march in patterns while playing music that they have less than two months to learn from scratch, and they make it look like they've been doing it forever. 

Last week, I was at the high school football game. I don't really know anything about football, I was there to see the band show.  Our team was slightly behind getting their butts handed to them on a platter.  People were leaving in droves.  It was cold.  But the band was still there, playing the fight song. And I was still there, freezing my butt off, because I am a band mom. 

That's a Sad Story

In my parenting career, the two best pieces of advice I have received are (1) that newborns need to learn the difference between day and night, so when they wake up at night don't do anything but feed them and change the diaper and then put them back to bed; and (2), the phrase "that's a sad story".

A co-worker of mine put me on to "that's a sad story".  It has so many applications, and it's incredibly adaptable to almost any situation involving children and teenagers.  Instead of arguing, or debating, or encouraging continued whining/complaining/tattle tale telling, just reply: "That's a sad story".  For example:

Kid: MOM! (insert name of sibling) is staring at me!
You:  That's a sad story. (Work it out with them).

Kid:  Everyone in my class except me has a new iPhone!
You:  That's a sad story. (You're not getting one.  Stop pestering me about it).

Kid:  It's not FAIR that I have to (insert name of activity) and no one else does!
You:  That's a sad story. (You still have to do it).

Kid:  This dinner sucks! I want a grilled cheese instead!
You:  That's a sad story.  (Do I look like a chef? Eat what I cooked).

Kid: I have the meanest mother in the world!
You:  That's a sad story.  (Yes, you do. Suck it up, buttercup.)

Kid: I can't find my soccer uniform anywhere in my room!
You: That's a sad story. (If you kept track of your stuff, you could find it).

Kid:  Calls you at work to tell you "I forgot my (iPad/homework/lunch/field trip form)" after you reminded them several times to put it in their backpacks.
You: That's a sad story. (Should have put it in there last night when I told you to).


In order for the Sad Story response to work, you have to be able to deliver it with a straight face, or at least one that manages to convey that special parental look that says "I feel your pain, but I'm not giving in".  You also can't actually give in.  If your kid can't find the soccer uniform, and you tell her "That's a sad story", and then you actually go look for it, then you've diluted the effectiveness.  The idea is for them to take the responsibility on themselves to find it in in the ecological disaster that is their room instead of foisting off that task onto you.  The first few times you use it, you will likely encounter extreme resistance to the technique.  That's okay; just don't give in.

Of course, be prepared - if you have kids like The Mom of No's offspring- to have it repeated back to you.  The other day, my son came over to me as I was working in the kitchen.  He stood there for a minute, smiled at me, and said, Mom, is it hard to be you?

Yes, I told him. You have no idea how hard it is to be me. 

Mom, he says, That's a sad story. 

Haiku

Monarch butterfly (Danaus plexippus)

If you are looking for something to challenge your brain, try writing a haiku.  You probably learned how to write one in high school English class, then never gave it a second thought. 

A haiku is a Japanese style of poetry, three lines, with 5 syllables in the first line, 7 syllables in the second, and 5 in the third.  If you want to be really technical about your haiku, they are usually about nature and include a reference to a season in the poem.  The haiku will also have a division between one thought and another.  But since this isn't for a grade, you don't necessarily need to follow those rules (although that can add to the challenge)- just stick to the 5-7-5 pattern.  It can be a mental challenge to find the perfect words for what you want to say. You may even find yourself reaching for a thesaurus. 

The haiku doesn't even need to be about nature, although those can definitely be fun to write. Here are some samples, written by the Mom of No:

Orange, yellow, black
Autumn monarch migrates through
Ephemeral joy

Like long tree limbs, my
Teenager's legs and arms grow
Grocery bill is huge

Urban traffic jam
Cars - tree sap, dripping along
Highway artery

Give it a shot.  If you try it with friends, while hanging out and drinking coffee (or an adult beverage, if you are over 21) you may even find yourself laughing.