Un Natale Male (A Bad Christmas)

We always wanted to spend Christmas in Italy, and a few years ago we decided to do it.

We had heard that during il period natalizio (the Christmas period) our village, like many others in Italy, transformed itself into a Presepe Vivente (living nativity) set. Villagers took the parts of il fornaio (baker), il maniscalco (blacksmith), i falegnami (carpenters), i contadini (farmers), and Maria e Guiseppe (Mary and Joseph), i tre Magi (the three kings) and Gesu`Bambino (baby Jesus), the latter often the youngest baby in the village.

We looked forward to being a part of this village tradition. Good friends who owned the villa next door decided to join us, so we would be a group of nine revelers.

Our daughters would fly to London, where we lived, and together we would travel to Firenze (Florence). A good friend and my mother-in-law would fly directly from the States to Florence.

Our plans were made. I had a suitcase filled with presents for everyone. I had even tucked in a gingerbread cake mix. Coffee and gingerbread are Christmas morning favorites at our place.

Everything was on track. The girls arrived in London, and after two nights there, we got up early to make our way to Gatwick and our flight to Florence. We were all excited about the new Christmas adventure.

As we checked in, the ticket agent made a face. "This passport is expired," she said, handing it back to us.

It was mine. The woman who prides herself on organization. I had two passports for travel purposes and accidentally picked up the one that had just expired. There was no time to go back to the city to pick up the other one and still make the flight.

"I can get you on the flight tonight," the agent said. I was furious with myself, but there was nothing I could do about it. We decided that John and one daughter would go ahead with all the luggage, and the other daughter and I would take the evening flight. Not perfect, but not bad.

Two of us trained back to the city to pick up the other passport and wait until it was time to train back to Gatwick. We made the best of it and had a nice steak frites lunch.

After a few hours, we called the house in Italy to find the other two had just arrived. I told John to take the black suitcase into our room unopened because the presents were not wrapped.

Dead silence.

"What black suitcase?" he asked.

"The black one with the tan edging."

More silence.

He asked our daughter to check the car. She didn't find it. They looked all over the house. No suitcase. Maybe he had left it on the luggage carousel, in which case it would be at the airport when he came to pick us up that night. Surely that was what happened.

When we arrived at the Florence airport late that night, we were met by two solemn faces. The present-filled suitcase had not been found. It had been delivered to the airport on their flight, but it had disappeared without a trace. Was it taken by mistake or had it been un ladro (a thief)?

As we made our way down the autostrade towards the Incisa exit, the mood in the car was grim. All the presents so carefully selected, gone. The gingerbread, gone. And Christmas was three days away.

I went to bed in a funk that night. The next morning I felt the full weight of what sometimes settles on the shoulders of women during the Christmas season: the desire to make everything perfect. But in what I like to think of as a Scarlett O'Hara moment, I threw back the covers and decided that, in our family at least, the mood of the mother determines the mood of the holiday, so it was time to forget the lost presents and try to create a Buon Natale (good Christmas) nonetheless.

We descended on the weekly markets in the area and picked up new presents. They were not carefully thought out, but who had time to think? We stopped for creamy cappuccini and warm cornetti (croissants) in a little caffe full of festive market shoppers. Our spirits lifted right along with every "auguri" (best wishes) directed our way.

On a rainy Christmas morning we gathered around our rustically decorated tree and with a wood fire blazing, happily exchanged our market presents. We looked forward to a holiday dinner, Italian style, and the living nativity in town that night.

After dinner, which featured a long-legged tacchino (turkey) we all bundled up and went to town. It was still sprinkling, but we were undaunted. Nine of us, one in a wheelchair, arrived in the village looking for the Presepe vivente.

It was to start at 6 pm, so we went to wait at a local caffe. Maurizio, one of the family that runs the place, was behind the bar. We asked if he had a nice Christmas. He indicated that he did not. One daughter suggested that he had a "un Natale male" ( a bad Christmas). That brought a faint smile to his lips.

With the wheelchair clattering over the wet cobblestones, we went to another caffe. The town was dead, which perplexed those of us in search of the living Nativity.

That caffe was quiet, too. "A che ora comincia il Presepe?" (What time does the Nativity start?) we asked.

"Annullata. Fa piove." (Cancelled. It's raining). We learned it was rescheduled for January 6, long after our departure.

The whole reason for our Italian Christmas had been cancelled due to drizzle.

The weather continued to play a part in our vacanza (vacation). On the day we were to fly back to London, snow began to fall in the region. We arrived at the airport, which was operational, checked our bags, and went to the boarding gate. We waited. And waited some more. We watched the snow accumulate on the runways at an astounding rate. It was clear that nothing would be flying out that night. It took awhile, however, for the authorities to announce that the airport was closed and we should collect our luggage.

An Italian airport that closes during what would later be called an "historic" snowstorm is, to say the least, chaotic. After a few hours of waiting to reschedule our flight, we were driven over snowy roads to a nearby Novotel for the night. Our new flight was at 7 am the next morning.

That flight was cancelled, too, but not before we got up at 5 am to be there on time. We were hauled by bus through a snow-blanketed countryside to the larger airport in Pisa, which closed just as we arrived. Things were just not going our way.

The snowfall was truly enough of a weather phenomenon in Tuscany that pictures of a snow-covered Duomo made the front page of the International Herald Tribune that day.

We eventually made our way back home, weary and defeated. One daughter developed a bad flu. The other had a sore throat. John and I were exhausted. Over time, though, we all began to regale friends with our Natale tale of woe. Eventually we saw the humor in it.

It was a Christmas we wanted to forget, but it was one we will always remember.

Addicted, Part 2

I said in my last post (Addicted, November 11) that I would try to exercise control over my internet addiction and not go online before 2 pm each day.

You can guess how long that lasted.

Judging from the amount of feedback I received following that post, I am comforted that there are so many of us in the same boat.

We are slaves to our devices. We know it, but we can't stop. Like the gambler who loves the rush, we get excited when we see mail in our inbox or text messages on our phones. We enjoy searching for answers on Google. I like to look at the weather in our little Italian village and compare it to London, where we are, or Washington and New York, where our daughters are.

Don't laugh.

I received some telling anecdotes about how far this compulsion can go: One friend told me how her husband, preoccupied with his Blackberry, fell into a swimming pool, fully clothed, phone in hand. Accidents can happen to anyone, though, right?

My friend kindly lent him her Blackberry until he could replace his. The next day, focused on her device, he once again fell into the pool, fully clothed, phone in hand.

Another reader sent me a text to say that she and her husband were with another couple having coffee together in New York City. All four of them were on their devices, enjoying a companionable silence while they focused on their phones.

A teacher at a posh school for girls in London confiscates the phones of students if they try to use them in her class. She has to hand them back when the school day ends. Otherwise parents become frantic with worry if their daughters do not immediately respond to their calls or texts. The teacher admits to a bit of phone envy as most of the girls have smartphones and she doesn't.

Side note: There is a video circulating that shows a teacher in Thailand confiscating a student's cell phone and smashing in on the floor. In Asia, where teachers are held in highest esteem, she had no fear of the consequences of her actions. Teachers elsewhere might fear for their lives, or at least a lawsuit.

One friend was relieved that her computer was down for several days because she accomplished more without its distractions.

Still another reader told me she stopped using the internet altogether after developing a serious blood clot in her leg from sitting for hours in front of her computer.

I have a slight fear that device addiction can lead to isolation. We don't need to leave the house for much anymore. We can do online banking. Many of us can work from home. Groceries can be ordered online. Who needs to go shopping for clothing or gifts when it is so easy to browse and order on the internet? We make our own travel arrangements. We can even attend university online. We are able to exercise at home by plugging in exercise DVDs or Wii-Fit. We don't need to talk to our friends because we can interact online.

All of this is wonderfully convenient, and I partake in it with enthusiasm, but is it good for us?

Since getting old is a fate in store for all of us, I am interested in why some elderly people do well while others decline and withdraw from life. If there is a serious illness and/or physical/mental disability involved, that is of course another story, not for this post.

My un-scientific conclusions: Those who do well seem to maintain their sociability. They have friends in all age groups. They leave the house every day. They belong to something, like a club or church. They stay on top of the events of the day and have an interest in learning new things. They exercise every day, walking or at a gym, where they see other people.

They have learned to use the internet to maintain contact with friends and family, or to find old acquaintances. It doesn't go much further, though. They still go out to shop, bank, socialize. They turn their devices off.

Are we addicts in danger of becoming anti-social loners? Even in a roomful of people, it is easy to tune everyone else out while we focus on our little screens. You may have read about the mother who shook her infant to death for interrupting her online game.

It is something to think about.

While I am thinking about it, I am also likely to continue indulging my addiction.

My latest effort at containment is this: I will allow myself no more than one hour on the computer in the morning to read the news and check emails. I will then put the computer away and not look again until after 2 p.m. (phone texts excluded).

That's my plan and I'm sticking to it.

Or maybe I will just try it out and see how it goes.

Addicted

Do any of you have a quiet addiction? Is there something you really must have every day or you feel deprived, unfinished? Have you tried to control your compulsion to whatever it is only to find that you can't?

With the exception of really good coffee, I've always asserted that I do not have an addictive personality. There are things I love and would hate to do without, like gelato, chocolate, pasta, and a Coca Cola Classic over crushed ice with lime, but I could if I had to.

I now have to admit that I have a serious addiction beyond coffee. I bet some of you reading this have the same one.

Does the following routine sound familiar?

You get up, check your iPhone/Android/Blackberry for text messages sent during the night, turn on your computer, get dressed for the day, make your coffee, check your email messages from more than one address, answer those that need a reply right away.

If you don't have a Smartphone that makes everything available to you anywhere and at anytime, you scan several news sources on your computer to find out what's going on in the world (NYT, CNN, Washington Post, Huffington Post, BBC, more...) before dashing out the door for work, class, errands.

On your way, you check your phone (and let's face it, yours is probably a smart one) several times for messages, answers to the emails you sent just ten minutes ago, Facebook updates, and WebMD to see if you should be concerned about the pain in your knee.

In the office or class or wherever you are, your phone and the outside world are only a glance away. It reassures you. Some of you spend the day doing legitimate work on the computer. There are books to write, reports due, stats to check, tele-conferences, finances to tend to, travel arrangements to be made, questions to answer, spreadsheets to work on and review.

Throughout the day your friends send you links to articles you have already read, but you appreciate that they are thinking of you. Texts come in saying "hi" or "just got up, feel terrible today." You are pleased that you were on their minds and write back, "hi," or "sorry."

Your phone or computer alerts you to more emails, so you read those and respond. You browse to see if anything new has happened in the world since you checked an hour ago. Then someone is sending you an IM. You chat for a bit. Oops -- now someone is trying to SKYPE. Do you look okay for the built-in camera? You need to research something, so you google it.

Some of you find this familiar. Come on. Admit it. Many of you do. You know you feel panicked if you leave your cell phone at home. You will even turn around and go back for it, afraid to miss anything. Let's face it: we're addicted.

It wasn't always this way.

When John bought his first computer in the early '80's, I was appalled at how much time he spent on it. For some years I referred to it as his mistress. Now he says I spend too much time on mine. The truth is, we often sit side by side in our own computer worlds for hours at a time. We read out loud to each other or tell the other to check out a particular site.

Our daughter once brought a friend home for the weekend who appeared at breakfast with a computer. I remember thinking it was odd. It was not a formal breakfast, but the kind where members of the family sit around drinking coffee, chatting and reading the newspapers. Except who reads papers anymore, except on the internet?

While out to dinner I used to be disturbed if a friend checked his/her phone for messages. Now I find most of us sit down and put our phones right next to our forks. Who knows when one might need to google or respond to a call?

For many, there is something comforting about being connected all the time. The author Jonathan Carroll once wrote, "I like receiving texts on my phone. It's like carrying that person around in my pocket."

Since we live in England and most of our families and best friends do not, that struck a chord with me. I don't feel isolated knowing we are all a text/chat/SKYPE/phone call away.

But still...don't you find that web addiction takes up too much time? Hours can pass while you are wired up and you don't even notice it. That cannot be a good thing (unless you are at an airport and your flight is delayed for six hours).

I realized the gravity of my addiction when a friend told me she was having a really bad day. She had lost her cell phone and her husband had left the day before to cover the war in Afghanistan. My response: "Oh, no! You lost your cell phone?!"

Something has to be done. I need to discipline myself. I am going to start by resolving not to look at anything on my computer until after 3 pm each day. Okay, make that 2 pm.

Behind the Mask

I was standing in the condiments section of Waitrose grocery in London, trying to determine what "scrumpy" meant, and whether or not I wanted scrumpy cider in my applesauce, when I became aware of someone standing close to me. I looked down to see a pair of Nikes and red flannel material decorated with Curious George monkeys. Pajamas. They were mostly covered by the long black abaya worn by devout Muslim women.

I've often thought that the abaya is rather convenient if you don't feel like getting dressed, and here was the proof.

I turned to see her face and was jolted to find that I could not. On the streets of London one becomes used to the hidjab, the head covering that leaves the face visible. I am still startled to see the face covering that leaves only the eyes apparent, but I can handle it.

This woman's face was covered entirely with a black veil. I could see nothing but cloth. Maybe I should have asked her if she needed help finding something on the shelf (how could she see?), but my first reaction was fear.

Is this unusual?

Are any of us truly comfortable when we cannot see the face of the human being in front of us? We might attend a costumed Carnival or Halloween party, entirely in the festive mood, masked ourselves, and still find it disconcerting to talk to another masked face. Or is it just me?

This woman was a black apparition in the aisles of Waitrose. Those monkey pajamas suggested she had a sense of humor and that eased my discomfort. But thoughts can't always be controlled and it crossed my mind that she (or maybe he?) could be a suicide bomber right there in the aisle with the scrumpy cider applesauce.

Would it have crossed your mind, too?

In the States recently journalist Juan Williams was fired from National Public Radio (NPR) for saying he felt uncomfortable when he encountered what appeared to be an extremist Muslim on the plane with him.

In airports right after September 11, the fear he spoke of was palpable, and traditionally-garbed Arabs were regarded suspiciously. Some travelers refused to get on planes with them. It was ironic because those who perpetrated the attack had taken pains to appear as Western as possible.

Even the most rational person can let fear make them irrational.

It is a comfort to me that our many Muslim friends have the same reactions I do to coming face to face (or should I say face to cloth?) with something none of us understands. They dislike the extremist wing of Islam as much as many of us dislike extreme Christian fundamentalism or ultra-conservative Judaism.

I am not sure any extremist group cares whether they are understood or not, though. If we're not with them, we are against them. Maybe that irrational attitude makes us have irrational fears when we encounter them.

Meanwhile, I've been thinking I might have tried to look beyond the veil and asked the woman next to me in Waitrose if she knew what scrumpy cider was and whether applesauce was better with or without it.

Rationality has to start somewhere.

A Manner of Speaking

"Italy Closes the Door on Gypsies," was a front page, above the fold, story in the print version of The Washington Post yesterday.

What surprised me most about the article was the liberal use of the word "gypsies." Hadn't the Post writer been informed that it is no longer politically correct to refer to them that way? Now we are supposed to call them Roma.

The Roma are a distinct group of itinerants who originated centuries ago in India and made their way to Romania, hence the name. Until recently they were called gypsies and no one thought anything about it. To distinguish them from other, well, gypsies, they are now called Roma. Anyone can be a gypsy but not everyone can be a Roma. Are you with me?

For many of us, the word gypsy has romantic connotations of crystal balls, wanderlust and uninhibited barefoot dancing around a campfire, albeit after a day of clever scams and pick-pocketing. Gypsy women have given the fashion world hoop earrings, ankle bracelets, toe rings, arm bangles and flounced skirts.

Who decided the word was derogatory and why do we have to go along with it?

Should Cher change her song to "Roma, Tramps and Thieves?" Should Van Morrison re-write his lyrics as "It's just the Roma in my soul?" Should Stevie Nicks sing "Roma?" We can take this further: Should burlesque queen Gypsy Rose Lee now be referred to as Roma Rose Lee? Should kids who want to dress as gypsies for Halloween be told no, they can only dress as Roma?

Think about it.

Let's move on to the beautiful word Oriental. The root of it means "from the East." For some, that brings to mind exotic images of peaceful mountains, delectable food, colorful clothing, brilliant people. Nothing derogatory there, but it is now politically incorrect to say Oriental when referring to Asia or its people. Why?

To do so connotes a Western-centric view of the world. Don't Asians have an Eastern-centric viewpoint? Isn't it normal to look at the big picture from one's own vantage point? Should the word "Occidental" become politically incorrect because it connotes an Asian-centric view of the world?

In the meantime, should the Mandarin Oriental Hotel chain change its name to the Mandarin Asian? Should we stop eating Oriental chicken until it becomes Asian chicken? Should Agatha Christie's book be renamed "Murder on the Asian Express?"

When I was growing up, my mother told me never to use the term "colored people" because it was derogatory. Now it is politically correct to change the words around and refer to non-Caucasians as "people of color." Should Caucasians then be called "people of no color?"

I'm told that in the States "black" might be bordering on politically incorrect now, even though we were told to use it during the Black Power movement of the Civil Rights days. The correct term now is African-American. In Europe, it is still black/negro/nero/schwarz/noir.

Since the subject of this post is how to properly refer to people and things in the ever-changing world of political correctness, can I ask when it became okay to use the word "poop" in polite conversation and on the airways? As in: "My kid has to poop," "I need to poop," "I'm cleaning up dog poop," "She hasn't pooped in two days," "He was so scared he pooped his pants." Where did this come from?

Then there is the ubiquitous "butt." As in: "I kicked butt," "My butt is big," "She has a big butt," "I fell on my butt," "Let's kick butt!" There are songs that praise big ones ("I like big butts, I cannot lie") and a dance called 'Doin' da butt." Okay, I danced to it once. It was a wedding.

The thing is, some of us may call a Roma a gypsy or refer to something as Oriental rather than Asian. We may even slip and call a person of color black. Give us points, though, for never using the words our mothers told us were vulgar: poop and butt.

Our mothers were right.

Spoiled Brats

It has been two years since the United States had an economic collapse of historic proportions. We were on shaky ground, personally and nationally, and it scared us profoundly. Forgetting that the country had survived other economic meltdowns, we thought it was doomsday in America.

Since then there have been signs of a recovery, not as fast as our instant gratification tendencies would prefer, but slowly, if not always surely. Unemployment is still high at 9.6%, the exact rate it was in 1983 under President Reagan during that recession.

It has not been even two years since Barack Obama was elected president, and even less than that since he was inaugurated on January 20, 2009. He inherited a huge financial crisis, along with two wars, a super power country that did not have the power to provide health care for its citizens, and a nation held in low esteem around the world.

Remember?

It didn't take long for the Republican Party to start complaining about what Obama was or was not doing. They weren't ashamed to say they were going to do their best to obstruct whatever he tried to do. They did it with President Clinton, too, even shutting down the entire government for a time in 1994. Nothing surprising there.

What is astounding is how soon the very people who elected Obama began to pile on. He wasn't tough enough! He doesn't understand Washington! His advisors are giving him bad advice! He's not leading! He wants everyone to like him and you can't do that as president! His health care bill didn't go far enough! He just doesn't get it!

The twenty-four hour news cycle, with its hysterical pundits on both sides, feeds the frenzy. People who didn't even know they should be angry are riled up. People who should know better sit around at dinner parties shaking their heads in despair.

Can we stop being such spoiled brats?

Can we find another theme song rather than "The End" from the Doors: "We want the world and we want it N-O-O-W!?"

It takes longer than two years to dig out of the mess Obama inherited. That said, he has passed health care (which six previous presidents had failed to do), a stimulus package, Wall Street reform, reversed spending limits on stem cell research, has put relations with Russia on a positive track, is shrewdly managing our relations with China, is in the process of ending the unnecessary war in Iraq, and has restored respect for the United States around the world.

Not bad for less than two years in office.

But still our fellow Democrats can't get no satisfaction: "Yes, but he's going to make Democrats lose the House and Senate in the fall!"

Does anyone remember that President Clinton was blamed for losing the House (for the first time in forty years) and Senate in 1994 and still went on to have a successful presidency?

Apathetic Democrats are threatening to sit out the mid-term elections. That'll show 'em! The President calls that "irresponsible" and "inexcusable." He reminds us of what he said on his election night: He would not be able to solve all the problems of our country, nothing was going to be easy, he wasn't going to be able to please everyone.

Vice President Joe Biden cuts to the chase and tells the Democratic base to "...stop whining and get out there and look at the alternatives."

Yes, look at them and then stop giving them more ammunition.

Oral Fixation

I've just returned to London after an extended stay in the States. Is it my imagination or have we Americans developed a national oral fixation? Mouths are never still or unfilled, except perhaps when fingers are typing out messages on cell phones.

Go to a restaurant and you might encounter a friendly waiter who, after spieling out a list of daily specials that you can't remember by the time he finishes, decides to tell you his life story. There are times when this might be interesting, but generally when people are dining with friends they want to talk to those friends, not the waiter.

The meal itself might be served in portions so large that the sight of it kills your appetite. People will feign shock at the size but then eat everything served. If they don't, the unconsumed parts are taken away in a doggy bag so they can chow down later. After seventeen years of living abroad, I can't think of a time when I have seen that done here.

Walk down the street and you will notice many people carrying a drink of some kind. Where did this compulsive thirst come from? Is there a high risk of dehydration when we go to the grocery store, drive the kids to school, or walk three blocks? Or is the styrofoam coffee cup, plastic water bottle and out-sized soft drink container now considered a fashion accessory?

Take a train from Washington to New York and you may find yourself sitting near someone who has decided to discuss office problems, scold children, argue with a spouse or breakup with a lover, all on a cellphone, and loud enough for the whole car to hear. I admit this can be entertaining.

I chose the "quiet car" on Amtrak recently but even then could not escape incessant chatter. The train broke down soon after leaving the station, which caused the conductor to seize the microphone. She never said anything new, but clearly liked the sound of her enhanced voice as she blared every fifteen minutes, "The engineers are on the ground,working on the problem. I repeat, the engineers are on the ground, working on the problem. We will keep you advised of our progress. I repeat, we will keep you advised of our progress."

Side note: The engineers on the ground made no progress and we transferred to another train.

A doctor or nurse might explain that something you have asked about is 99.9% normal and detail how and why it occurs. You are content with the answer, relieved, and think the subject has ended when they continue, "But of course that .1% could be the sign of an extremely rare and serious condition which is difficult to treat. I've never actually seen it myself, but I've heard it can happen."

Can't they just shut up?

Cable television, with its 300 channels but nothing to watch, is filled with talk, talk, talk. Or should I just say hot air? Political commentators, "experts," advisers, reporters, politicians, all have too much to say while saying nothing. Some do it in an hysterical, hyper-ventilating manner that makes the viewer think the world is coming to an end. "Breaking news" might be a robbery in Texarkana that is covered with "on the scene" reporters as if weapons of mass destruction had been found there.

While standing at a make-up counter in Bloomingdale's, wondering if the new "lifting" face cream will really lift, a customer unknown to you might announce that she is treating herself to a new foundation today because she is having a colonoscopy tomorrow. Did you need to know that while deciding between the berry berry and mocha shades of lipstick?

Then there is the airline ticket agent who decides to give his take on last night's football game and the new quarterback with the customer in front of you while a long line forms behind you.

One of the things I love about Americans is our openness, but sometimes it really isn't necessary to share.

I discussed these observations with a friend who said, "But the Italians talk a lot, too, and you don't mind that."

True. But Italians drink in cafes or bars and eat reasonable portions in restaurants. The waiters are generally polite but never intrusive. It is a profession in Italy, as it is in many parts of Europe.

But okay, Italians do have effusive discussions about everything, from the right way to cut a tomato to whether or not the Pope is gay. Do they discuss their colonoscopies with a total stranger? I don't know.

I do know that all that talk just sounds better in Italian.

Oh, Baby!

Lately I have been congratulating myself for raising two children to adulthood. I followed all the guidelines of the time for healthy pregnancies and babies, but apparently I was misguided. It seems my children were exposed to a minefield of dangers.

If I were a new mother today, I would know better than to use a bumper pad on the baby's crib. When my children were infants, I was told to use them to protect their heads from banging against the crib bars. I noticed they liked to burrow the crowns of their tiny heads into the corners of the bumper, perhaps to simulate the coziness of the womb.

Who knew that the bumper, usually a part of a crib set that sets the theme for a nursery, was potentially lethal? Today, bumpers are thought to threaten the possible suffocation of a baby by not allowing enough air to circulate in the crib.

We were told to place our babies on their sides or stomachs when sleeping, but never on their backs. Why not? If they spit up, they might choke on the contents. Today's mothers are told to put their babies to sleep on their backs only, never on their stomachs. Why not? They might suffocate.

While nursing my babies I was told to drink beer to produce more abundant and richer milk. I am not a fan of beer, but I dutifully forced down one a day so my babies would reap the benefits. Today, that same act might be considered reckless endangerment to my child.

I didn't know that plastic bottles might contain harmful chemicals. Some primal instinct did keep me from ever warming them in the microwave, though. Whew.

Who knew that I should have used only organic crib sheets? Isn't cotton by its very nature organic?

Why didn't I realize that the beautiful organza-skirted bassinet was a potential danger because it might collapse? I still have never heard of one that did, but shouldn't I have researched bassinet makers and checked their safety records?

Today's expectant mother is told to steer clear of any renovation, sanding, or painting. They might pose a risk to the baby. I remember being in full nesting mode and having the nursery and trim on the outside of the house painted. There was also a deck added to the back of the house. How could I have been so careless?

Modern mothers are advised to avoid gardening within three feet of their home's foundation if it was built before 1978. I have no idea why. All I know is I should have used a measuring tape before planting those impatiens in the front yard.

And, oh! The other sins I unknowingly committed: Eating off of ceramic plates that were not certified lead-free. Wearing nail polish. Highlighting my hair. Eating soft cheese and tuna fish sandwiches (with mayo!). Partaking of caffeine. Taking clothes to the dry cleaners. Spritzing a little cologne here and there.

Given everything I did that would make today's young mother report me to social services, you can understand why I am so relieved that my babies survived infancy and childhood and grew to be healthy adults.

One more thing: I have always been a fanatic about clean drinking water. I never gave them anything but bottled (in glass) water that I had researched and determined to be clean. I felt good about that.

Later I learned the clean bottled water deprived them of the fluoride found in tap water, which may have contributed to a cavity or two. Even my best efforts were flawed.

I take comfort in the knowledge that our own parents and grandparents unknowingly did worse things (smoking, drinking, painting, eating deli meat, using cribs with wide slats, not using car seats or seat belts), and somehow we made it to adulthood.

The will to survive apparently survives parents.