Help! My pants have caught on fire!

Have you ever looked down, upon feeling a bit of warmth on your legs, to find that your pants were on fire? If not, you are missing out on something quite special.

Not only is it quite humbling - to be forced to pull your pants down in front of a mass of strangers so that you will not burn to death - it is an invigorating and educational experience as well.

You are probably asking yourself right now, as you are trying to decide whether or not it is acceptable behavior to laugh out loud about this matter, how did it happen? And if you are in any way familiar with my track record as a ridiculously accident-prone human being, you are probably also muttering under your breath, “It figures!”

Well, this time I am not to blame, I assure you. It happened because for once in my life, I was wearing a piece of clothing that was too big. My pant legs were billowing in the wind, as I was chatting with a friendly gal nearby, and I was standing next to a lit, gas-flame burner which was resting on the ground. So you can guess what happened next.

So where was I and for what good cause did I endanger my life? I was working the matzoh ball soup booth at the Hard Lox Festival – Asheville’s annual event spotlighting all things Jewish. Out of the goodness of my heart, I volunteered to dole out soup to the masses, who desperately needed it as it was terribly chilly outside. Who knew that fire could rage so quickly on such a cold day?

Meanwhile, when the tragedy struck, a very nice man saved my life by slapping my legs silly while I pulled my pants down. Never mind that there was a fire extinguisher, which I’m sure was in good working order, just inches away from the scene. Who needs an actual fire-reducing piece of equipment when presented with the opportunity to de-robe or assault someone’s legs? Come on.

And, believe me, I was there at Steinmart the very next day to replace the tattered, charred sweatpants. (And incidentally, I urge you all to boycott this store – no one took pity on me by replacing my pants for free, even after watching me limp to the cash register with a pained look in my eyes.)

The moral of the story: Try not to wear loose sweatpants, if you can avoid it, but if you must do so and there’s a pretty good chance that the pants will end up down around your ankles on any given day, make sure you’re wearing a spiffy pair of underwear. But, remember, don’t buy them at Steinmart.

Evil Mother Strikes Again!

It’s been one week since the cruel tyrant in our house inflicted an electronics ban on the children. The wailing and hysterics of yore have been replaced with, lo, the sounds of children talking about books, running in the yard and playing ping pong in the basement.

Giggles, high-pitched squeals of delight and low murmurs of conversation have replaced the dull hum of the TV, the loud rumble of video games and the beeps and bellows emitted by the computer.

The children are picking up the guitars that lie around the house. They’re offering to make meals. They’re rock hunting, leaf collecting and bug catching and on their breaks, going through stacks of books like they’re treasures from a faraway, alien planet.

It’s insanity.

Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Evil mother strikes, causing major household mayhem and taking no prisoners. They’ll never catch me alive. NEVER.

A snake and some gems

If it had been a snake, it would have bit me.

Digging for gems with my two kids on a sunny Saturday afternoon, we longed to find a sparkling amethyst or rose quartz – one of those big-as-a-fist beauties that we’d been told were there, hiding somewhere among the less intriguing specimens.

We sat, knee-deep in dirt, periodically brushing off dozens of tiny red ladybugs that lit upon our arms, legs and noses. It was hard work, shoveling and sifting, gazing at the rocks we’d find, held high in the sun, trying to see, underneath the coating of dirt, a hint of a gleam.

We’d traveled through the town of Leicester, North Carolina, just outside of our Asheville home, bouncing uphill on dirt roads, past rolling hills and shaded streams. My 6-year-old son’s long-time fascination with rocks and recent school study of the subject, prompted the trip.

We weren’t disappointed. We got to the gem mine – piles of rocky dirt beneath a tin roof behind a gurgling stream and roaming geese, goats and sheep – and were handed shovels and large buckets to fill.

And although we didn’t find those mammoth-sized gems we were hoping for, we did discover a few small rubies, rose quartz, sapphire, and amethyst, among others.

But most important was the thrill of the hunt. That’s what kept me and my 11-year-old daughter going, long into the hot, dusty afternoon. Long after my son, the rock hound, abandoned the task to play in the stream.

And actually, there was a snake. And it would have bit me. It slithered out from behind a large rock and crawled up my back as I was digging. A fellow digger working nearby let me know - in the form of a scream - that it was there.

And maybe one of those huge, magnificent gems lay right under our noses, waiting to be found. Probably that snake knows where it is.

I almost ran over my kid today.

I almost ran over my kid today. In the blink of an eye, his life flashed before me. I saw my little six-year-old, flung upward and then down, hitting the cold, cruel asphalt with a thud.

He had been riding on top of the hood of my car, with his sister, as I inched up the driveway. Suddenly, I sped up a bit faster, wanting to give the two an even greater thrill. A bit of bad judgment on my part – a momentary lapse of reason. A sudden desire to be the “fun” parent.

I’ve never indulged my precious angels with this type of “piggy back” ride. That’s a treat they get from their dad. After arriving home from work, he stops his car at our mailbox at the bottom of the hill and the kids run down and hop on. Of course, he creeps at about 1 mph with them onboard - the sensible way, if you can call allowing your kids to ride on top of your car, sensible.

Meanwhile, today, when my child hit the ground, I stopped. When I heard the screams, I feared that I didn’t stop in time. In the three seconds it must have taken me to put the car in park and rush out to him, I envisioned him lying unconscious, the life knocked out of him.

But instead, I found him sitting up, holding his arm, which had just a few new scratches on it. My first thought: I didn't hit him. My second thought: Thank
G-d he’s o.k. And then: I wonder what the neighbors are thinking, listening to my son howling at the top of his lungs.

And now, as I sit here, replaying the incident in my head, my heart still beating a little bit faster, feeling more grateful than ever that my boy, and girl, are happy and well, I marvel at the fragility of everything. In a second, everything can change. Or not.

I almost ran over my kid today. But I didn’t.