Picket Fence Post

The Picket Fence Post.

The name evokes visions of a freshly baked apple pie cooling on a kitchen window sill, a tree swing in the back yard and the good-natured family Labrador fetching crisp, green tennis balls while children happily and cooperatively play in the nearest oak tree . . . all occurring behind the safe confines of a perfect white picket fence.

Then there’s real life. A distinctively imperfect life. Like mine.

Instead of a freshly baked pie gracing my kitchen window sill (you’re more likely to find a store-bought anything in my house), there are three children’s classroom “project” plants barely clinging to life, mostly possessing fairly crunchy leaves. (I think my eldest son’s bean plant tried to put itself out of its misery the other day by casting itself off the sill and into the sink filled with dirty dishes. Either that, or our ancient cat tried to eat the plant, but then realized this was a bad move. Better to scavenge something from the dirty dishes instead.)

In the back yard, instead of a tree swing, there’s one of those overpriced play structures. And inside the little fort/hut thing, one typically finds half-melted crayons, used tissues and empty plastic cups, the kind that accompany kids’ meals in family-friendly restaurants.

Next to the lagoon-like sand box — which has developed its own, unique wetlands habitat after the top was left off and the box filled with water and wildlife — plastic toys dot my yard in the ‘burbs, where a three-legged coyote has recently been spotted by a neighbor, along with a family of deer which annually eat the growing pears off the pear tree in the front yard. (I’ve yet to get a pear from the three in the three-plus years we’ve live in our house.)

And I can only hope that none of my neighbors are outside when I commit imperfect suburban heresy by hollering out the door to my three kids — ages 9, 9 and 6 — to: a) stop fighting b) stop harassing me about who took what from whom and c) only report to me if someone’s bleeding, has a head wound or in the event that a rogue, machete-wielding dude pops out of the woods. Of course there are other conditions I’ve outlined for when the kids should definitely come and get me, but they routinely ignore all of them and run into the house approximately every four minutes to complain that (*newsflash*) a brother or sister isn’t playing fairly or that they’re bored and want to go inside to play PlayStation or watch Hannah Montana.

So what am I planning to do here on this blog? Tell the truth about what really goes on behind the picket fences in the American ‘burbs. Too often in parenting and lifestyle magazines, web sites and blogs, we’re told how we’re screwing up or aren’t up to par according to the latest trends, such as when we’re advised to spend the equivalent of the GNP of a small nation on a baby stroller. We’re told about all the things we need to fear, like whether we’ve afforded our grade school-aged children with sufficient opportunities to participate in sports, year-round, and with specialized, high-priced coaches and trainers in order to prep them for the Olympic trials. Or to snag a full-board college scholarship.

The Picket Fence Post will feature commentary on the latest parenting news, personal anecdotes about my imperfect life and snarky posts on other lifestyle matters, like TV programs (Desperate Housewives, Grey’s Anatomy and similar ilk come to mind), popular culture and observations about my family’s inter-generational illness . . . otherwise known as Red Sox fandom.

Real life. For imperfect people. That’s what’s going to be peddled here. And if you’re up for that, hop on board and enjoy the ride.

Image credit: www.walpolewoodworkers.com.