Nightmare on Sesame Street: Part One

Vision? Like a horse with blinders.

Oxygen? At about 30%.

Atmosphere? A candy corn-scented fog clung to the inside of the mask.

Mobility? Shoes, a size too large.

Comfort? Hair sweaty and neck officially itchy...

All riiiight! Welcome to Halloween in Kiddom!

Every year, my mother and I looked forward to this special day. And every season, Mom's Singer sewing machine sung with the joy of mad transformation.

While I was in it purely for the candy, my mother, well, she was motivated by something far greater, more noble-- costume design immortality.

With my hometown Halloween contest well in her sights, year after year, my mother concocted new, more elaborate creations destined to imprint our family name in the town annals of Homemade Costume Glory.

The imagination and execution of her work were beyond compare. Material, yarn, paint and chickenwire... it all bowed to her genius.

One year, I was a Cabbage Patch Kid-- fully-encased in footy pajamas crafted of doll cloth and stuffed to dimpled capacity with fiberfill. Once in this suit, backing out was not an option. The chubby mittened hands-- sewn straight to the arms-- and the zipper in the back absolutely ensured that those encased in the Kid, stayed in the Kid.

After I struggled into this polyfiber astronaut suit, I had to "dress" the doll, too-- layering on a smock, bloomers, anklet socks and Mary-Janes. Then top it off with a fully-sculpted doll head and wig.

Needless to say, all liquids ceased several hours before the big event. It was as much for the safety of the costume as for my comfort. Mom was taking no chances.

From inside the suit, I felt like a python's dinner being slowly digested. Sights and sounds were distant and muffled. Breathing was shallow. I wondered vaguely how 'd agreed to this, and how I'd ever thought it was such a good idea. But, then, I wondered that every year.

Mom said it was the price one paid for Art.

Other costumes over the years included Miss Piggy, featuring a homemade mask cleverly MacGyvered from window caulking. The fumes alone in that baby were stronger than any sugar rush...

It also was the unfortunate beginning of all my relatives giving me random pig tchotchkes. It solved their gifting concerns for the next five years.

The year of Mom's Garfield extravaganza allowed me to wield sarcasm and a tail. But logistically, that suit had similar problems to the Cabbage Patch Kid-- complete sensory isolation...

Plus fur.

Then there was Olive Oyl, a costume which left me a refreshing amount of mobility, but the rubber nose which Mom said topped off the look to perfection ("It's just not Olive Oyl without the nose," she insisted, handing the schnoz back to me) was held there with duct tape, and kept toppling off at inconvenient moments.

Like during breathing or walking.

Plus, when you're a skinny, awkward girl to begin with, being Olive Oyl could be said to be embracing your Inner You....

Or, it could be the start of a nickname which your classmates will enjoy for the next two years.

Now you might be wondering where these costume ideas came from. Well, these costumes were chosen through an elaborate two-tiered brainstorming process the summer before each Halloween.

In Phase One, I would toss out ideas of characters I wanted to be-- like Wonder Woman, Barbie, Batgirl, or Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz...

And in Phase Two, my mother would go through my list and veto them all using her Executive Designer Overrule Power, because I'd be too cold... Or I was too flat-chested... Or because it didn't offer enough creative challenge... Or, most of all, because it didn't have the "wow-factor" contest judges were looking for...

Mom had a sixth sense about these things. She may have missed out on a lucrative career in Hollywood movie casting.

And it was true, the contest competition would be stiff. In the cool autumn air, as leaves twirled in the New Jersey post-dusk mist, we'd stand among the ranks of our fellow masqueraders in Mom's latest fancy-dress inspiration...

And we'd find ourselves chatting with a large bunch of grapes... or a fish in a bowl... or a crystal ball on a table... or, oh, a wedge of cheese. Each one had potential to seize the gold, depending on the mood of the judges.

And we'd wait nervously for our turn on the costume catwalk.

The year of the "Nightmare on Sesame Street," as it's come to be known in my circles, Mom's creative spark spawned two lovable Muppets. My mother made her costumed character debut as Bert this Halloween, and I-- the shorter-- was Ernie.

The night of this costume contest marked the first time my mother shared directly in the anticipation... and the visual impairment. ("Wow, it's really hard to breathe in these things, isn't it?... And where'd your father go? Oh... he's right here. My mask got twisted.")

It seemed a strange sort of Universal Balance had finally been struck. I didn't know what the word for it was at the time, but if I did, I'd have told you, it was "closure."

Or possibly "poetic justice."

Either one was acceptable.

Yes, indeed, that night we took home the first place trophy with joy in our hearts, the Sesame Street theme song on our lips, and a bag full of candy in my hands.

So with neighborhood trick-or-treating still on the orange harvest horizon, life seemed simply filled with mind-boggling, nerve-tingling, tooth-rotting possibilities....

Little did I know, that in less than 24 hours, my friends and I would find ourselves learning a childhood lesson we would never, ever forget.

Ah, but that is a story for tomorrow, my friends...

I hope you'll pop by for Part Two of Nightmare on Sesame Street.
(Update 9/24-- Click here for Part Two.)

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Remedial Gym and the Fourth Grade Kickball Miracle

Remedial gym class.

Yep, if there was ever a way to truly ostracize a kid in our school system-- a way to hang a big ol' school-board-sanctioned "Kick Me" sign on a first grader's fledgling social standing-- remedial gym class would rank pretty highly in the list.

The Presidential Physical Fitness tests would occur my first year of school, and the school decided I was apparently not measuring up.

My arm hang was weak.

My sit-up quantities per minute were sub-par.

And my stylistic form during relay-racing was just all over the place.

I wasn't even six, and I was athletically washed-up.

My low status in gym class set a tone that carried all the way through to fourth grade.

That was the year I got braces and glasses and that fashionable thick black elastic band required by school law to hold my glasses tight to my head during exercise; I guess so if I got hit in the face and my glasses shattered, the maximum amount of lens would penetrate my eye.

It was also the year kickball became the unofficial-official sport of my classroom.

Now I've mentioned in the past how after lunch, when they sent us out onto the playground, we weren't allowed any sort of sports equipment, running, jumping, skipping, hopscotch, jump-rope or other potential lawsuit-inducing activities.

However, if fully-supervised by our classroom teacher, we would get some time for recess.

This meant an organized sport. This meant, it basically was one more gym class to add to my regular humiliation.

This meant, I was faced with kickball.

Ah, kickball... Each year, kickball came up, and each year kickball was explained to us as, "It's just like baseball but you kick a red rubber ball."

My grasp on the concept of baseball, however, was tenuous at best. I knew baseball as that sport that my grandfather put on television and then fell asleep in his lounge chair.

I knew it as the program which, the moment I would try to change the channel, Grampa would wake up abruptly and grumble how he "was watching that, put it back"-- then wipe a little of the snore-drool from his chin.

I knew baseball as the thing that prevented me from watching Godzilla marathons on WWOR-TV.

So, when it was my turn to kick, I knew I should kick the ball as it came at me. But after that, I was fairly fuzzy on the finer points of the remaining procedure. Mostly, I'd weigh my options about what to do next, intentionally hesitating long enough that someone would tag me out before any key decisions had to be made.

I found it to be a lame but effective strategy.

So year after year, I was chosen in the near-last range for kickball. I say "near last" because there were maybe two other kids leftover from First Grade Remedial Gym Class who hadn't gotten the hang of the whole group sports thing, either.

Most of us were only children, and I see how it happens. Breathtakingly exciting pick-up games of baseball aren't exactly common when it's one kid in the backyard throwing the ball up and batting it into a tree hoping for a rebound.

Anyway, so as fourth grade led into summer, each clear day we would go out for kickball, and I'd bunt it, and get an out, and go back to wait for my next round of embarrassment

Until José Rodriquez went all Gene Hackman on me.

I don't know how he figured out the root of my kickball problem--because I thought at the time my stall-tactics had been fairly credible.

But somewhere along the way, José had come to realize the reason I was such a lousy kickball player was simply because I just didn't understand kickball. And that's when this kid-- a who had always called me names up until now-- decided to help me.

Maybe he thought it was better to take me under his wing than lose the game. Maybe he'd known someone who was confused before, too. Maybe he took an epiphany kickball to the head. I really don't know.

What I do know is, the first time he coached me, it was startling. The pitcher rolled the ball to me, I stepped forward, gave it a decent-enough kick, put on my "Hm, maybe I don't really feel like running anywhere" face, and then saw José standing by first base. "Here. Here. Run here!"

So I ran. I made it to first base! It was monumental. I stood there in a state of absolute disbelief.

So the next kid was up to kick. He kicked the ball. And, again-- there was José. At second base this time, waving me in. "This one now. This one. Okay, he's got the ball. So stay! Stay!"

And I stayed. Elated. Delighted. There on second base.

When I made my first run ever, it was such a weight off my fourth-grade shoulders. I was a kid who could score a run! Not a moment worth Olympic notoriety, or my own trading card or anything. But it was one moment where I wasn't a liability to my team.

The macadam on the playground was filled with sparkling metallic flecks I'd never noticed before.

That day, and the two kickball games thereafter, I learned so much. Suddenly I knew when to run. I knew when to steal. And I knew when to sprint all the way home.

The sun shone a bit brighter those days. Even more amazingly, I moved up a good three kids in the team selection rankings.

I think back on those kickball days with a bit of warmth in my heart. Sure, I still got tagged out sometimes. And yeah, I got headaches from that lovely black rubber band riveting my glasses to my skull. But it was the first time I learned I could actually be a part of something that didn't involve glue and safety scissors.

Yes, indeed, it was a long way from Remedial Gym Class.

And I have José Rodriguez to thank for it.

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Fig Newton, Angry Unger, and the Birth of Tyrone

As summer slips away to fall, and kids resume the routine of Readin', Writin' and Math That Makes Sense to No One Over 20, I'm reminded of my own days in the public school system. And throughout high school, much of that involved a substitute teacher we'll call Mrs. Unger.

Mrs. Unger was a gray woman. Gray hair, gray skin, gray bottle-lensed glasses and gray clothing. The reason for this was she'd already been substitute teaching through most of the heyday of ink engravings and black-and-white media. And when everything else made the switch to color, Mrs. Unger just didn't have the energy to make the leap, too.

It was we students who kept her from going Kodachrome in the 60s, I think. Decades and decades of students who drained the very the color from her day-to-day life.

We know Mrs. Unger had been teaching a long time because she told us so, every class. Whenever her authority would come into question-- even whenever a student would try to give her a helping hand-- Mrs. Unger would spit out the tally of her years in service to the school like a wad of well-used tobacco.

And for every year we encountered her, it seemed her years of teaching would increase by at least five.

"I know where the seating chart is by now, Jose Rosado!" she'd snap. "I've been substitute teaching in this school system for 27 years!"

Or...

"Don’t you tell me how to run a classroom, Marisol Nieves! After 32 years, I'd say I know very well what I'm doing without any help from the likes of you!"

Or...

"What’s that, Rodney Goldblum? No, I see it right in front of me. I haven’t been teaching for 489 years for nothing. Why, in fact, Richard III was a smart aleck just like you are. And I didn't take any lip from him, either!"

Yes, we drained her sense of time along with her color. Oh, not us specifically. But decades of students like us. We wore out her memory... her patience... her hearing...

Mrs. Unger wasn't born, she was made.

So that's why initially, many of us felt kinda sorry for her. This gray woman with features eroded into a hard, scowling mistrust.

I know initially a few of us girls thought we could soothe her with kindness. A cheerful greeting. A polite word. An olive branch, so to speak, extended from Kiddom to the adult world. Anything to see her turn from gray rock to something less cold, less impenetrable.

But it was too little, too late. Good kids, bad kids… She'd endured so much Post-Traumatic Student Syndrome over the years, we were all the same now. One hateful mass.

And that caused the birth of "Tyrone."

You see, one kid, Jerry "Fig" Newton, was kind of a joker. Fig was a pretty good guy really. A tall, broad, curly-haired kid who was as sharp on the football field as he was in the classroom. A bright kid with energy to burn off, Fig had an ornery sense of humor that couldn't quite be contained.

And this left him cracking jokes when the mood struck... offering loud tuneless serenades in the hallways... and developing the keen ability to imitate the precise sound of the bell.

It was seventh grade and all the planets had fallen into alignment. Fate brought Fig Newton to Mrs. Unger.

Mrs. Unger had subbed for our class maybe two times at this point, but whether she remembered us or not, it's hard to say. Individual faces and names seemed long ago unimportant to her. We were One. A giant seething hormonal mass, precisely the same as the kids in 1965, 1776 and in 1483, when her career had really just started taking off.

So she began each class by calling attendance. And one by one we shouted out our names.

"Orton?"

"Here!"

"Ortiz?"

"Here!"

"Newton?"

Silence.

"Newton….? Gerald Newton?"

Only Fig Newton just sat in his chair, still, patient.

"Gerald Newton?"

I don’t think anyone dared to look directly at Fig, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see his small, amused smile.

Behind her gray lenses, Mrs. Unger's gray eyes fixed on the class. "Is Gerald Newton not here?"

"He’s out sick, Miz Unger," offered Fig helpfully.

The answer pacified. Mrs. Unger made a note in the attendance book and then pressed on.

Timmons… Thorson… Varges… Weiman… West…

One by one we all responded when our names were called. Until process of elimination caused Mrs. Unger to finally turn her focus back on Jerry Newton.

Mrs. Unger frowned. "Didn't I call your name?"

"Nope," said Fig.

"Well, what is your name, then?"

"I’m Tyrone," Fig told her not missing a beat.

"Tyrone?" Mrs. Unger squinted at the list before her, trailing a finger down the chart, name after name checked and double-checked. We didn't breathe. We didn't move. A stillness had come over the class like the achingly-quiet yellow haze right before a tornado.

"I don’t see a Tyrone here," she said finally.

"I’m new," said Tyrone.

"Oh." Mrs. Unger blinked. Reread the list. And promptly penciled "Tyrone" at the bottom of the attendance list.

She went on with the class.

That's how it began, and that's how it continued.

Seventh grade… eighth grade… ninth grade… Tyrone persisted for Mrs. Unger.

Though, if pressed, I doubt she would have remembered the name of any other kid in the entire school, Mrs. Unger surely remembered Tyrone.

Tyrone once got our entire class dismissed five minutes early with his expert bell imitation, and too late did Mrs. Unger discover the truth. Armed with this knowledge going forward then, just as Tyrone made it his quest to unnerve Mrs. Unger, Mrs. Unger had pinpointed a troublemaker. And she made it her solemn mission to quash Tyrone.

So class after class, year after year, Mrs. Unger scolded Tyrone... gave Tyrone detention... sent Tyrone to the Principal’s office and wrote him up for our regular teacher.

Tyrone never felt compelled to show up for these punishments, of course-- owing to him not actually existing. But Fig Newton would enjoy a nice afternoon in the boy’s bathroom. Or the gym. Or dawdle over an early lunch. Or just go home for a pleasant freebie day.

Tyrone may have eventually gotten suspended for all I know. But Fig Newton, well, he had an impeccable school record-- if a lot of absenteeism.

Somewhere in tenth grade, Mrs. Unger did eventually find out that Jerry Newton and Tyrone were, in fact, one and the same. To this day none of my classmates remembers precisely how, and Fig, as far as I know, hasn't come clean about it.

I'd like to think it was something dramatic, like taking the mask off Spiderman only to find Peter Parker underneath it all... Like seeing beyond Clark Kent's glasses in one moment of epiphany to the Superman who was there all along...

But I imagine it was just some innocent conversation in the teacher's room over cardboard pizza and three-bean-salad, how this mysterious student, Tyrone was penciled in every time the teacher had a day off. Notes got compared. Things were mulled over. And two and two were finally put together to make four.

Even the New Math told us that.

But year after year, I remember waiting for it. That's what said "school" to me. The anticipation of gray Mrs. Unger, squinting over attendance...

And that melodic sound, as Tyrone's name echoed out over the classroom.

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Bully for Me: The Fourth-Grade Recess Showdown

Bullies. Harry Potter had Dudley Dursley... Ralphie Parker had Scut Farcas… And in terms of these epic battles of Good versus Evil, fought and lost on the Great Playground of Life-- why, me, I had Tanya “Teeny” DeLuca.

Teeny was, in fact, really small. But what she lacked in size, she more than made up for with a troublemaker’s finesse.

Her procedure was like that of a barracuda. This thin fish with razor-sharp choppers slowly, carefully sidles up to its potential meat and then-- BANG!-- shoots in for the kill. Atypical behavior for your average grade-schooler, okay. But this Wild Kingdom episode played itself out over and over again, for myself and every other member of the fourth grade.

Oh yes, no one was truly immune from the torment, the fists, the cornering after class. But it wasn't long before she'd honed in on Yours Truly as one of her extra-special targets.

In retrospect, I can hardly blame her. With braces, glasses, good grades and a chronic case of politeness, I see now that it was just another well-worn scene in this, our natural world. Cheetahs pick off the injured gazelle... Bullies trounce the gangly nerd-girl in the brown plaid and loafers.

It’s the circle of life.

Her first move in class was, as I think back on it, a exercise in Bully Genius. Not surprising, really, because she'd been honing her skills for about two years now on the mean streets of suburban Jersey.

It's good to have a hobby.

This particular day, she'd bided her time until our teacher was out of the room, and then reached across the aisle from her desk to mine, and seized my hand. In a second, she'd dug her fingernail into its surface, deeply enough to make it bleed.

Holding on with the power of a constrictor, she worked feverishly to rub her pencil point neatly into the wound while I struggled.

"There!" she hissed, smile peeling back over glistening white predator teeth. "I put lead in there! You have lead poisoning now! You're going to die."

"Oh no! Lead poisoning!" I cried, cradling my arm as she released it. I recall wondering whether the school nurse had an antidote for that... Or for the death thing. I could see the silvery graphite there in the wound, imagining particle by particle seeping into my blood. I cried and mourned my untimely demise. I'd had such big plans. And now they were gone, snuffed out at age 8 by lead poisoning.

"And if you tell, you'll really get it," she warned.

Worse than death by lead poisoning? Oh good gravy, did the tortures ever end?

I spent the rest of the day not feeling very well, convincing myself it was the poison seeping into my system, and too afraid to tell anyone what happened. By evening, my mom had set me straight about that whole pencil graphite not actually being lead issue. And my world seemed a brighter, cheerier place once more. In the world of Kiddom, trauma could wash away like chalk paintings in summer rain.

But Teeny, oh, she wasn't done with me yet. Later that week she cornered me on the playground with a couple of hulking sixth graders at her side, pummeling me with foul words I’d never heard before. Every couple of days thereafter brought brand new perils.

Then the tide turned in one single day.

Recess had never actually been much fun, even when it wasn't Bully Season. Because the school was afraid of some kid getting injured on the playground and being sued, they ripped out all the swing sets and jungle gyms so we wouldn't hurt ourselves. We also weren't allowed to run, use balls, bats, or other sports equipment, play hopscotch, jump rope or climb the trees...

They considered wrapping us all in bubble wrap, but were concerned about heat rashes.

Cards were forbidden because it was gambling. An out-of-control set of jacks could poke out an eye.

This left us wandering around the macadam like a bunch of laid-off union workers-- bored, surly, and looking for anything to liven things up a little.

Josette and I would pretend we were characters from Star Wars or The Dukes of Hazzard-- pretty much anyone less likely than we were to have their lunch money stolen-- and hope we were invisible.

But Teeny's keen graphite-colored eyes could see.

I don't know what it was exactly that set her off this day. The offending glint off my bottle lenses in the sun? The haughty snap of my elastic argyle knee socks? The overconfident rattle of the metal lunchbox in my hand?

But Teeny DeLuca was ready to rumble.

She cornered me at the flagpole, pushing, and spitting out filthy names like tobacco juice, which I was convinced she chewed in her off-hours. And as I looked down at her contorted little mug sneering up at me, suddenly I realized...

This wasn't fair. I didn't deserve this.

Just because I got good grades, and wore thrift store clothes, and couldn't see, and had crooked teeth, and stringy hair and maybe wasn't exactly the social butterfly of Classroom 18, it didn't mean I had no right to exist...

Just because I didn't have dock worker epithets... or fists of fury... or a bunch of sixth graders with anger management issues ready to back me up, didn't mean I had to take this...

I mean, what did I have?

I had a durable, metal "Dukes of Hazzard" lunchbox.

Ah, that wonderful, wonderful sound! The glorious clatter of lunchbox on outstretched fist. The contact made her cold, marble-like eyes fly open wide with shock and renewed rage. She tried again, knuckles flying, but for every punch—wham! The Dukes struck again.

This battle-- Teeny versus the Dukes went on and on-- possibly until our fourth grade moving-up ceremony. By this point, a crowd had formed around us and Teeny was beginning to realize their overall sentiments were not exactly on her side.

"You put down that lunchbox and fight fair!" she spat, anger and now fear creeping into her voice.

But I’d put up my Dukes for the first time in my life, and I wasn't stopping now.

Then suddenly my fourth grade teacher, Mr. Ciccetti was there, guiding me away. Someone else had a hold of Teeny, who was kicking and struggling, still ready to finish the round.

The bell rang and we were officially sent to our corners.

I heard words like "suspension" soar over the crowd like a paper airplane. And that's when I started to cry. Not only would I have suspension for fighting in school, but my lunchbox was dented. My parents were not going to take kindly to this. First lead poisoning, and then public execution. All before I was ten.

And to think I’d shown such promise.

That's what ran through my head as Mr. Ciccetti escorted me into the school. He held the door for me, as I walked through the threshold to certain doom, tears streaming down my face and speckling my steamed-up glasses.

I remember how he smelled warmly of cologne as he leaned down and asked me just one single question:

"Did you really hit her?"

"Yeah," I breathed in-between hitching sobs.

His mustache rippled a bit, finally turning up at the ends. "Good."


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Stealth Mom and the Mayonnaise Infiltration of 82

Home cooking. The words conjure up images of Mom and apple pie. But for some, beneath the warm memories of home and hearth there also lurks a darker underbelly. One of coercion, deceit, betrayal... and condiments.

Yes, today, my friends, I will share with you how my childhood dining was regularly infiltrated by the Stealth Mom-- who I've come to suspect was actually a secret agent for the United Mayonnaise and Sour Cream Council.

My mother, I should begin by explaining, was a very good cook and also a pretty darned honest person all around. And it's important I begin the story like this, because you need to fully understand the confusing dichotomy that Dad and I experienced under her clever double-agent manipulations.

On one hand, you had the loving mom and wife who planned nutritious meals, made fantastic beef barley soup, amazing chili, and drool-worthy baked goods... The mom who did this uncomplainingly, and to whom Dad and I both sincerely owe our gratitude....

And then on the other hand, you had the evil mastermind who plotted to invade our tastebuds and gastrointestinal systems with the handful of deeply detested non-nutrive elements like mayonnaise and sour cream (me), and onions and mushrooms (Dad), in an effort to expand our personal horizons.

See, Mom herself disliked very few foods-- except for lima beans which gave her a dangerous allergic reaction that made her puff up a like an inflatable lawn ornament at Christmas. (The aversion being, then, kinda understandable.)

So as a result of Mom's great love of all that was culinary, she found it simply impossible to believe that my dad or I truly didn't like a particular flavor or texture. She felt it wasn't so much the taste we were reacting to, as in... oh, I don't know... the bad publicity or something.... Food we viewed unjustly as having a shady reputation... Martyred by prejudice...

And so quietly, subtly, she made it her personal quest to prove us wrong.

This was done by slipping disliked ingredients into a meal with the sly ingenuity of a 15th century usurper to the English throne on a poisoning campaign. I mean, when it came to what was in his din-din, honestly, Edward V had to watch his back less than my father and I did.

The irony was that Dad and I could also totally taste-- and often see-- what was lurking in the food.

"Does this tuna have mayonnaise on it?" I'd ask, after a bite of the unpleasant tang, the slick texture, and a survey of the suspicious white coating that no fish in its right mind would find sea-worthy.

"Er, no," said my otherwise honest maternal archetype. "No, just don't worry about it." Big smile. "Have your sandwich. The bread's getting soggy."

But I was not so easily dissuaded. "I really think there's mayonnaise on here," I'd insist, the Mayometer in my brain issuing great whoops of "WARNING WARNING WARNING-- ABORT-- ABORT-- STEP AWAY FROM THE SANDWICH!"-- that there was a contaminated substance lurking.

"Oh, that..." She'd give a casual wave of the hand. "That's just the oil from the way it was packed. Don't give it a second thought. Eat up."

I'd eye the sandwich suspiciously, drilling down with my optical Anti-Condiment Detector and picking up distinct mayonnaise residue through its microscopic lens. "I don't know, Mom... It doesn't look anything like oil. It really looks like--"

"Oh, just eat it already!" she'd finally say, exasperated. And adding, with a narrow expression, "You can't taste the mayonnaise, anyway."

That was the giveaway: "you can't taste the mayonnaise, anyway." Which is probably why she didn't get into, say, being a double agent for American national security during the Cold War or anything because, she didn't have her Believable Denial down quite solidly enough.

They would have worn her down too soon.

Well, recently, in discussing old recipes, I've learned that others, too, grew up having to form proper defenses against their own personal Stealth Moms. In fact, such was the popularity of this concept during my formative years and before, that there apparently were cookbooks encouraging mothers to work their mega-mom meal mojo on tricking husbands and young'uns into eating the inedible. So it wasn't just an isolated incident. My mom was part of a movement!

And now I understand that Jessica Seinfeld-- Jerry "No Soup For You" Seinfeld's wife-- has a cookbook out called Deceptively Delicious, and she's marketing the Stealth Mom to a whole new generation.

As an adult, I can certainly appreciate the need to ensure your loved ones get their proper nutrition...

But as a child who lived under the Covert Mayonnaise Infiltration of the 80s, I can only find myself shrieking, "Beware, my little friends! The Stealth Mom is on the prowl... And she has ways of making you eat!"

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Do you have memories of mealtime trauma? Were you the child of a Stealth Mom? Of Cabbages and Kings would love to hear from you!

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