I think it’s fair to say that I enjoy sports.

Oh, I wouldn’t throw around words like “avid,” “tailgating” or “season-ticket holder” to describe my relationship with sports, but I’m willing to concede that I’m a “fan” of certain athletic events. And like all entertainment arenas, sports as a concept can be divided into categories:

1. ATTEND
You know the phrase “You just had to be there”? This applies to sporting events that are best viewed live and in-person. Like White Sox games. Admittedly, this need to be there is often directly proportional to the quality and fat/sodium content of the food at the concession stands–but whatever. I never said that I was a fitness buff. (Nor have I ever used the word “buff” at all in any sentence that describes me…)

2. WATCH ON TV
To me, the best example of a “watch on TV” sport is football. I know there are many who would disagree with me, but on a snowy, freezing day, I’d rather watch a Bears game in my own living room, with my fireplace crackling, my chips and dip within arm’s reach, and my own PRIVATE RESTROOM just steps away. I attended a wintry, subzero football game once (Iowa vs. Ohio State), and believe me when I tell you, there is not enough hot chocolate in the world…

3. PARTICIPATE
Okay, maybe I’m using the term “participate in a sport” loosely, but there are individuals out there who would agree that foosball is an athletic endeavor. And I am one of them. (Just because it is a game played mostly in bars by inebriated smokers, doesn’t mean that it doesn’t require skillz.)

4. AVOID
This one is easy. Golf. There, I said it, and I don’t care who knows. I don’t want to PLAY it, and I certainly don’t want to watch someone else play it (except MAYBE Tiger Woods in the final few holes of the Masters). The whole concept of slowly wandering around in the sun all day makes me sleepy just thinking about it. And, as you know, when it comes to a workout, I prefer the calorie-burning rush of . . . . foosball.

5. BECOME OBSESSED WITH
This is a seasonal activity. My obsessions started in grade school, when my crushes on tennis players (Bjorn Borg, anyone?) would result in marathon Wimbledon viewing sessions. Then, as a young adult, I couldn’t wait for college basketball’s yearly March Madness, which always involved watching the tournament selection show, conducting extensive research on the chosen teams, thoughtfully preparing my Final Four brackets, and making an outrageous bet with my husband—and now my children. And on the subject of wagering, all of the Triple Crown horse races are special occasions in our household (although we tend to bet on the horse with the coolest name or the freakiest mane braids).

But the one constant in this category has been the Olympics. As far back as I can remember, this global celebration of athletic excellence has fascinated me. I remember what I was doing the day that Nadia Comaneci scored the first perfect 10 in Olympic women’s gymnastics in 1976. And every time I hear that familiar opening boom of the Olympics theme song, I get goosebumps.

I get sucked in by every human interest backstory, every tale of hardship, of a life devoted to daily sacrifice in the pursuit of becoming a world-class competitor. Of course, I am usually taking in these inspirational tales of strength, stamina and discipline while lying on the couch in air-conditioned comfort, eating Cheetos and guzzling Starbucks (the caffeine injection is a necessity, due to the inordinate number of hours I spend glued to the television, completely–and inexplicably–invested in the fates of our water polo and badminton teams).

Maybe it’s a silly waste of time to spend two weeks of my life studying every nuance of the Olympic games. But I don’t think so. During the last three days alone, I’ve witnessed the most spectacular opening ceremonies program ever; the U.S. men’s swim team coming from behind to beat France in the greatest freestyle relay in memory; and dozens of compelling (sometimes heartbreaking) moments in women’s gymnastics, as these wee teenage girls carry the weight of our country’s expectations on their tiny, impossibly strong shoulders.

Yep. I’m a fan. And you can even call me “avid.”

Out of the six bloggers on the NWI Parent website, it recently occurred to me that HALF of them are parents of three boys—and no girls. However, one of our three-boy moms has discovered that she is now expecting a GIRL!

Which lead me to ponder the difference between boys and girls.

Oh, I’ve talked about this before. But in honor of the birth of our new blogger baby, I’d like to present:

THE TOP 10 THINGS I LOVE ABOUT HAVING A DAUGHTER

NUMBER 10. She has an old soul. She is obsessed with VH1’s “Greatest” countdown shows, such as 100 Greatest Songs of the ’80s, or 100 Greatest One Hit Wonders. This behavior reached its apex when we watched VH1’s list of the 40 Most Softsational Soft-Rock Songs together. The best part was when we were singing along with the band Chicago’s “If You Leave Me Now.” You know—the falsetto part that everyone over the age of 35 physically can’t help but sing? The “Ooo-ooo-oooh no, baby, please don’t go” part? We were awesome.

NUMBER 9. At the 4th of July parade, she and I had to sit next to each other so we could hold hands (because we were overcome by cuteness when the miniature donkeys with Uncle Sam hats trotted by with embarrassed looks on their faces). My husband and son were oblivious to this, because they were busy formulating plots to blow up Matchbox cars with bottle rockets when we got home.

NUMBER 8. She has fully embraced the magic of musical theater. Much to my son’s chagrin, we can sing the entire soundtracks to Fiddler on the Roof, Jesus Christ Superstar, The Sound of Music, and Wicked. Loudly. With flailing arm motions. In the car.

NUMBER 7. Girlfriend knows the proper way to use our backyard pool. There is no need to splash, roughhouse, do cannonballs, or spit pool water at others. In fact, advanced pool use doesn’t even necessarily involve getting wet. I have taught her well. She “gets” me.

NUMBER 6. She understands that sometimes you can’t be expected to wait until you get home from the library before you start reading a really good book.

NUMBER 5. One word: Titanic.

NUMBER 4. She sees the world differently than her brother does. For example, the other day she told me that she saw a pretty flower next to our house, and took a picture of it with her cell phone:

Pretty, isn’t it? I was curious, so I took a look at the pictures that my son had on his phone. The most recent was an image of something that struck him as we walked by a beautiful fountain with ducks swimming in it. It’s hard to make out, but if you look very carefully….

Yes, it’s a picture of a “duck’s butt,” taken when it popped its head underwater to retrieve some food. To a boy, some things are always funny.

NUMBER 3. We share a common trauma that bonded us together. I can’t go into detail without reliving it, but let’s just say that it involved a nature documentary, baby animals, and a heinous act of natural selection that will forever haunt us. To this day, if an innocent show like Meerkat Manor accidentally comes on TV, we run out of the room screaming for a guy to change the channel.

NUMBER 2. Last weekend, while my husband and son were seeing Weird Al Yankovic in concert, she and I had the perfect Girls’ Night: we started with chocolate, followed by an America’s Next Top Model marathon, a victory dance for the “plus-sized” (ummm, size 6-8) winner, and a long session of practicing our fierce runway walks in the foyer.

And the NUMBER 1 reason why I love having a daughter:

SHE KICKS BUTT!

My boy is my baby, my heart, my angel and my life. But my girl is also my FRIEND. Congratulations, Steph! You’re in for an extraordinary ride

Can you feel it? The weightlessness that signals the end of the regular television season? The disappearance of the TV monkey that was on your back? The freedom from the tyranny of Network Addiction Syndrome?

If you are a television junkie like me, you had a taste of this uneasy sensation during the writers’ strike last winter. The absence of time-sucking shows was difficult to get used to, but thankfully, reality shows offered all of us a fragile ray of light during those dark times.

And then? Then the strike was over, and our shows suddenly were BACK. In full force. And I felt like a total rookie. In previous seasons, my power-watching prowess would peak around February and stay strong through May sweeps. But this spring, I panicked when I realized that I was woefully out of shape after my long respite from serious viewing sessions.

Thursdays at work were anxious; I have a colleague who is also a TiVo Addict, and as the time to go home approached, we would commiserate about the sheer volume of viewing we would have to engage in that evening:

"Okay, I’ve got Ellen , Survivor , Ugly Betty , Grey’s Anatomy , The Office, Lost and ER. That’s six and a half hours!"

"Well, I watch Smallville instead of Ugly Betty, and 30 Rock instead of ER, so I’m in the same boat!"

Sigh.

On the way home, I internally devised my strategy, reviewing the Rules of Power-Watching in my mind:

1. Prioritize. Apply advanced triage methods. Let something go. No one needs to watch six and a half hours of TV in one night. If you do, the networks win. Decide which shows (see: Lost , Grey’s Anatomy and The Office ) are going to be discussed, dissected and dragged under the microscope by the other pathetic addicts fans at work, and go there first. Ellen and ER can be watched during TV’s Weekend Wasteland.

2. Take advantage of the dual-tuner TiVo by starting two shows at the same time, pausing and switching back to the other one during commercials. Two hour-long dramas can be watched in an hour and twenty minutes. (Note: this is an advanced technique, and shouldn’t be attempted by beginners.)

3. All other shows should not be started until they have been recording at least 20 minutes, in order to ensure that you will not "catch up to real time" and have to *gasp* waste time watching a commercial.

4. Send children off to take showers and get ready for bed while skimming through the too-racy-to-watch with-offspring-present Grey’s Anatomy . Reconvene as a family in 40 minutes to zip through Lost together with no commercials.

The result? Four and a half hours of great shows packed into just over three hours of viewing. It’s a beautiful thing. It’s a TiVo thing. Crisis averted.

But now? Now it’s all gone. No more tendrils of smoke rising from the TiVo on Thursday nights. No more House . No more American Idol . No more Medium .

And it feels great. Of course, still in withdrawal, my brain continues to search for constant stimulus. I have literally read four novels in the last two weeks. (Seriously, it looks like Oprah’s Book Club hosted a rave next to my bed.) I have also caught myself reading the following out of desperation:

a) An ancient Pottery Barn catalog

b) A crumpled middle school newsletter from October that I found in the bottom of my son’s book bag

c) The lengthy brochure describing my employer’s health care plan (deductibles? who knew?)

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not abandoning my TiVo. I still have a couple of required summer viewing staples to fall back on during the dog days:

Reality: So You Think You Can Dance (or, as we call it in our house, S to the D! ) Also goes by the name of Best Show EVER.

New Educational Show: The Alaska Project on the Discovery Channel

Guilty Pleasure: Kathy Griffin—My Life on the D-List

So I’ll get by, and enjoy my free time this summer while recharging my batteries for the upcoming fall season. In the meantime, if you have any good book recommendations, please (please!) let me know. I’m almost done reading the instruction manual to our old VCR.

They say that the sense of smell is the most evocative of our five senses, and I tend to agree. And I’m not talking about those overwhelming, sign-of-the-apocalypse odors, like the fragrance that emanated from my dog approximately 45 minutes after someone accidentally dropped a chili-cheese Frito on the floor next to him (a crime against humanity that we’ll NEVER commit again…). No, I’m talking about the fragrances that make up an ordinary day in the life of a parent—fragrances that are as fleeting as they are memorable.

For example, let’s examine the olfactory journey that I’ve taken with my 13-year-old son:

Birth through 6 weeks

You already know what I’m going to say for this one, but it bears repeating: there is truly nothing that smells like a tiny baby. It’s a miracle that a newborn has any scent at all, given the fact that his mother has probably compulsively sniffed it all off of him. Oh . . . the top of the downy head, the sweet milky breath, and the hot little neck folds . . . it’s like postpartum crack.

6 weeks to 3 years

This is a somewhat disturbing phase in the life of a mom. Exhibit A: The Butt Sniff. You know it, and you’ve done it! You’re at a playgroup with four other moms and 9 other assorted preschoolers, and your toddler innocently wanders by. Some random, part-per-million particle in his fragrant wake activates your OMG Did He Poop alarm, and you scoop him off the floor, bury your head in his diaper-padded backside, and inhale suspiciously. Your first reaction is a triumphant Aha! I knew it! (Your second reaction is I am no longer officially human.)

3-8 years

At this age, a boy’s life is all about three things: snacks, junk food, and more snacks—especially the red variety. Every kiss is sticky, and smells faintly of fruit punch. When it’s been a while since he’s bathed, an experienced mom may detect the vintage of the grape (jelly), and appreciate the delicate maple syrup overtones.

8-13 years

Blood, sweat and tears. Mostly sweat. From regions that have the misfortune of being located within a 2-yard radius of a) his feet, b) his shoes, c) his laundry hamper and d) his gym uniform. But he’s my baby, so it inexplicably doesn’t bother me a bit (see: “The Butt Sniff”).

13 years and up

The transformation during this phase is sudden and dramatic. It’s all about the girls, and guess what? Hygiene matters! Who knew? One day I was sitting on the couch in my living room, when a cloud of fragrance smacked into me like a storm front. Even my frazzled, burned-out scent receptors (again, see “The Butt Sniff”) could discern that the odor was “Eau de Adolescent Male Cologne”—you know, the one with the ads that promise to Drive Her Crazy. And the interesting part is the fact that at the time of this olfactory assault, my son was not standing right next to me. No, he was through the foyer, up two flights of steps, down a long hall, through a bedroom, and inside a bathroom. I guess those commercials weren’t kidding; it was enough to drive me crazy. (And we’ve moved the Everything in Moderation/Too Much of a Good Thing discussion up on the schedule of Important Talks.)

I’m sure that the future has more in store for my poor nose, including the obligatory smell-checks for alcohol and cigarette use. But even though his growing up is a teensy bit scary for me, I have to admit: it’s great that we’re approximately the same height now. . . because it’s soooo much easier to sniff the top of his head and his sweet little neck.

People who know me well also know that I am NOT a shopper. And this fear of shopping manifests itself most vividly when I am in THE MALL (a.k.a. “The Life-Sucking Torture Chamber of Certain Death”). I have been able to live with my crippling disability for years by avoiding the mall and happily patronizing satellite stores such as Kohl’s, Fashion Bug, Target and Old Navy.

Until recently. Until my daughter became a teenager. A teenager who understandably wants to shop. A lot. At the mall. And there are only so many times that I can drop her off with her friends before I’m going to have to enter the perilous confines of doom all by myself and purchase her birthday gifts.

So I sucked it up (and by “it,” I mean “tequila”—NO! I’m totally kidding!) and went browsing with her one day to see what clothes she wanted and in what size. I was confident that an afternoon of research would ease my eventual solo mission. Sensing my obvious discomfort (and correctly inferring that “when Mom’s happy, everyone’s happy”), my daughter breezed through the stores, pointing out what she liked and trying things on, while I took frantic internal notes. So far, so good.

The next day, I returned, armed with a list, my debit card, and the determination to stay patient—for the sake of my deserving birthday girl.

FIRST STOP: a dress and beach bag at PacSun. I took the predetermined items up to the register, a girl rang me up, I paid with my debit card, she put the merchandise in a bag . . . and I walked out of the store. Whaaaaaa? That was easy. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

SECOND STOP: a bathing suit at Zumiez. Surprisingly, the correct size was still there, and I grabbed it off the rack and hustled up to the checkout. Okay, the enthusiastic teen behind the counter tried to talk me into purchasing the matching cover-up skirt (”It’s only $5 with the purchase of a bathing suit!!!”), but I was determined to stay “On-List” and politely declined. Crisis averted. I took a deep breath and forged ahead.

THIRD STOP: a DVD at the bookstore. I was weak. My first mistake here was going “Off-List” and purchasing a few books for myself. When I went to check out, the clerk, seeing my total, tried to get me to sign up for some sort of “Rewards” card to “save 20%” off my purchases. Now I know I’m just being stubborn, but I get such a giant edge when people try to browbeat me into saving money (can’t you just make the prices lower on the books?) that I declined without listening to her pitch. Firmly. She went on to calculate my potential savings against my express wishes, but I held my ground. With my resolve slightly shaken, I gritted my teeth and trudged to my next destination.

FOURTH and final STOP: picking up a T-shirt and gift card at a girls’ clothing store which shall remain nameless. Feeling giddy now, knowing that the spree would be over in a couple of minutes, I entered The Store. Even though I clearly couldn’t fit into the jewelry that they sold there, the salesgirl chirped an excited greeting when she saw me cross the threshold. I made a beeline to the T-shirt display, hurriedly snatched the innocent garment from the top of the pile, and started to race up to the register. But not fast enough.

From the other side of The Store: “Oh, those T-shirts are two for $25!”

Me: “That’s okay, I just want this one.”

“Or you can get one T-shirt and have a pair of shorts for half price!”

“I just want to buy one T-shirt, if that’s okay.”

Salesgirl muttering under breath as she walks over to the register: “Fine, it would just be cheaper…”

[Again, someone trying to save me money by trying to sell me something else! Can we just agree to lower your prices if you're trying to save me so much money? Huh?]

Time for the bitter face-off at the register.

Me, almost apologetically at this point: “I need a gift card, too.”

Resigned activity behind the counter by the galvanized teenage salesgirl ensued, and the Battle of the Payment began.

Salesgirl: “Can I have your last name?”

Me, heart rate starting to accelerate: “Ummm, okay…it’s ______”

“First name?”

Okay, it’s time to THROW DOWN.

“You mean I can’t come in here and buy something without giving a stranger my first and last name?!!!!”

“Well, if you want to return something without a receipt, it will help if we have a record of your purchase.”

[Oh, honey, first of all, there is NO WAY this old lady will be "returning" to this place anytime soon, and second...swallowing pride...just forget it.]

“Fine, my first name is ____”

“Email address?”

“Never heard of email.” [Ha! One for the good guys!]

At last, she gave me the total, and I handed over my debit card.

“Can I see your ID?”

Defeated, I emptied the contents of my purse onto the counter, and provided three personal references, copies of my last six bank statements, and my passport.

As I walked out of The Store with my daughter’s hard-earned T-shirt and gift card, I realized two things: first, that I would have to be back soon when my daughter redeemed that ill-conceived gift card, and second–and most importantly–that there was truly nothing that I wouldn’t do for my little girl.

And that made everything all right again.

(Of course, the Mint Chocolate Bomb from Gloria Jean’s didn’t hurt, either…)

Yes, the advent of the cell phone has changed parenting drastically in the last several years, but let us not overlook the tremendous impact of the iPod on the lives of parents.

Let’s take a loving look back at the ancient days when we were young, shall we? My interest in popular music began in the early/mid seventies. As most younger-by-many-years siblings can attest, my very first preadolescent musical experiences came from raiding my big sister’s collection of 45s. I can still envision the labels on those fragile records: “Let It Be” by the Beatles, “Tears of a Clown” by Smokey Robinson and the Miracles, and “One Less Bell to Answer” by the 5th Dimension. Then came my sister’s album collection: I was mellowing out to Joni Mitchell’s Blue by the tender age of eight, and enhancing that mellow with Hot Tuna’s “Water Song.” (However, in a rare moment of rebellion from sister-adulation, I never became a Grateful Dead fan. A girl has to be her own woman eventually.)

Besides, I came of age in a much different musical era. My early collection of 45s boasted such gems as Elton John’s “Philadelphia Freedom,” the Doobie Brothers’ “Black Water,” and—of course—Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody.” These were the heady days when “Muskrat Love,” “Convoy,” “Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover,” “Fox on the Run,” and the Bay City Rollers’ “Saturday Night” ruled the airwaves. (If you remember these songs, don’t EVEN deny that you’re laughing right now…) I played those singles incessantly on my beloved portable record player. (It closed up like a suitcase, had a handle, and sported a chic, red-and-white-checkerboard pattern. Sweet!)

After I outgrew 45s, it was time to start buying albums of my own (yes, record albums…this was waaaaaaaay before CDs were available). Purchasing an album was a sacred experience, involving months of careful deliberation and at least an hour of flipping through seductively colorful musical masterpieces at The Record Store. The average time between first hearing a song on the AM radio and saving enough babysitting money to afford it—and getting Mom or Dad to drive me to the store to buy it—was a period of several months. But letting the needle drop on that virgin, unscratched record for the first time, and hearing those familiar crackling notes was a bliss well worth the anticipation.

Of course, my increasingly sophisticated musical taste demanded increasingly higher fidelity, and summer employment funds were continually diverted to stereo component upgrades. Speakers (yes, size used to matter), tuners, turntables, and eventually cassette players (hello, mix tapes!) were measures of pride and status. My parents, with their typical stoicism, endured the wall-shaking days of my high school years, as Steely Dan, the Cars, Tom Petty, Led Zeppelin, and Earth, Wind & Fire blared through my bedroom door.

By the time I packed my extensive stereo system for college, there was little room left for trivial matters like clothes and toiletries. But, no matter: my roommate and I would be ROCKIN’!!!!! I deftly hooked up the plethora of cords and wires with the ease of a master electrician, and I was instantly at home. (And I don’t need to tell you that when I finally bought my first used compact car, the stereo system that I installed was clearly worth more than the car itself. Priorities.)

Finally came graduate school. My new apartment roommate and I had a great arrangement: She contributed the furniture, vacuum cleaner, microwave and ironing board…and I brought the tunes. Always striving for the perfect musical clarity, I was, in the words of Augusten Burroughs, an “early adapter,” purchasing a CD player before anyone else at the bargain price of $465 (not including the staggering investment required to replace all of my favorite albums with CDs). On my research assistant salary of $750 a month, it was well worth it.

Fast-forward to 2008:

My two teenagers each have an iPod, which is small enough to slip into a pocket (and go through the washing machine…but that’s another story). For Christmas and birthdays they ask for iTunes gift cards, which, in this age of instant gratification, can be instantly redeemed, one 99-cent song at a time; the purchased music goes from a website to our computer library to their iPods. There is no tangible record or disk to unwrap and stack, and no album cover art to decipher. Total time between hearing a song they like and downloading it onto their iPod? About 5 minutes. And sound quality? When they’re not listening to their song library over crummy computer speakers while instant-messaging their friends, they enjoy their music through tiny, inexpensive ear “buds.” (Even the word “bud” evokes something that’s immature and not fully evolved. No match for the majestic, furniture-sized speakers that we used to covet.) They carry their entire music collection with them everywhere, to be accessed with the touch of a button.

As a parent, I have to admit that it’s nice to be spared the dueling stereos that might have resulted from having two teenagers living in the same house. And I wasn’t looking forward to hauling milk crates filled with records up to their college dorm rooms in a few years. And my son can listen to this…but I don’t ever have to.

But on the flip side (sorry, I couldn’t resist referencing vinyl greatness one more time), am I sorry that the high-fidelity age of stereos and record collections is gone? Of course. I wish that my kids could relish the anticipation of acquisition, or the hobby of painstakingly organizing high-concept albums by artist and genre—and the sound of Dark Side of the Moon pulsing from a spectacular set of speakers.

Do I have an iPod of my own?

Of course!

(And I’m listening to “Muskrat Love” on it right now.)

So this morning I did something I never thought I’d do. I’m still not sure what prompted me to be so bold and spontaneous:

*Maybe it was the fact that I just came off a grueling deadline at work and was looking for a reason to loiter at home alone for just a few minutes after the kids and my husband left.

*Or maybe it was the fact that Ozzy (Jason and Erik’s man-crush) was voted off Survivor last night in one of the most hilarious blindsides I’ve ever seen—not to be confused with Ryan Seacrest’s cruel and unusual blindsiding of Michael Johns last week (a moment of silence, please…).

*Or maybe it was the fact that…oh, I don’t know…oh yeah, it’s all coming back to me…THERE WAS AN EARTHQUAKE THIS MORNING. Admit it, there’s nothing like an earthquake to get your Friday off to a rockin’ start! Of course, when I was awakened at 4:39am, I couldn’t really put my finger on the reason why. I ran through a mental list of the usual suspects (Did the dog bark? Did the cat cough up a hairball? Did my husband have an allergy attack? Is there a feverish child hovering over my bed, just close enough to make my sleepy brain think that an axe-murderer is ready to strike? ) No, it wasn’t anything that I could identify, so I decided it must have been the wind blowing our curtains through our first-warm-night-of-the-year open window. But when I straggled downstairs an hour later to let out the dog and make some coffee, I turned on the TV, and there it was, in all its Breaking-News glory: an earthquake had occurred. (Of course! Why didn’t I think of that?) I waited with bated breath to see the time of the quake, and bingo: 4:39am! I’m emboldened by my new kinship with Californians.

But enough rambling. I need to get to my confession. The thing I did that I never intended to do. The thing that happened at the computer this morning when I sat down to innocently check my emails. The thing that I need to get off my chest. Okay, here goes:

I downloaded all of Jason Castro’s American Idol performances onto my iPod.

(Oh, and I burned them onto a CD, and have already listened to it five times—and it’s only 9:18 a.m. And I am at work. Listening to it right now.)

Are you judging me?

You’re judging me, aren’t you?

Okay, David Cook fans, bring it on!

I can take it. Cuz I’m a dreadhead.

If you are the parent of a teen or preteen, or even if your child is approaching the age of 10, you have been—or soon will be—faced with a question that most of us never had to ask our parents when we were young:

“When can I get a cell phone?”

. . . which is typically followed by the corollary statement:

“All of my friends have one!”

And the sad part?

It’s true. All of their friends do have a cell phone. (And yes, they all watch South Park and sport obscene songs on their iPods, too . . . but that’s a rant for another day.)

Back to the cell phone. In our household, my husband and I gave in to their plaintive requests when our kids turned 12. Too early? Too late? Who knows? But the truth is, that pesky little device has actually changed my life for the better in many ways.

Here are the top 3 reasons why I like cell phones for teens:

1) I Am a Classic Smothering Worrywart. Yes, I cannot rest unless I know exactly where my kids are and what they doing AT ALL TIMES. This is exhausting at best when the children are young and actually require this sort of neurotic supervision, but impossible (and, frankly, ill-advised) when they get older. The answer? The “innocent” call to their cell phone. This is especially valuable when they are “in transit” (read: walking to the neighbor’s house to hang out):

“Hey, how’s it going?”

“Um, fine. I just left the house 45 seconds ago.”

“I know, but I just wanted to check in.”

” . . . ”

“Where are you now?”

“Two houses down from ours.”

“Okay. Just give me a quick call when you get there.”

” Ummm, yeah, we’ll have to actually hang up before I can give you a call . . . ”

“Okay! Bye! Miss you!”

“I’m there now, anyway.”

“Terrific! Call me when you leave to come home!”

” . . . ”

2) I Am Committed to Making Pickups More Efficient (a.k.a. “too lazy to park the car and go inside and find my kids”). The cell phone is a godsend for moments like this:

“Hey, are you done with practice?”

“Yeah, I’m just walking out.”

“Okay, I’m waiting in the car by the side door.”

” . . . ”

“Are you coming?”

“Yeah, I’m getting my stuff out of my locker.”

[two minutes of silence with no child sighting]

“What’s going on?”

“I left my coat in the music room.”

“Okay, hurry. I’m blocking in eight other cars.”

” . . . ”

“Where are you now?” [barely suppressing the FOR CRYING OUT LOUD part]

“I’m walking out the front door. I don’t see you.”

“I’m waiting at the SIDE door.”

“Okay, sheesh. Why didn’t you tell me?”

” . . . ” [abundant parental sighs and eye-rolling]

“I don’t see you.”

“I’m in Dad’s car. Can we make this happen anytime soon?”

“Okay, I’m opening up the car door now . . . ”

[sheepishly hanging up the phone] “Oh, hi!”

3) I’m Easily Entertained/Amused. This is the reason for the Number One Rule of Giving Your Child a Cell Phone: Purchase a package with unlimited text messaging. It may cost a little more, but it saves a lot of money and stress down the road. Consider the following completely silent text message exchange between my daughter and me one night while we were waiting in the car for her brother to get out of basketball practice:

Daughter: DO U LIKE MY NEW FONT?

Mom: YES. AND Y R U TEXTING ME FROM THE BACK SEAT?

Daughter: Y R U TEXTING ME FROM THE FRONT SEAT?

Mom: WHATEVS… LOOK! I CHANGED THE COLOR OF MY TEXT!

Daughter: HERE IS A PICTURE OF MY MATH BOOK. IT’S MY BFF.

Mom: HERE IS A PICTURE OF MY EMPTY STARBUCKS CUP.

Daughter: LET’S NAME IT. HOW ABOUT ‘STANLEY’?

[thankfully, her brother chooses that moment to knock on the car window---steamed up by the exertions of frantic text messaging---startling both of us back to reality. . . ]

Mom: G2G. C U L8ER.

Are these examples pathetic? Maybe. Do I love having a 24-hour hotline to my children that I can hold in the palm of my hand? Most definitely. So the next time you hesitate to “indulge” your child with a cell phone, consider the benefits—and just think of it as the 21st-century equivalent of “Mother’s Little Helper.”

Well, the Top Ten have performed, so it’s time to check in again on American Idol. I am writing this the hour before the results show, and I have a baaaaaad feeling about things. This week was—as Randy would say—a little weird for me:

~The contestants each sang a song that came out during the year of their birth. This was disturbing to me, because who connects with music that was popular when they were infants? (Of course, being of a “certain age,” I think the top song back in my day would have been some sort of Baroque “Fugue for Flute and Harpsichord,” but whatever.) If it were me, I would want to sing a song that was charting when I was coming of age . . . perhaps the year I was going to prom . . . BUT WAIT! That would be “A Song From the Future That Hasn’t Been Written Yet” for David Archuleta! So I guess they’re thinking ahead.

~ My favorite contestant sang my favorite song, and my least favorite contestant sang one of my least favorite songs. Jason (fave) sang “Fragile” by Sting, and Carly (I’m still not a fan, but I have no reasonable explanation for this phenomenon) sang the heinous “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” by Bonnie Tyler. The problem is, no one can beat Sting’s interpretation of his own masterpiece, especially the moving version he sang on 9/11. I truly like Jason, but he messed with Sting (to me, the male version of a “Mariah” or “Whitney”). So I’m worried for him. And in the case of Carly, anything would be an improvement over the original (*shudder*), and I found myself somewhat pleasantly suprised. So the best and worst of the Spectrum of Ten crept towards the middle for me, where they are languishing with Ramiele, the Contestant That Inspires Absolutely No Reaction From Me Whatsoever. However, Paula pointed out that Ramiele was very sick this week, so I have to admit that . . . (nope, still no reaction).

~Song choices: Kristy Lee Cook? Patriotic manipulation. David Archuleta? Um, sorry, but I don’t know your song at all. That’s what you get for being born in the NINETIES (when all I did was breastfeed and watch Barney all day)! So again, the worst rose, and the best sank . . . towards what was becoming an increasingly crowded middle road.

~Controversy: David Cook was definitely angsty and cool with his emo-rific rendition of “Billie Jean,” but everyone is complaining that he ripped off Chris Cornell’s cover. As always, people just need to judge him on his performance (which was great), instead of singing his praises for his “original” arrangements. The poor guy can’t help it if the judges haven’t heard the newer versions.

~Brooke, Syesha and Chikezie were all terrific, as usual. (I did love that fact that Brooke tried to cancel out her much-maligned curly hair/bright yellow dress “Here Comes the Sun” performance of last week with an Amish-looking black frock and severely straightened hair.)

~Michael Johns: Handsome, likeable, Australian, and also handsome. But I’m still not feeling his voice. Although he is quite handsome. And he can stick around for awhile.

The bottom line here is that I just don’t know whom to root for this week, and I have no instincts regarding who is going home. Since Randy and Simon were arguing like an old married couple the whole time, I decided to turn to Paula’s erudite comments to try and make some sense out of the whole affair. (Her enthusiastic clapping was muffled by her black, shiny, Madonna-meets-Billy Idol fingerless gloves, but she seemed fairly lucid.)

Care to weigh in, Paula?

Paula on Ramiele: “I’m hoping that you stay through and keep going, because you’re a very big talent in a little small package.”

Paula on Jason: “I think you’re staying true to who you are, and those are the songs that are your niche.”

Paula on Syesha: “What’s great about this performance, is that this is going to be the moment that everyone remembers where Syesha flipped it and became the dark horse that’s going to sail on through.”

(The meds are starting to kick in right around this point…)

Paula on Chikezie: “You are a throwback, but it’s a good throwback, and I do think that by you upping the tempo otherwise being a very memorable Brenda Russell song, which Luther did, and I think that you did a great job and I think that you did amazing with the texture of your vocals.”

(Really hitting her stride now…)

Paula on Brooke: “What it, what’s great, this is the great thing, this season we really wanted, we always wanted contestants that are unique and have their own niche, and you do, and you do and it’s, it’s…I can hear your voice one note and know that it’s you, Brooke, so that’s a great thing.”

Paula on Michael: “Any time that any one of us either said you didn’t find your right song, well, we can all shut our mouths on this one. This was your shining moment and I’m proud of you.”

(Time for a well-deserved backhanded compliment…)

Paula on Carly: “What I so admire about you, is that you probably take every song that I’m not crazy about and make me go buy it, and that’s the truth.”

Paula on David Archuleta: “David, you could sing the phone book and we’d fall in love with that, too.”

Paula on Kristy Lee Cook: “A very poignant and respectful song, it was a good choice for you.”

Paula on David Cook: “How smart you are, how brave you are, and how willing you are to stretch the boundaries and you do it right to the edge without going over. I think you’re brilliant.”

So there you have it! After examining the evidence, I still have no idea who’s going home. But I’m worried . . .

************

Okay, it’s 9pm. I was so agitated that I actually watched the results show in REAL TIME, instead of just waiting for my TiVo to do its thing. And REAL TIME means that I had to watch the endless recap footage, the awkward viewer questions, the cheesy Ford commercial, AND Kimberley Locke’s entire performance. (Talk about takin’ one for the team!) And the bottom three were Chikezie, Syesha and JASON (*sniff*). And Chikezie went home (*sniff, sniff*). I’m sad, because this “throwback” guy was reminiscent of some wonderful R & B crooners (Luther Vandross, Peabo Bryson, James Ingram, Brian McKnight) from my “younger adulthood.” You’ll be missed, Chikezie!

So tell me: Who do you love? Who do you hate? And what did you think of David Cook’s outstandingly large infant head?

I need help from the real judges.

I’ve already talked about the size of the instrument, but I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the mind of the musician. Because—and I’m trying to put this as delicately as possible—his focus can tend to be slightly more “abstract” than “practical.” And the cruel irony about the life of a musician is that his days are filled with tedious details that involve him to be aware of (*gasp*) time, space AND direction, when he really only sees the world in terms of pitch, volume, tempo and pizza.

A musician’s life is (pardon the pun) composed of endless lessons, rehearsals, concerts, gigs, competitions and recitals, all of which require an individual to be present at a certain time and place, with the correct music and accessories, and wearing the appropriate “uniform.” A tall order, even for a teen without the mind of the musician.

Which brings us to the mother of the musician.

Yes, I think I can say with confidence that behind every performing teen musician is a red-faced, panting mom who somehow got him to the right place at almost the right time. And she couldn’t be more proud.

Take, for instance, the Infamous Fall Middle School Orchestra Concert Incident of 2007.

It started innocently enough. As a seasoned mother of the musician, I knew enough to ask him SEVERAL DAYS IN ADVANCE about what he was supposed to wear. He assured me that it was “no problem.” He had an orchestra uniform shirt, and was going to wear his black pants with it.

So I relaxed, when I really should have realized that the entire transaction was disturbingly easy. Too easy.

The concert was to start at 7 p.m., so I informed my son that we would start loading the beast bass into the car at 6:20, and leave at 6:30, to which he readily agreed. At 6:21, when he wasn’t downstairs yet, I went to check on him. There he was, with a look of mild dismay on his face, with his orchestra uniform shirt hanging down to his knees, and NO PANTS ON.

“My pants are too small. I’m gonna have to wear a pair of Dad’s pants,” he admitted.

That would have been the end of the story, except for the fact that his dad was 16 INCHES TALLER and 90 POUNDS HEAVIER THAN HIM.

On to Plan B.

“How about trying on your pants again for me? Maybe they’re not that bad.”

They were that bad. (Note to self: Apparently boys in their teens are capable of growing several inches in every direction every couple of months, but—and this is the important part— this phenomenom only manifests itself when they try on dress clothes.)

Plan C:

“Surely there is another pair of black pants in your closet that fit you!” (Envision a sight that can best be described as a bomb going off in Old Navy.)

No black pants.

Plan D:

“Is it possible that your sister has a pair of black pants that fits you?”

Yes, I went there. (And no, I won’t go there again.)

So, we’re left with . . .

Plan E: The mother of the musician must make a new pair of black pants materialize in 25 minutes.

6:26: Family huddle. Four cell phones are set to ON. Mom careens out of driveway in car. Boy puts on darkest pair of blue jeans. Dad, sister, boy and bass are loaded into truck, which heads to the middle school.

6:33: Mom screeches into parking lot of Penney’s. Mom wonders why her surroundings are so blurry, and then realizes that she is actually running for the first time in 23 years. Mom grabs first pair of black dress pants in the correct size that she sees, and huffs and puffs her way to the checkout line.

6:41: Dad, sister and boy arrive at middle school. Dad runs in to the auditorium to save seats, sister lags outside for the hand-off, and boy skulks into the rehearsal room, with legs and bottom half of torso mercifully hidden by the bass.

6:42: Mom leaps into car, and squeals out of the mall parking lot, frantically tearing tags and stickers off the precious new pants with her teeth as she drives.

6:53: Mom calls sister on cell phone to advise her of her imminent arrival; they exchange locations and set up a plan for the pants exchange.

6:54: Back at the middle school, sister is spotted running towards a speeding vehicle in the parking lot. The window of the vehicle rolls down ominously, and a mysterious black bundle torpedoes into her waiting arms. Sister turns and stampedes into school, regretfully taking down a couple of eager grandmothers who had the misfortune of being in her way. The car shudders into a parking place, and the previously mentioned red-faced, panting mother of the musician slips inconspicuously into the auditorium, next to worried husband.

6:57: Covert mission accomplished, sister arrives in auditorium, also panting, and the family is reunited. They catch their breath, and stare in exhaustion at the empty stage, which has a glamorous black curtain all the way across the back of it.

7:01: With great pomp and ceremony, the orchestra members file across the stage in their black pants and white uniform shirts. All the members—except for the bass players. As the kids take their seats, the three bass players, unnoticed by the audience, emerge from behind the black curtain with their instruments, and stand in the back, completely obscured by the orchestra in front of them, except for the tops of their heads and the towering tips of their basses.

7:46: After a great performance, the orchestra files off the stage, as the bass players disappear behind the curtain again.

He could have worn a hula skirt and cowboy boots, and it wouldn’t have mattered.

But, in retrospect, what DID matter was the story, the tale of three family members going to bat for a fourth. Teamwork. Togetherness. The family unit. And yes—keeping a sense of humor about it.

Tonight, five months later, we are going to the Hopefully Not Infamous Spring Middle School Orchestra Concert. And this time, I had my musician try on those black pants. And yes, they’re already getting a little too short—but he’s just going to have to take one for the team and work it.

(But now that I’m looking, he’s going to need a new pair of shoes.)

Gotta run . . .