This column originally appeared on Brookline Patch in March 21, 2011. It has been updated and is running again in response to a recent push by local educators to get parents involved in math initiatives.  I used to do well in math. I have an (unfortunately) very distant memory of getting A's in elementary school math. But that was a long time ago, before two plus two stopped equaling four. It starts out innocently enough. I’ll be making dinner, screeching James Taylor into the spatula, minding my own off-tuned business, when I hear IT. The eight words that bring instant alarm and dread to my …

On Saturday, the Red Sox equipment van pulled out of Fenway Park on its journey to Florida and spring training 2012. My sons were practicing curveballs in the back yard and the excitement of spring baseball and a new Red Sox season came upon me. It made me remember a particular date night when I took my wife, Adrienne, to her first minor league baseball game. At the time, we lived in Newburyport with our twin toddlers and I was writing a sports column for the local newspaper. I wanted to write a piece on the Lowell Spinners, the Red Sox minor league affiliate. My wife Adrienne, who would …

There is a beautiful wild turkey that hangs out in a tall tree (yes, tree) in our back yard. He’s wandered the streets and yards of our neighborhood for almost two years now, somehow eluding the jaws of the Corey Hill Coyotes. He’s become so familiar with us he no longer puffs up at the bursts of loud sound forever emitting from our house.  This turkey has a routine that brings him pecking at our back door several times a week. We love this. It’s so funny to see the turkey right there on our doorstep, politely knocking to gain entry. Of course the boys want to open the door, and even I …

Did you know you are supposed to clean the legs of your wooden chairs? You can be honest, no one’s judging you here. Well I didn’t know, until the day I came home from work to find our housekeeper squirting lemon-fresh Pledge on the curvy-carved veneers of my wannabe French Country chairs. Is this something people do? Sure, if a glob of spaghetti sauce dropped on the chair, I’d give it a swipe, but otherwise it’s safe to say I’ve never given the those chair legs a thought. Seriously, do they even get dirty? I did what I always do when I’m stumped. I called my mother, and sure enough, yes, you…

In her book, Letter to my Daughter, Maya Angelou writes about a dinner party she attended on her first visit to Sengal at the home of a famous actress. As Angelou observed her opulent surroundings and the elegant guests milling about, she noted they were all—every single one of them—carefully avoiding the luxurious Persian rug so beautifully laid out in the middle of the floor. Not one person walked or stood on it. Angelou became appalled for her fellow guests. She could not believe her hostess could be so discourteous as to place an object above her guests’ comfort and convenience. Angelou (…

One morning when the boys were two years old, I went to check on them in their cribs. Both boys were standing up, arms stretched out to me, so darn adorable with their matching feet pajamas and big gap-toothed smiles, keen and eager to start the day. But wait, something wasn’t right. I did a double take. For a minute I thought I was trapped in a warped and nightmarish version of Sesame Street’s "One of These Things is Not Like the Other." It appeared one of my twins had grown an extra head. Overnight, he had developed a baseball-sized lump over his eye that was so large it squooshed his eye …

I’m so proud!  My twin boys and I are heading to MIT. What a thrill it is to know my children will be dwelling within the same four walls of some of the world’s greatest thinkers. They will be competing with our future scientists and Nobel Prize winners. Clearly, reading them the "Origin of Species" during their time in the womb has paid off.  As we pulled up to campus, my 11-year-old geniuses were deep in thought, while attempting to rip out each other’s gall bladder to be the first one out of the car. My one son dove through the car window to be the first one to touch sidewalk.  Who am I to…

This is me, on a full scale verbal rampage, after the sixth straight hour of a recent “vacation” day that consisted primarily of listening to my twin boys scream, yell, bicker, squabble, tease, taunt and push each other's buttons with the skill of an old fashioned elevator operator: Thaaaaaaat’s IT! Separate! I do not want you two in the same room! Do not talk to each other! Do not touch each other! Do not LOOK AT EACH OTHER! I MEAN IT! Get in your rooms right now and SHUT THE DOORS! Do not open them until I TELL YOU! AND NO KNOCKING ON THE WALLS TO EACH OTHER … IF I HEAR ANY MORSE CODE I’M …

I caught God looking at me. He wasn’t being sneaky about it; He was hanging out right there in the passenger seat beside me as I drove up Beacon. Every morning on my way to work, I pass an elderly gentleman who stations himself at a busy intersection of Beacon Street. As the cars stop at the light, he patiently weaves himself between them, slow and hunched over, one hand gripping his cane and the other shaking a large plastic cup in a jingling plea for monetary support. He’s there, dripping in the pouring rain, and there still, bundled up in countless layers of clothing on the coldest of …

Yesterday—as is our tradition on the first Sunday of every December—we went to Church, had breakfast at Martin's while our children attended religious education class (LOVE religious education), and then trekked to Allendale Farm to pick out our Christmas tree. This year, however, we channeled our inner Chevy Chase and got two trees that we spent all day dressing up in their holiday best. The smaller, fatter tree was draped in classy white lights and smugly preens in the corner of our sunroom for all the passersby to see. The very tall, slightly thinner tree was slathered in multicolored …

Tis the season to take stock and be thankful. And I am very thankful. Below are a few reasons why, but there are countless more. And for that I am most grateful. My mother’s stuffing. It wouldn’t be Thanksgiving or Christmas day without my Mom’s stuffing. I have four brothers and one sister, and no matter where we all are for the holidays, whether we’re together or spread out across the continents, we all make sure Mom’s stuffing sits prominently on our holiday tables. (I'm also thankful for her sugar-and-spice cookies, which arrive in the mail every December... hint, hint.) My ever-indulgent…

When my 11-year-old sons asked me why there wasn’t an NBA season this year, I explained it was because the millionaire players were fighting with the billionaire owners. They asked if this happened when I was their age. When I was eleven, the NBA was all about basketball and the community that it created. It was not the corporate machine it is now. I told them about my first experience meeting an NBA player, at the Garden, when I was ten. It was 1976 and the Boston Celtics would go on to win another championship with John Havlicek, Paul Silas and Jo Jo White. Tom Heinsohn was busy yelling at …

It happened the first time in high school. A friend pointed to her oversized, fluorescent pink digital watch where the bright blue, disjointed numbers gaily announced it was 11:11. “Make a wish,” she said. It seems that 11:11 is the only increment of time when four identical numbers have an opportunity to march across the digital clock’s face at exactly the same time. And that, my friend, deems it special enough to warrant a wish. As wishes go, I suppose it’s not tremendously high up on the potency totem pole.  After all, 11:11 arrives twice a day, every day. It’s certainly not as rare as …

One rainy, shivery day last October, my husband, sons and I went to Allendale Farm to hunt for the perfect carve-worthy pumpkins with just the right amount of character and personality to become our official Halloween jack-o'-lanterns. While the guys waded through a clumpy sea of orange, I searched for a few fluffy bundles of mums and a colorful fall wreath to decorate my front entrance. Although we headed out in different directions to complete our missions, we all bumped into each other a few short minutes later — inside the cozy barn where they had hot apple cider, cookies and pumpkin …

If you’ve read this column before, you know my 11-year-old sons are two things above all else. Thing one: They are die-hard, obsessed, over-the-top-committed, wake-up-in-the-morning-singing-Sweet-Caroline-oh-oh-oh, Red Sox fanaticals. (Thank you, Dad.) Thing two: They are hungry. All the time, every time, five minutes after dinnertime, they are hungry. I’m convinced no matter how much money we pump into their overpriced educations they will ultimately emerge as food vendors at Fenway Park. Lately, however, I’ve been considering they might take up law. This wouldn’t be unusual in our family; …

Today is the fifteenth day of sixth grade for my twin boys. It’s a big year for them; it’s the first time they switch classrooms and teachers; the first time they have a homeroom; and the first time they get grades.  They use lockers and carry three-inch binders in 50-pound backpacks. They suffer two or more hours of homework a night, wear deodorant, notice girls in a different way, and can walk to and from school without their parents. It’s a brave new world for sure. My husband and I ask them a lot of questions about school and they are still, as yet, very forthcoming in their answers. We …

The other day someone called me a perfect mom. I kid you not, stop laughing. This person has been a good friend of mine for over 20 years—you’d think she’d know better.  I’ve long been at war with the perfect mom. I see her everywhere, toned arms, white teeth, well-dressed, adorable children, a PhD, and a model husband. You’ve seen her too, she typically resides in a CVS picture-frame.  I write often about the pressures a mother feels to be perfect and to do it all. Logically we know it’s not possible, and not even expected, but we beat ourselves up about it anyway. It’s important to remember…

I write this week’s Moms Talk with a heavy heart. This past week, a friend of a friend tragically lost her 12-year-old son in a flash flood in Virginia. He had been playing with his friends in his back yard where a normally slow-trickling stream had swollen and raged over its banks, the result of too many days of too much rain. It took just a moment for the unthinkable to happen.  The particular area of Northern Virginia where this occurred was my home for over a decade and I have many friends and family members who live there. I also have two sons who are almost twelve. Although I do not …

My wife and I were going through boxes in the attic, thinning things out in preparation for the new school year. My twin boys are heading into sixth-grade tomorrow and somehow, in the past few weeks of summer, they managed to outgrow every last piece of clothing they own. After buying them a new wardrobe for school that consists primarily of baggy, oversized everything; a thousand pairs of socks and two pairs of enormous, overpriced, flourescent clown shoes, uh, basketball shoes, we decided to store away some of their more nostalgic articles of clothing in the attic. Just as I was holding up …

Dear new parents, I want to use this week's Moms Talk to give you the best piece of advice I have to offer after 12 years of parenting: Don't listen to advice on parenting. Of course, I don't mean ALL the time, that would be silly, particularly when the whole purpose of this column is to provide you with a forum to ask questions and learn from the experiences of other parents and care givers. It most definitely takes a village. But know this: You will be making decisions for your family long before your first child is ever born. Everyone you talk to and everything you read, hear, or otherwise…