By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

On May 4, 2013 I went to the Prom – but not the kind with all the awkward teenage drama. This one was a “Mom Prom,” a tradition which began several years ago in Michigan by a group of mothers. Women liked the idea so much that the concept spread, and this spring there are more than 40 “Mom Proms” held across the country – each one raising money for a local non-profit group.

Since my two prom experiences happened 22 years apart, I made a list of the differences between them to see just how much has changed.

While getting ready for my high school prom, I didn’t wonder if they make industrial-strength Spanx, nor did I need them. My metabolism was young, carbs were still friendly and I didn’t have the good sense to appreciate the glorious “thigh gap” of my youth.

My high school prom date was a boy named Matt who was perpetually working on a 1968 Mustang in his garage. I was sure we were destined for each other. We weren’t. Destiny was much smarter than I was.

I attended the Mom Prom with about 300 women – all of whom had left their husbands at home. Why pay a sitter for a girls’ night out when there’s a perfectly good father who can hold down the fort?

I styled my own hair before I went to my high school prom – a poor decision painfully proven by the prom pictures. I was still hanging on to those unfortunate “big bangs” of the 80s that defied gravity.

Ironically, the dark blue dress I wore to the Mom Prom was almost identical in color to the sequined number I wore when I was 18. The dress size? Not quite so identical. But who’s counting? That skinny dress was three kids and two decades ago.

For my high school prom, I did what every girl did when it was time to find shoes. I got those terribly uncomfortable ivory pumps that could be dyed to match the exact color of your dress. I wore them all night because they were high and made me feel like the mature woman I was deluded enough to think I already was. By midnight, I couldn’t feel anything below the ankle.

At the older and wiser Mom Prom, we posed for pictures for about 20 minutes while wearing our sparkly, strappy, rhinestone-studded heels. Then we took them off and promptly deposited them into a “Shoe Bank” where they stayed for most of the night while we boogied barefoot on the dance floor to “Brick House.”

Here I am with 300 of my closest Mom Prom friends dancing barefoot to “Brick House.” It. was. awesome. (Photo credit: Lisa Mac Photography)

Speaking of dancing, I did plenty of it at both proms. But the day after the Mom Prom, my legs were sore, my back hurt, and my friend said she thought she might have danced her hip out of joint when the Prince song “Let’s Go Crazy” came on. We mid-life mamas can still shake it, but we need several Advil the next day.

At my first prom, my friends and I were thrilled that our curfew had been extended and we could party until well past midnight. We would have danced until dawn if our parents had let us.

At the Mom Prom, several women left bleary-eyed by 10 p.m. because the thought of sleep was even more alluring than the freedom to party all night. Plus they knew their kids would be up by 6 a.m. asking for waffles.

So which prom was better? Both were fun. But I loved how the second one let me feel footloose and 18 again without erasing the blessings two decades of “livin’” have given.

Gwen Rockwood is a mom to three great kids, wife to one cool guy, a newspaper columnist and co-owner of nwaMotherlode.com. To read previously published installments of The Rockwood Files, click here. To check out Gwen’s new book, “Reporting Live from the Laundry Pile: The Rockwood Files Collection,” click HERE.

Author Photo credit: Lisa Mac Photography

I know I’m probably too old to be this excited about a new toy, but, nevertheless, I am. I’ve got a new swing, and I love it.

We hung the one-seater swing from the high ceiling of an enclosed back porch where there are lots of windows and not much else. It’s a long, narrow room with a stone floor, and, for the nearly eight years we’ve lived here, the room has stumped me every time I try to put furniture in it. A sofa was too big. A chair was too small. The side table never looked right. Nothing seemed to work, so it became one of those hodge-podge rooms where mismatched furniture and neglected exercise equipment go to die.

Then last winter, our rule-breaking Beagle, Charlie, got bored and decided to eat the arm off the old chair on the porch because it was apparently much tastier than the three chicken-flavored dog toys in the room. So I finally dragged the dilapidated furniture out and started over with a blank slate. That’s when I found the swing.

I spotted it in a store, and it had a cushioned seat and a colorful pillow nestled against its wooden back. Its cocoon-like shape practically insisted that I sit down and stay a while. As soon as I did, I knew that a swing was the thing that odd back porch of mine had always been missing.

Obviously, this is not my backyard, as I have no ocean back there. But I love this shot of the Swingasan chair. I picked it up at Pier 1, in case you need one, too. Happy swinging.

Sometimes I think about the swing when I’m working or running errands. I make little deals with myself that, if I can just finish this project or get caught up with the laundry, I’ll let myself retreat to the porch for some time to read in the swing. The busier things get, the more I find myself craving some time to just “play.”

The truth is that most people crave play, whether we admit it to ourselves or not. Even the word itself shows up in so much of what we know as fun – playing music, playing ball, playing cards and even playing hooky. When we go to the theater, it’s often to see a “play.” Long past the age of Lego blocks and hopscotch, we all need some play time. Sometimes it takes something as simple as a swing to make us remember that play is a part of who we are and, instead of wasting our time, it makes us appreciate it even more.

Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. once said “Men do not quit playing because they grow old; they grow old because they quit playing.” And if he was right, then the smart thing for me to do would be to sit on the porch and swing myself a little younger every chance I get. Perhaps you should, too.

Don’t bother with grown-up guilt about goofing off now and then. Play often makes us better at our work because it gives a creative spark some room to run. When we allow ourselves the time to play – to chase a new idea just for the fun of it – there’s no telling where we might go.

Gwen Rockwood is a mom to three great kids, wife to one cool guy, a newspaper columnist and co-owner of nwaMotherlode.com. To read previously published installments of The Rockwood Files, click here. To check out Gwen’s new book, “Reporting Live from the Laundry Pile: The Rockwood Files Collection,” click HERE.

Author Photo credit: Lisa Mac Photography

By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

I have what we moms call a “picky eater.” That doesn’t mean the kid won’t eat. He eats plenty of food when it’s served in the form of pizza, chicken nuggets, bologna and cheese sandwiches, yogurt, cereal bars and grilled cheese sandwiches. That’s the extent of his menu. Now and then he’ll eat a serving of green beans, when the stars line up just right and I’m able to cook them the exact same way I did last time with absolutely no variation. But that’s about the only green thing that passes his lips.

Our only saving grace is that he loves most kinds of fruit. If not for that, I’m certain the nutrition police would have already hauled me off to “bad mama” jail.

I’ve tried a whole host of “get him to try new things” tricks. I’ve tried logic. (If you eat those peas, they will make you healthy and strong.) I’ve tried rewards. (If you eat those peas, you’ll get some ice cream for dessert.) I’ve tried threatening. (If you don’t eat those peas, you’re not going outside to play after dinner.) I’ve tried bargaining and pay-offs. (I’ll give you a penny for every pea you eat.) And I’ve tried pitiful, desperate begging. (Please, please eat two bites of peas because it would make me so happy if you do.)

Yet my kid will not eat the peas or any other new thing – not for logic or rewards or play time or money or even his pitiful mother’s happiness. Oh, I can hear what you’re thinking. It’s so loud it’s nearly deafening: “If you’d let that kid get hungry enough, he’d eat peas or anything else you put in front of him.” Right? I know, I know. It makes perfect sense. To that argument I say this: Show me a mama who can let her kid get to that degree of hungry (and cranky), and I’ll show you a mama who is much, much tougher than me and 99 percent of other moms. At the end of the day, before we settle into our nests, we moms have a very strong need to know that we’ve poked food into the mouths of our baby birds. If the baby bird’s beak won’t open for anything other than a grilled cheese sandwich, then so be it.

Since my son is normal for height and weight, I’m certain his menu restrictions aren’t making him waste away. I worry more about the effect his pickiness will have on him socially.

I have this vision of my son as a twenty-something wearing a tuxedo and looking dashing at his wedding reception. In this vision, he is seated beside a banquet table full of chicken nuggets, bologna and cheese sandwiches, pepperoni pizza and yogurt cups, and all the wedding guests are staring at me in silent judgment wondering “Where did his mother go wrong?”

I’ve probably gone wrong at a number of different parenting crossroads, but I, like so many other parents of picky eaters, am doing my best. I’ll keep trying to win this food fight, and maybe one day he’ll begin to outgrow his choosiness. In the meantime, we’ll be one of those all American families preparing our Thanksgiving feast with a side of pepperoni pizza and fruit roll-ups. Bon appetite.

Gwen Rockwood is a mom to three great kids, wife to one cool guy, a newspaper columnist and co-owner of nwaMotherlode.com. To read previously published installments of The Rockwood Files, click here. To check out Gwen’s new book, “Reporting Live from the Laundry Pile: The Rockwood Files Collection,” click HERE.

Author Photo credit: Lisa Mac Photography

By Gwen Rockwood, newspaper columnist and mama of 3

Tick, tick, tick. My paranoia grows with each passing hour. One by one, all three of my kids have fallen victim to a nasty stomach bug that crept into our house last week. And even though physically I feel fine, I’m mentally queasy about the prospect that the virus might be coming for me next.

The kids managed to stay well all winter long – remarkable given that they go to elementary school, which can turn into a petri dish of viruses during cold and flu season. Then, only days after the official start of spring, the wheels came off the bus and it’s been a blur of bodily fluids ever since. We’ve stripped three beds in less than 6 days.

Six-year-old Kate is the third victim of the dreaded Stomach Bug, and she’s handling it like a real trooper. While I type on my laptop, she sits beside me in bed, watching cartoons and keeping the “sick bowl” on her lap, just in case she’s not able to sprint to the bathroom when the Bug rears its ugly head again.

As far as I know, every parent has a designated “sick bowl.” In our house, it’s an oversized plastic salad bowl that will never again hold salad or any other food. The rule is “Once a sick bowl, always a sick bowl.” You just never see it in the same way again. But we’re thankful for the sick bowl because it has saved the carpet more than a few times.

If Kate’s illness goes the same way it did for her two older brothers, she should be over the worst of it in 24 hours and over it completely in two or three days. In the meantime, my mission is to convince her to keep sipping her ginger ale and to eat a little apple sauce when she’s feeling up to it. I keep a steady stream of cartoons queued up to take her mind off her tummy troubles, and I stay nearby because, when you’re sick, you want your mommy.

But I know how this will probably go. She will recuperate and join her brothers back at school. And I will be here queasy and alone, wondering if I’ve dodged the bullet or if I’m a ticking stomach time bomb. It’s the waiting that makes me crazy, and I’d be lying if I said that the possibility of being next on the hit list isn’t affecting my decisions.

When you know you’re being stalked by a stomach virus, you choose your meals carefully based on the possibility of seeing those meals for a second time in reverse. Chili for dinner? No, not a good idea. Spaghetti noodles? Definitely not. Salsa and chips for a snack? I’d certainly regret that move.

So even though I’m not sick, I find myself eating the same things the kids are eating – bananas, applesauce and dry toast. And I walk around the house wondering if I can wash my hands often enough to outlast the incubation period of whatever nasty virus has its eye on me.

If I could, I’d warn the virus that I’m ready for any duel it may have in mind. In my makeshift holster, I’ve got a bottle of antibacterial hand soap on one side and a bottle of Clorox disinfecting wipes in the other. I’ll fog up the room with Lysol and try to scare it away.

But who am I kidding? If it gets me, I’ll be on my knees on the cool tile of the bathroom floor begging for sweet relief. Pass the sick bowl.

Gwen Rockwood is a mom to three great kids, wife to one cool guy, a newspaper columnist and co-owner of nwaMotherlode.com. To read previously published installments of The Rockwood Files, click here. To check out Gwen’s new book, “Reporting Live from the Laundry Pile: The Rockwood Files Collection,” click HERE.

Author Photo credit: Lisa Mac Photography