http://freshfreeemail.blogspot.com/2009/02/loving-joseph.html
I posted about the other man in my life a few months ago. Now it's progressed past crush stage.
We had our first kiss.
My young friend J is a treasure.
I teach Sunday School every week, and quite frankly, it's a dirge. I show up filled with enthusiasm, eager to open bright young minds and my class, more often than not is J and ... My own child.
My spouse stays because he knows that if all the students show, my hands are full. But that's rare. There are two or three other students who show maybe ever other week, but in essence, class is me, my child, my husband and J.
And J is in his own place. He is there because Dad takes him and he will leave "when Dad is here" and often he wants me to go to the car and make sure dad knows J was good.
I love J. Each week it takes every ounce of my willpower not to hug or kiss him and love him to pieces. He charms me.
I prepare my lessons hoping to find a spark of joy, a place my students relate to. It's rare. But I'm not doing this for me. I'm doing this... gosh yesterday I knew why, but the truth is, there are days I don't know why I do this.
J is fixated on the crystal cross he saw on TV with the Lord's Prayer he saw printed in tiny letters.
He tries to talk about Mario (from the world of Nintendo).
I tell him as soon as we finish the lesson. I forge onward. I talk about disciples, the spread of Christianity, the history of how it was learned. I talk about Peter as the first pope, James who stayed in Jerusalem, and Thaddeus who was rarely heard from again, but established the entire orthodox Christian following.
I am earnest. I have a lesson to share. J interrupts me again, wondering if the Dark Knight (the Batman movie he saw that weekend) had anything to do with this.
I explain that we can talk about that as soon as we finish the lesson. I pull out maps. I show journeys. I stress the amazing work of those early disciples.
J asks if Mario would die if the Dark Knight was in the game.
I smile and realize how futile my mission is. I tell J that everything I know about Mario I learned from him.
He smiles back and says, really?
Really, J. You've taught me everything I know about Mario.
How are you doing on the Lord's Prayer, I ask him. He again mentions the crystal cross he saw on TV. If I held it to light I could see all the words.
I hold J to light instead.
He shines.
Class is over, he comes to me and wraps his arms around me and kisses me on my shoulder (where he reaches) 4 times. He makes sure I know I just got "4 kisses".
They felt like 400.
I see all his words, too.
April 28, 2009
April 27, 2009
Good Kids, Bad Choices
I have two daughters. They are the lights of my life. They are so talented and lovely and smart they make my teeth hurt. The sort of children every parent hopes to have. I don't know how I got so lucky. But they are great. Sometimes a bit too wise for their own good, but still...
My oldest walks the straight and narrow so well she could be a plumb line for a builder. The younger one tests the waters a bit more. She is very social and I do monitor her behavior more closely. She has a "boyfriend" (more like a grade school sweetheart), and I've laid down very strict rules. Anytime I ask, she has to hand me her cell phone so I can scroll through the text messages. If there is an inappropriate one, I will suspend her text privileges or call the parents of the inappropriate text sender. What she doesn't know is that I am a complete text doofus, and I have no intention of telling her that. Shhhhhh.
The Plumb Line, she couldn't be bothered with texting unless it discussed the latest math and science discoveries. She is the prettiest little nerd I ever met. The other day one of the girls she hangs out with skipped choir and hid in the bathroom texting. The girl was caught and got a detention. The detention was mild to the punishment my little Plumb Line had in store. She came home absolutely aghast at this girl's behavior, and planned to distance herself from this rabble rouser. I suggested she would serve her friend better by remaining a friend and setting a good example.
Then to illustrate the point, I shared one of my more embarrassing stories. When I was in 6th grade, on the verge of graduating to the JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL, I decided to leave our mark upon the elementary school we had called home for the past 6 years.
We were in a small school, one class for each grade. I was a leader of sorts in our micro-world. I convinced all the 6th grade girls of my stellar idea. We were going to write graffiti on the walls to display our obvious preparedness for the JUNIOR HIGH. We were going to use... gasp... curse words! This would be an absolute demonstration of our maturity for the big leagues.
I pondered over how to best display our readiness for Junior High. The words reached me like a vision. A phrase so filled with brilliance and the ability to use TWO, not one, curse words. I convinced my classmates that the lasting graffiti for us to leave as our legacy was:
"Shit your ass off"
Being the ringleader that I was, I wasn't going to do the actually writing. Rather, I convinced my friends to do the dirty work. And within a day, the lower 5 grades were encouraged to shit their asses off. The principal somehow or another discovered I was behind the brilliance. I was the one responsible for leaving behind such a noteworthy message for the young ones who followed. I had to stay after to clean the stalls. I'm so grateful that my followers had the sense to use pencil. I think pens were for the Junior High kids. Thank goodness we weren't deemed ready yet.
Even bad choices can be erased.
My oldest walks the straight and narrow so well she could be a plumb line for a builder. The younger one tests the waters a bit more. She is very social and I do monitor her behavior more closely. She has a "boyfriend" (more like a grade school sweetheart), and I've laid down very strict rules. Anytime I ask, she has to hand me her cell phone so I can scroll through the text messages. If there is an inappropriate one, I will suspend her text privileges or call the parents of the inappropriate text sender. What she doesn't know is that I am a complete text doofus, and I have no intention of telling her that. Shhhhhh.
The Plumb Line, she couldn't be bothered with texting unless it discussed the latest math and science discoveries. She is the prettiest little nerd I ever met. The other day one of the girls she hangs out with skipped choir and hid in the bathroom texting. The girl was caught and got a detention. The detention was mild to the punishment my little Plumb Line had in store. She came home absolutely aghast at this girl's behavior, and planned to distance herself from this rabble rouser. I suggested she would serve her friend better by remaining a friend and setting a good example.
Then to illustrate the point, I shared one of my more embarrassing stories. When I was in 6th grade, on the verge of graduating to the JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL, I decided to leave our mark upon the elementary school we had called home for the past 6 years.
We were in a small school, one class for each grade. I was a leader of sorts in our micro-world. I convinced all the 6th grade girls of my stellar idea. We were going to write graffiti on the walls to display our obvious preparedness for the JUNIOR HIGH. We were going to use... gasp... curse words! This would be an absolute demonstration of our maturity for the big leagues.
I pondered over how to best display our readiness for Junior High. The words reached me like a vision. A phrase so filled with brilliance and the ability to use TWO, not one, curse words. I convinced my classmates that the lasting graffiti for us to leave as our legacy was:
"Shit your ass off"
Being the ringleader that I was, I wasn't going to do the actually writing. Rather, I convinced my friends to do the dirty work. And within a day, the lower 5 grades were encouraged to shit their asses off. The principal somehow or another discovered I was behind the brilliance. I was the one responsible for leaving behind such a noteworthy message for the young ones who followed. I had to stay after to clean the stalls. I'm so grateful that my followers had the sense to use pencil. I think pens were for the Junior High kids. Thank goodness we weren't deemed ready yet.
Even bad choices can be erased.
The Technology Gap
When my daughter was four, I probably should have gotten an inkling. Our monthly Disney book arrived and as we opened it excitedly, I noticed that month’s selection was Mickey and the Beanstalk, a Disney-esque retelling of Jack and the Beanstalk. My memory was nudged, having heard the story repeatedly as a child. It was a favorite. We had a collection of Disney LPs, so I knew it frontwards and backwards. As I read the story to her, I even knew the voices and the songs. She stopped me and asked, “Mommy, did you have this video when you were little?”Without missing a beat, I answered, “No, I had the record.”
“What's a record?”
I should have known. It was the foreshadowing of many such conversations.
I remember black & white TV and rabbit ears. I recall only a few channels; ABC, NBC, and CBS, and for certain hours of the day PBS. I remember getting cable television in the 80s and being able to SEE the music that I had grown up with. Some of my friends had movie channels and we would watch Star Wars and Eddie and the Cruisers as many times as we wanted. The movie channels only broadcast about three movies a month, repeatedly. Videotapes were essentially for home movies and really high tech people.
My music buff friend told me about CD players. I was a loyal member of the Columbia Record Club and got my 12 free albums for a penny. CDs were of no interest to me with their shrunken artwork and miniscule lyric sheets. Plus, how could I make a favorite song cassette tape for my Walkman without my albums?
In my mid 20s I began to make the transition to CDs, and stopped buying records completely. My albums still are protected in plastic sleeves in an orange crate in the basement. I don’t know why I keep them, but I cannot imagine life without them. Visual testimony to being a music junkie.
My idea of audio visual technology is so deeply engrained in my psyche that it never occurred to me that my children wouldn’t know what a record was. I began a mission to find an old fashioned record player like we used to have in the schools, those magical self contained hinged boxes that would play either 33 or 45s. I still had my Disney albums and wanted to share the stories with my kids that way. We could just close our eyes and let our brains provide the Technicolor imagery. I asked a favorite aunt whose hobby was garage sales to keep her eyes peeled coupled with regular Ebay searches.
Finally, I found a turntable. It wasn't the self contained magical box I wanted, but it still would play records. I had to special order a needle for it and we were ready to listen to Mickey and the Beanstalk. It was every bit as memorable as I hoped, at least for me. My daughter didn’t seem to share my enthusiasm. Of course, that could have been my absolute paranoia at letting her use the turntable after the hoops I went through to get it. I don’t know for sure. It gathers dust now.
I never wanted to be the sort of parent who waxed nostalgic about “when I was a kid” complete with me leaning over a cane and having a shaky voice and peppering my speech with mutterings about whippersnappers. Our recent trip to The Smithsonian and the National Art Gallery left me with no choice. I could practically taste the shots of Geritol to keep me spry at my advanced age.
We saw a photography exhibit of Robert Frank’s work from the book The Americans, snapped throughout the 50s. It contained film proofs and early dark room prints. My children did not remember what a film camera was. I was amazed. I had one for their early years; I only made the transition to digital about six years ago. I still have canisters of undeveloped film and a few throwaway cameras. But they barely remembered cameras with film. That stunned me and I felt a bit old.
To cement that I felt my age, we saw a typewriter on display at the Smithsonian. My youngest asked me how that worked and how on earth did you correct mistakes? I explained about the white correction paper that you would backspace and slip the paper in and type over your error, backspace, pull the paper out and retype it correctly. I thought about my research papers when only the really geeky sorts used something called Word Perfect in the computer lab. I remembered a paper I wrote in college decrying the loss of typewriters, while at the same time acknowledging the need for progress. My first major purchase as an adult was indeed an electric typewriter, not a computer/word processor.
The irony of explaining a typewriter was not lost as the very next place we went was the outdoor sculpture garden, and the first artwork we saw was a giant typewriter eraser. Timing was everything.
I didn’t think about the technology gap again until yesterday. I had to stop at the store for two things and my daughter wanted to wait in the car. I handed her the keys in case she wanted to listen to the radio or a CD. She looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language as she inserted the ear buds of her iPod.
I suddenly have a taste for some Metamucil to chase the Geritol.
April 21, 2009
Driving in Traffic 101
I truly should have been born more privileged in life and had my own personal car & driver. I find driving tedious, dangerous and uncomfortable. But for a family, it's an economical and relatively hassle free way to arrive at point B from point A.
The thought of staying in my small town for an entire week was more painful than the idea of a road trip. We opted to see our nation's capitol. With the advice of some locals and a bit of research, the trip was set. In less than a 5 hour drive and all the hustle and bustle of Washington DC would be ours for the asking. Provided the drive go smoothly.
It didn't.
I literally crossed the border from MD to DC on a small narrow parkway that had signs posted what hours we could travel that direction on the road. While trying to absorb the information, the vehicle in front of me stopped suddenly. I did, too.
By hitting her. Luckily, it wasn't a serious accident, but an inconvenience. The damage was minimal, except she was driving a dealer loaner vehicle, so we had to wait for a police officer to come take a report. That also proved confusing as nobody knew whose jurisdiction the accident happened. VA, MD, or DC? It took nearly an hour to sort out, and I had a sinking feeling that my vehicle fun was only beginning.
Parking in DC is not easy either. I found what seemed to be a good lot and we braved the cold rainy day by lurking in the National Art Gallery. At 5 PM, we'd had enough since we had started so early in the day and decided to head back to the room. Rookie mistake to leave DC during 5 PM rush hour. I could have crawled back to the room more efficiently.
The 20 mile, two hour drive to our hotel in Northern VA solidified my decision that the Metro was the way to get into the city. Slight problem. No parking was available at the first Metro Station. I drove another 5 miles to the next one and found a meter, since the lots were still full. I rummaged through the bowels of my purse, the van floor and scavenged the change from the kids' wallets for all coins silver-colored.
Like a reverse slot machine, I poured in one coin after another, but no time registered on the meter. I read the fine print. It only accepted quarters, but there was no change machine in sight. Curses! OH did I! I pulled out the Mother of all swear words and tarnished the innocent ears of the Minis. We had to drive into the city. I think I scared them, as we passed two or three more Metro stations and I asked, Should I look for parking here? It was met with a resounding "NO!"
I drove right into DC around 10:30 AM and found a lovely parking garage. We decided to stay until 7 PM to avoid the rush hour. We got back that second night the same time we did by leaving at 5 PM. I felt positively local by now and decide to do the same thing the following day, Friday.
We stayed in DC for dinner and discovered that our car was locked in the garage for the WEEKEND. (No, there were no signs indicating this, apparently though I was in a university parking lot and shouldn't have parked there in the first place). HUGE PROBLEM since we planned to head home the following morning.
Fortunately, I had a guardian angel friend that we had dinner with and then drove us back to the hotel promising to bring us back to the city the next morning to figure out how to get our car out of vehicle prison, as I rattled against the aluminum door, banging for my vehicle to appear.
I was on a bit of a wild goose chase from the parking garage, to the phone number on my claim ticket, to the university police, to a 24 hour lot that I COULD have parked at had I known, back to the police to finally claim my minivan.
The best part? As the officer was walking with me to my van, he inquired, "Oh, don't they have front license plates in your state?" I sheepishly smiled, "Yes, they do, but the screw on it was bent on the way INTO DC when I bumped that vehicle, and I removed it so it wouldn't get lost."
Yet, despite all the travel trials, we had a fabulous trip and look forward to returning again. My plan next time is to stay in the city proper and take our bicycles to get around. Good idea?
The thought of staying in my small town for an entire week was more painful than the idea of a road trip. We opted to see our nation's capitol. With the advice of some locals and a bit of research, the trip was set. In less than a 5 hour drive and all the hustle and bustle of Washington DC would be ours for the asking. Provided the drive go smoothly.
It didn't.
I literally crossed the border from MD to DC on a small narrow parkway that had signs posted what hours we could travel that direction on the road. While trying to absorb the information, the vehicle in front of me stopped suddenly. I did, too.By hitting her. Luckily, it wasn't a serious accident, but an inconvenience. The damage was minimal, except she was driving a dealer loaner vehicle, so we had to wait for a police officer to come take a report. That also proved confusing as nobody knew whose jurisdiction the accident happened. VA, MD, or DC? It took nearly an hour to sort out, and I had a sinking feeling that my vehicle fun was only beginning.
Parking in DC is not easy either. I found what seemed to be a good lot and we braved the cold rainy day by lurking in the National Art Gallery. At 5 PM, we'd had enough since we had started so early in the day and decided to head back to the room. Rookie mistake to leave DC during 5 PM rush hour. I could have crawled back to the room more efficiently.
The 20 mile, two hour drive to our hotel in Northern VA solidified my decision that the Metro was the way to get into the city. Slight problem. No parking was available at the first Metro Station. I drove another 5 miles to the next one and found a meter, since the lots were still full. I rummaged through the bowels of my purse, the van floor and scavenged the change from the kids' wallets for all coins silver-colored.
Like a reverse slot machine, I poured in one coin after another, but no time registered on the meter. I read the fine print. It only accepted quarters, but there was no change machine in sight. Curses! OH did I! I pulled out the Mother of all swear words and tarnished the innocent ears of the Minis. We had to drive into the city. I think I scared them, as we passed two or three more Metro stations and I asked, Should I look for parking here? It was met with a resounding "NO!"
I drove right into DC around 10:30 AM and found a lovely parking garage. We decided to stay until 7 PM to avoid the rush hour. We got back that second night the same time we did by leaving at 5 PM. I felt positively local by now and decide to do the same thing the following day, Friday.
We stayed in DC for dinner and discovered that our car was locked in the garage for the WEEKEND. (No, there were no signs indicating this, apparently though I was in a university parking lot and shouldn't have parked there in the first place). HUGE PROBLEM since we planned to head home the following morning.
Fortunately, I had a guardian angel friend that we had dinner with and then drove us back to the hotel promising to bring us back to the city the next morning to figure out how to get our car out of vehicle prison, as I rattled against the aluminum door, banging for my vehicle to appear.
I was on a bit of a wild goose chase from the parking garage, to the phone number on my claim ticket, to the university police, to a 24 hour lot that I COULD have parked at had I known, back to the police to finally claim my minivan.
The best part? As the officer was walking with me to my van, he inquired, "Oh, don't they have front license plates in your state?" I sheepishly smiled, "Yes, they do, but the screw on it was bent on the way INTO DC when I bumped that vehicle, and I removed it so it wouldn't get lost."
Yet, despite all the travel trials, we had a fabulous trip and look forward to returning again. My plan next time is to stay in the city proper and take our bicycles to get around. Good idea?
April 13, 2009
The Mean Mom Award Goes To...
Every summer, our family vacations with another family. We’ve done this for nearly 10 summers now. It’s perfect for everyone. The moms have someone to cook and shop with, the dads have someone to play golf with and the kids don’t kill their siblings. One of the highlights of our annual vacation is comparing Mean Mom notes. My girlfriend and I have an ongoing competition, but we always wind up in a dead heat to be the reigning Mean Mom. We try to outdo each other during the week by making the kids brush their teeth, pick up their Popsicle wrappers and clear the table after they eat. All in all, we’re quite mean, and rather proud of it.
Spring break is upon us and I thought I would get an early edge on the competition so I’m in prime shape when summer arrives. I’m tired of this “tie” nonsense. I want to win.
Our break began Thursday afternoon. My oldest was on her way back from Washington DC for a class trip and the youngest one had Little League practice. I thought that it would be best to go out for pizza to celebrate the triumphant and safe return of the oldest. Plus, I didn’t want to cook.
Our road weary traveler rolled in, and like any effective Mean Mom, I was one of the last to pick her up, by almost a whole 5 minutes. I was trying to time the end of practice and the picking up time, which were at the same time. After my oldest was safely buckled in the seat, I said, “We’re going to go for pizza.”
She wailed. “Mom, don’t make me eat another bite of junk food! That’s all I had! I’m want something healthy!”
I consider her rant testimony to my effectiveness as a Mean Mom. I have actually convinced my child that going for pizza is a bad thing, not a good one. Even worse, the cupboard was suspiciously bare, save the thawing Easter ham, since we had a lot of visiting and time away from home planned over the next few days. I was excited at my possible coup in the Mean Mom category.
Then I lost my competitive edge as I suggested that we could order pizza in for everyone else, but that I would make her sautéed spinach with garlic. In other Mean Mom competitions, that would be points, but since I’m such an effective torture administrator, my child thinks I was doing something nice with the spinach.
We made it through the night, but I didn’t score any Mean points. I tucked her in and kissed her and told her I was glad she was home. She slept 11 hours and I didn’t wake her up. I’m losing ground quickly.
Every Good Friday, we have a traditional family fish fry. The past few years, we’ve missed it because we would go to Florida to visit family. This year, we were able to make it, so that was exciting. There are a number of younger cousins, so I planned an Easter egg hunt for the lil' ones. My children who are old enough to have their own cell phones and to stop wearing clothing from Carter's also felt they were NOT too old for the hunt. I had to divide the number of eggs by two more people. I suggested they search for Chocolate Dog Yard Bombs and I would give them money. Major Mean Mom points.
Alas, they were, "not too old for the egg, but too wise for the dog poop" hunt. Curses. Foiled, again. I couldn't give up! I could see my plans to dominate the competition dwindling.
On Saturday we colored eggs. First, I made them empty the dishwasher before we could do the eggs. I had picked up one of the fancy "glittery tie dye you're so creative” egg kits. "Why can't we just do the food coloring eggs, Mom?" I made them do chores before they made fancy eggs. I think I scored a few more Mean Mom points. I may be gaining ground again.
The clincher came Easter morning. We wanted to go to early church services and they wanted to have their Easter baskets before church so they had to hurry up and get ready then they could look for them. They know there is no Easter Bunny, my oldest figured it out when she was about five and saw one wearing sneakers. She proceeded to explain to me that it while Santa and the Tooth Fairy made sense, a giant bunny did not. But I play along. I tend to be a kid at heart, too. After a dogged (no pun, I swear!) search, I told them they were hidden somewhere they see everyday, but never think about on their own. Guess where I hid the baskets?
The dishwasher.
See, there was a method to my madness the previous day.
I intend to win this Mean Mom thing yet. Hope springs eternal.
Spring break is upon us and I thought I would get an early edge on the competition so I’m in prime shape when summer arrives. I’m tired of this “tie” nonsense. I want to win.
Our break began Thursday afternoon. My oldest was on her way back from Washington DC for a class trip and the youngest one had Little League practice. I thought that it would be best to go out for pizza to celebrate the triumphant and safe return of the oldest. Plus, I didn’t want to cook.
Our road weary traveler rolled in, and like any effective Mean Mom, I was one of the last to pick her up, by almost a whole 5 minutes. I was trying to time the end of practice and the picking up time, which were at the same time. After my oldest was safely buckled in the seat, I said, “We’re going to go for pizza.”
She wailed. “Mom, don’t make me eat another bite of junk food! That’s all I had! I’m want something healthy!”
I consider her rant testimony to my effectiveness as a Mean Mom. I have actually convinced my child that going for pizza is a bad thing, not a good one. Even worse, the cupboard was suspiciously bare, save the thawing Easter ham, since we had a lot of visiting and time away from home planned over the next few days. I was excited at my possible coup in the Mean Mom category.
Then I lost my competitive edge as I suggested that we could order pizza in for everyone else, but that I would make her sautéed spinach with garlic. In other Mean Mom competitions, that would be points, but since I’m such an effective torture administrator, my child thinks I was doing something nice with the spinach.
We made it through the night, but I didn’t score any Mean points. I tucked her in and kissed her and told her I was glad she was home. She slept 11 hours and I didn’t wake her up. I’m losing ground quickly.
Every Good Friday, we have a traditional family fish fry. The past few years, we’ve missed it because we would go to Florida to visit family. This year, we were able to make it, so that was exciting. There are a number of younger cousins, so I planned an Easter egg hunt for the lil' ones. My children who are old enough to have their own cell phones and to stop wearing clothing from Carter's also felt they were NOT too old for the hunt. I had to divide the number of eggs by two more people. I suggested they search for Chocolate Dog Yard Bombs and I would give them money. Major Mean Mom points.
Alas, they were, "not too old for the egg, but too wise for the dog poop" hunt. Curses. Foiled, again. I couldn't give up! I could see my plans to dominate the competition dwindling.
On Saturday we colored eggs. First, I made them empty the dishwasher before we could do the eggs. I had picked up one of the fancy "glittery tie dye you're so creative” egg kits. "Why can't we just do the food coloring eggs, Mom?" I made them do chores before they made fancy eggs. I think I scored a few more Mean Mom points. I may be gaining ground again.
The clincher came Easter morning. We wanted to go to early church services and they wanted to have their Easter baskets before church so they had to hurry up and get ready then they could look for them. They know there is no Easter Bunny, my oldest figured it out when she was about five and saw one wearing sneakers. She proceeded to explain to me that it while Santa and the Tooth Fairy made sense, a giant bunny did not. But I play along. I tend to be a kid at heart, too. After a dogged (no pun, I swear!) search, I told them they were hidden somewhere they see everyday, but never think about on their own. Guess where I hid the baskets?
The dishwasher.
See, there was a method to my madness the previous day.
I intend to win this Mean Mom thing yet. Hope springs eternal.
April 1, 2009
Humility Reigns
Do you ever have those "Homer Simpson" moments where you smack your head and say d'oh? Except perhaps they are also coupled with intense embarrassment. Homer is never embarrassed. I am. Even when I don't have witnesses.
I drove my children to school this morning because the older one had a huge project and being the nice mom I am I didn't want her to try to wrestle it on the bus, etc. I think at times I am a bit indulgent. I refrained from the "walking six miles uphill to school in the snow" talk, but I did realize Mama NEVER drove us to school. The bus was the only option. Or walking. I never missed it, or I truly would have known what it was to walk six miles to school in the snow. But I like to think I know it, because I did have occasion to walk or ride my bike, or I just didn't go, whereas today the kids get taxied.
I suppose to assuage my feelings of being an indulgent mom, I was alert to examples of more indulgent parents than I. And wow did I find one! I was behind a bus on the way back from the school and I saw a car idling at the end of the driveway holding precious cargo that apparently was unable to wait for the bus in the elements. (it's 58 degrees here today!) Gosh, what parent does that? I felt extremely smug and important as I passed judgment on the driveway dwelling car. I had a regular mental dialogue filled with opinions about how I would not drive my car to the end of the driveway on any day just so my kids could wait for the bus. I always felt a bit smug about those bus stop shelters people built at the end of their driveway also. My sense of being overly indulgent was put back in place. Surely I am not one of THOSE parents.
Then the bus stopped and an aide got off to help the handicapped young man in the back seat use his walker to get onto the side door of the bus. I sat in my vehicle, tears welling up in my eyes.
Embarrassed by my arrogance and judgment. Thank goodness it was only a mental moment. Thank goodness more I am lucky enough to watch my children walk onto the bus with two feet.
Those moments define our lives. Papa used to always say, "I used to complain that I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet."
I feel so much less indulgent, and so much more grateful. Yes, I am not one of those parents, and my heart goes out to them. I think I'll drive the kids to school again tomorrow.
Just because I'd like to do it without mental resentment that I'm being overindulgent.
I drove my children to school this morning because the older one had a huge project and being the nice mom I am I didn't want her to try to wrestle it on the bus, etc. I think at times I am a bit indulgent. I refrained from the "walking six miles uphill to school in the snow" talk, but I did realize Mama NEVER drove us to school. The bus was the only option. Or walking. I never missed it, or I truly would have known what it was to walk six miles to school in the snow. But I like to think I know it, because I did have occasion to walk or ride my bike, or I just didn't go, whereas today the kids get taxied.
I suppose to assuage my feelings of being an indulgent mom, I was alert to examples of more indulgent parents than I. And wow did I find one! I was behind a bus on the way back from the school and I saw a car idling at the end of the driveway holding precious cargo that apparently was unable to wait for the bus in the elements. (it's 58 degrees here today!) Gosh, what parent does that? I felt extremely smug and important as I passed judgment on the driveway dwelling car. I had a regular mental dialogue filled with opinions about how I would not drive my car to the end of the driveway on any day just so my kids could wait for the bus. I always felt a bit smug about those bus stop shelters people built at the end of their driveway also. My sense of being overly indulgent was put back in place. Surely I am not one of THOSE parents.
Then the bus stopped and an aide got off to help the handicapped young man in the back seat use his walker to get onto the side door of the bus. I sat in my vehicle, tears welling up in my eyes.
Embarrassed by my arrogance and judgment. Thank goodness it was only a mental moment. Thank goodness more I am lucky enough to watch my children walk onto the bus with two feet.
Those moments define our lives. Papa used to always say, "I used to complain that I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet."
I feel so much less indulgent, and so much more grateful. Yes, I am not one of those parents, and my heart goes out to them. I think I'll drive the kids to school again tomorrow.
Just because I'd like to do it without mental resentment that I'm being overindulgent.
March 19, 2009
Time: Indifferent Mistress
Something charming happened to me today. Charming in this sense. I am watching young people around me grow up, fast. For the first time today, it didn't make me feel old. It made me remember being young. Those days didn't seem so far away instead of ages ago.
A young man, who was one of my favorite Euchre players accepted my invitation on Facebook. He was a shining star, with big dimples and bright blue eyes. I met him when he was 14 and I was the youth director at our then church. Today he's a young college student filled with life. I looked into his posted pictures and smiled remembering a conversation that seemed ages ago.
"I will never party or get drunk, Mrs. Fresh."
"Yes, sweet boy, you will. But when you're 21, I'll go have a beer with you and we'll talk about it."
"You kill brain cells when you do that."
"Yes, you do, but if I hadn't killed a few brain cells in my day, I'd be a nuclear physicist, not your youth director, so I guess it worked out for the best."
Maybe he doesn't know how much I enjoyed watching him grow up. Maybe I didn't either. I just know that today, I smiled when I saw that he was indeed growing up.
As another memory overlapped. My then 5 year old daughter watched the same young man flip a guitar pick for a church scavenger hunt, which she saved and cherished. As you know, she is a rocker girl today, loving her guitar lessons. I'm sure this small gesture was nothing more than being cool on his part, but it impacted her life tremendously. Who knew the flick of a guitar pick by this cool high school kid would shape her wishes today? As every memory swirls I know that time marches forward... indifferent to us.
My other daughter, who is now 13, came home yesterday, blushing. A boy she likes hugged her. Three times. As she shared the story, my heart warmed and my mom side thought cautiously, thank god we didn't let her wear that short dress to school.
Time is indifferent. It moves forward whether we want it to or not.
A young man, who was one of my favorite Euchre players accepted my invitation on Facebook. He was a shining star, with big dimples and bright blue eyes. I met him when he was 14 and I was the youth director at our then church. Today he's a young college student filled with life. I looked into his posted pictures and smiled remembering a conversation that seemed ages ago.
"I will never party or get drunk, Mrs. Fresh."
"Yes, sweet boy, you will. But when you're 21, I'll go have a beer with you and we'll talk about it."
"You kill brain cells when you do that."
"Yes, you do, but if I hadn't killed a few brain cells in my day, I'd be a nuclear physicist, not your youth director, so I guess it worked out for the best."
Maybe he doesn't know how much I enjoyed watching him grow up. Maybe I didn't either. I just know that today, I smiled when I saw that he was indeed growing up.
As another memory overlapped. My then 5 year old daughter watched the same young man flip a guitar pick for a church scavenger hunt, which she saved and cherished. As you know, she is a rocker girl today, loving her guitar lessons. I'm sure this small gesture was nothing more than being cool on his part, but it impacted her life tremendously. Who knew the flick of a guitar pick by this cool high school kid would shape her wishes today? As every memory swirls I know that time marches forward... indifferent to us.
My other daughter, who is now 13, came home yesterday, blushing. A boy she likes hugged her. Three times. As she shared the story, my heart warmed and my mom side thought cautiously, thank god we didn't let her wear that short dress to school.
Time is indifferent. It moves forward whether we want it to or not.
March 18, 2009
Children of Abraham
…your name shall be Abraham; for a father of many nations have I made you, (Genesis 17:5)
أحب الخاص بك الجدة
Quite literally, the members of my family are children of Abraham. That is a name in our family tree. My husband’s grandparents were born in Syria and Lebanon and came to the United States in the 1930s. We have a lot of Abrahams in the family tree and the heritage is a strong proud one.
Something happened over the weekend that upset my daughter to her core. She is proud of her background and the cultural influences that have shaped her life. She knows a handful of Arabic words and enjoys Middle Eastern food on a regular basis.
Let me introduce you to Sittoo, my husband’s grandmother. That is how to say Grandmother in Arabic. She was born in 1907 on the banks of Lebanon. Her village was a simple one and she would often reminisce about the cedars on the mountainside, the delicious food and the exotic music and dances. She learned 3 different languages before she came to the USA; Arabic, English and French, from the French occupation of Lebanon.
Lebanon was a largely Christian enclave but also included areas containing many Muslims and Druze. Sittoo spoke often of her Muslim neighbors though she herself was a Maronite Catholic. She came to the United States in an arranged marriage, but her husband died shortly after they were married. Her second husband was a Syrian man she knew from her social club. He was my husband’s grandfather, who died in 1978. She brought her rich heritage with her and maintained her native ways until her death at 96. Our children and I were very blessed to have her in our lives, which are more vibrant for knowing her.
Fear has gripped our nation. Thoughtless, naïve comments are made. Comments that come from a place of zero personal knowledge but rather spoon fed hatred. The prejudice towards Middle Eastern people is frightening. The comment that was made was, “those Middle Easterners want to kill all the Christians”. The sad thing, this comment was made by a religious leader. Not all Middle Easterners are terrorists, nor are all terrorists Middle Eastern. It is flawed logic. Some terrorists look like Ted Kaczinski, Timothy McVeigh and John Lee Malvo.
Historically, Islam, Judaism, and Christianity all started with Abraham, the father of nations. Each faith embodies slightly different manifestations, yet, the core message is the same. There is one God and we share one same Holy Place, the Temple Mount, where Solomon built a temple, Jesus prayed, and Mohammed ascended. We have many more similarities that are often overlooked. To quote Rabbi David Rosen, "interreligious dialogue is an essential component in facilitating peaceful reconciliation in international relations, for the wellbeing of our world as a whole".
I think we can do better for our brothers and sisters. I think we can reach across the world and set an example for the hate filled extremists. Do not perpetuate their frightened gross generalizations, but rather extend a hand of friendship and love. I think we should stop making religion the bad guy, and remember the core teachings of tolerance and peace, which is central to all Abrahamic religions. Religion gets a bad rap for being at the center of so many wars and people turn away from it for that reason. It’s time to stop arguing about whose God is the better God and embrace our collective faiths that tell us there IS God, who made a promise a long time ago to Abraham.
And I will make your seed to multiply as the stars of heaven, and will give to your seed all these countries; and in your seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed. (Genesis 26:4)
It’s time to gaze into the night sky and count the twinkling stars, and realize… we’re all in this universe together.
أحب الخاص بك الجدة
Quite literally, the members of my family are children of Abraham. That is a name in our family tree. My husband’s grandparents were born in Syria and Lebanon and came to the United States in the 1930s. We have a lot of Abrahams in the family tree and the heritage is a strong proud one.
Something happened over the weekend that upset my daughter to her core. She is proud of her background and the cultural influences that have shaped her life. She knows a handful of Arabic words and enjoys Middle Eastern food on a regular basis.
Let me introduce you to Sittoo, my husband’s grandmother. That is how to say Grandmother in Arabic. She was born in 1907 on the banks of Lebanon. Her village was a simple one and she would often reminisce about the cedars on the mountainside, the delicious food and the exotic music and dances. She learned 3 different languages before she came to the USA; Arabic, English and French, from the French occupation of Lebanon.
Lebanon was a largely Christian enclave but also included areas containing many Muslims and Druze. Sittoo spoke often of her Muslim neighbors though she herself was a Maronite Catholic. She came to the United States in an arranged marriage, but her husband died shortly after they were married. Her second husband was a Syrian man she knew from her social club. He was my husband’s grandfather, who died in 1978. She brought her rich heritage with her and maintained her native ways until her death at 96. Our children and I were very blessed to have her in our lives, which are more vibrant for knowing her.
Fear has gripped our nation. Thoughtless, naïve comments are made. Comments that come from a place of zero personal knowledge but rather spoon fed hatred. The prejudice towards Middle Eastern people is frightening. The comment that was made was, “those Middle Easterners want to kill all the Christians”. The sad thing, this comment was made by a religious leader. Not all Middle Easterners are terrorists, nor are all terrorists Middle Eastern. It is flawed logic. Some terrorists look like Ted Kaczinski, Timothy McVeigh and John Lee Malvo.
Historically, Islam, Judaism, and Christianity all started with Abraham, the father of nations. Each faith embodies slightly different manifestations, yet, the core message is the same. There is one God and we share one same Holy Place, the Temple Mount, where Solomon built a temple, Jesus prayed, and Mohammed ascended. We have many more similarities that are often overlooked. To quote Rabbi David Rosen, "interreligious dialogue is an essential component in facilitating peaceful reconciliation in international relations, for the wellbeing of our world as a whole".
I think we can do better for our brothers and sisters. I think we can reach across the world and set an example for the hate filled extremists. Do not perpetuate their frightened gross generalizations, but rather extend a hand of friendship and love. I think we should stop making religion the bad guy, and remember the core teachings of tolerance and peace, which is central to all Abrahamic religions. Religion gets a bad rap for being at the center of so many wars and people turn away from it for that reason. It’s time to stop arguing about whose God is the better God and embrace our collective faiths that tell us there IS God, who made a promise a long time ago to Abraham.
And I will make your seed to multiply as the stars of heaven, and will give to your seed all these countries; and in your seed shall all the nations of the earth be blessed. (Genesis 26:4)
It’s time to gaze into the night sky and count the twinkling stars, and realize… we’re all in this universe together.
March 10, 2009
The Naked Nanny
I have written in the past about growing up on a farm. I haven't provided a lot of the details, as they just weren't relevant to many of my stories. Plus, they really are quite unusual. My family may also be aghast that I still tell these tales.
Mama was the last of the hippies. Her dream was to live off the land. Papa Fresh was a sales guy & all around wheeler dealer. (This probably explains why they didn't remain married as well was why I have a lot of different influences). Papa’s solution to Mama's dream was a farm just large enough to qualify for tax benefits. Mama decided to grow organic produce.
That meant lots of work. Weeding by the bucketful, hand picking bugs off plants versus spraying poison on them, and composting all the garden scraps. It also means there wasn't much time left to parent. We children had live in nannies. I grew up with assorted young women living in our home from the time I was 8 until about 12. Consider who would want to live on an organic vegetable farm in the 70s. We had the most unusual cast of Bohemian characters living with us. I think in total, we had 7 or 8 different girls. Some didn't last more than a few weeks, but one of them stayed for 2 years. Never Mary Poppins, unless Mary Poppins grew plants in a tin foil encased old VW behind one of the barns. During that era, I learned how to do batik printing, how to tan a sheepskin, how to play the dulcimer, and... how to skinny dip.
Actually, we never had swimsuits. There was no point. We worked in the field, got hot and dropped our clothing at the side of the pond and jumped in. Naturally, the nannies were to supervise us and they joined in. It just was what we did. So from age 8 on, my brothers and myself were regularly exposed to bare bodies of varying sizes and shapes. One of our nannies, Laura, was a bit on the heavy side and she had an extremely large chest. We would climb onto her shoulders and dive off them, and she would joke that we could use her chest as steps.
One summer evening, at a family barbeque, complete with aunts, uncles and grandparents, all the girls (Laura included) decided to go skinny dipping. We did realize in that situation it was not appropriate to mingle the sexes, not with my uncle’s single brother, as well as a few adolescent males there. But, my uncle’s single brother thought it would be amusing to steal Laura's clothing. I don't really know why it didn't occur to me to go get more clothes for Laura, but I was just a kid, oblivious to all the undercurrent nuances of the situation. She faced a conundrum, dripping wet with her nearest clothing at the house.
Her solution was to imitate a horseless Lady Godiva. She pulled her hair forward, barely reaching the top of her breasts, and walked stark naked through the barbeque, into the house to get another outfit. She sauntered past my aunts, grandparents and cousins and also past my uncle’s brother, with a bit of sass. Everyone saw Laura's bare breasts. My grandmother and aunts were horrified that such a bad influence would be around the children. I imagine the men all wanted to avert their eyes, but still needed an rather irate elbow from their female counterpart to succeed.
A few moments later, Laura came back down in clothing and got herself a plate of (just) desserts.
Mama was the last of the hippies. Her dream was to live off the land. Papa Fresh was a sales guy & all around wheeler dealer. (This probably explains why they didn't remain married as well was why I have a lot of different influences). Papa’s solution to Mama's dream was a farm just large enough to qualify for tax benefits. Mama decided to grow organic produce.
That meant lots of work. Weeding by the bucketful, hand picking bugs off plants versus spraying poison on them, and composting all the garden scraps. It also means there wasn't much time left to parent. We children had live in nannies. I grew up with assorted young women living in our home from the time I was 8 until about 12. Consider who would want to live on an organic vegetable farm in the 70s. We had the most unusual cast of Bohemian characters living with us. I think in total, we had 7 or 8 different girls. Some didn't last more than a few weeks, but one of them stayed for 2 years. Never Mary Poppins, unless Mary Poppins grew plants in a tin foil encased old VW behind one of the barns. During that era, I learned how to do batik printing, how to tan a sheepskin, how to play the dulcimer, and... how to skinny dip.
Actually, we never had swimsuits. There was no point. We worked in the field, got hot and dropped our clothing at the side of the pond and jumped in. Naturally, the nannies were to supervise us and they joined in. It just was what we did. So from age 8 on, my brothers and myself were regularly exposed to bare bodies of varying sizes and shapes. One of our nannies, Laura, was a bit on the heavy side and she had an extremely large chest. We would climb onto her shoulders and dive off them, and she would joke that we could use her chest as steps.
One summer evening, at a family barbeque, complete with aunts, uncles and grandparents, all the girls (Laura included) decided to go skinny dipping. We did realize in that situation it was not appropriate to mingle the sexes, not with my uncle’s single brother, as well as a few adolescent males there. But, my uncle’s single brother thought it would be amusing to steal Laura's clothing. I don't really know why it didn't occur to me to go get more clothes for Laura, but I was just a kid, oblivious to all the undercurrent nuances of the situation. She faced a conundrum, dripping wet with her nearest clothing at the house.
Her solution was to imitate a horseless Lady Godiva. She pulled her hair forward, barely reaching the top of her breasts, and walked stark naked through the barbeque, into the house to get another outfit. She sauntered past my aunts, grandparents and cousins and also past my uncle’s brother, with a bit of sass. Everyone saw Laura's bare breasts. My grandmother and aunts were horrified that such a bad influence would be around the children. I imagine the men all wanted to avert their eyes, but still needed an rather irate elbow from their female counterpart to succeed.
A few moments later, Laura came back down in clothing and got herself a plate of (just) desserts.
February 26, 2009
Theory of Relativity
Or something like that. About our dog, who is named Einstein.
Einstein, the Misnamed Dog
Our adventure to dog ownership began quite innocently. My children and I took a wrong turn returning from the West Side Outdoor Market one summer afternoon, when I saw a sign for the city kennel, and said, let’s just go “look”. My affinity for homeless strays is probably a little over romanticized by 1000 viewings of Lady and the Tramp, but I still held a glimmer of hope.
The City Kennel is not Fluffy Pet Store at the Mall by any stretch of the imagination. There are no petting rooms or cute chew toys or adoption certificates. Instead, there is cage after cage of rounded up mongrels from city dumps, abandoned buildings and other unsavory places that wild dogs gather. They were emaciated, frightened, and LOUD. As I took my 7 and 9 year old through the kennel, the dogs snarled and barked and leaped against the cage doors, terrifying them. Only to spy a sign for a section of quarantined DANGEROUS animals, out of our sight. These were the TAME ones.
After this Kennel incident, I’m certain my husband would have been thrilled that I had traumatized my children to the point of never wanting a dog. But taking the shaking, trembling little girls out of the city kennel, I knew I had to make amends. Thinking on my feet, I announced, “Obviously this is the wrong building. I thought we were going to the Animal Protective League, not Dog Prison.” Driving a few more blocks, we arrived at the pristine APL building, our oasis from the Snarling Wild Dog preview a few minutes earlier.
As I reminded my children, “We’re just here to look and pet a few animals”, they tentatively walked into the building with me. After a preliminary sign in, we were permitted in the kennel part.
There we met Moe, a 5 year old beagle mix. With his sad loving brown eyes, we read Moe’s dossier, which suggested Moe was at the APL because he chased cats and birds. In amazement that he was given away for acting as any self respecting dog would, my heart strings tugged. This was the sort of dog I wanted. A mellow, smaller, mature dog with a bit of spunk… I thought, how can I sneak this boy home?
The girls and I were completely smitten, but knew Dad’s resistance to hermit crabs, let alone a dog. So we tore ourselves away and conspired to find a plan to bring a dog home sometime SOON. My chief co-conspirator was my then 7 year old. From that day forward, she would study the APL website every day, copying pictures of homeless dogs, their description and why they would be a perfect pet. They all had names and her file grew like a deck of Old Maid cards. We were specifically looking for an adult dog (not a chewing unhousebroken puppy), and a dog small enough to snuggle on our lap.
Summer vacations and activities kept us from doing much besides watching and studying the dogs, but we knew we were building a solid case to rescue an animal. The day of reckoning arrived, when one day we noticed that the APL inventory went from 20 to 45 dogs overnight. We saw a Basset Hound mix named Riley, who seemed to fit our bill. Armed with a new toy and leash, we convinced Dad to drive down with us.
We walked up to the desk and said, we want to meet Riley, the Basset Hound. Apparently Riley had heard through the grapevine that she had company coming, because the minute we arrived at her cage, she jumped up on the door and let out a howl that can only be described as wounded animal. I think she was trying to impress us with her operatic stylings, but I cringed and immediately said, wrong animal for our calm quiet home. Let’s look around some more.
Around the corner, were two more possibilities. Winston, a yellow lab with a stump tail and a weight problem. Winston was mellow, and kind, but at 8 years old, we could foresee nothing but health issues. And at 80 lbs, I also saw outrageous dog food bills and very little lap time. Not to mention the yard bombs to pick up from a dog that size.
Then the antithesis of everything I thought I wanted was in the cage across the way. A 4 month old male puppy, breed undetermined, but possibly a Sharpei mix in the body of a lab. Short wrinkly tan skin, sweet eyes and boundless energy. The children melted and I reluctantly said, “Let’s get to know this guy better.”
Well, this little guy apparently knew how to market himself. He sat with as much restraint as a puppy can muster, his tail whipping back and forth impatiently, and looked at us wistfully with his furrowed wrinkled forehead. At this point, I said, he looks like he’s a deep thinker. My older daughter said; let’s call him Einstein if we can take him home. As if on cue, we all looked at my husband and with a perfected “please” look, and stared him down.
Unable to resist the pressure of four sets of eyes (three human, and one canine), my husband said, “He is a handsome dog.”
He trembled in fear the whole time home, apparently from motion sickness. Once we arrived home, he took in his environment with joy, discovering a house with two dogs out our back window for his viewing pleasure. To this day, nearly two years later, he lets us know anytime they are outside, or any member of their family. He has become their personal stalker, guarding their house from afar.
The first time I took him to the vet; he apparently thought if he drove that would solve the problem of car sickness. I was quite the sight driving with a 30 lb. puppy on my lap quivering.
The honeymoon quickly came to an end when Einstein thought anything left on the floor was his personal chew toy. We had several single shoes, a dining room chair leg, Bratz dolls and countless socks lost to the cause of Einstein’s teething.
Einstein, the Misnamed Dog
Our adventure to dog ownership began quite innocently. My children and I took a wrong turn returning from the West Side Outdoor Market one summer afternoon, when I saw a sign for the city kennel, and said, let’s just go “look”. My affinity for homeless strays is probably a little over romanticized by 1000 viewings of Lady and the Tramp, but I still held a glimmer of hope.
The City Kennel is not Fluffy Pet Store at the Mall by any stretch of the imagination. There are no petting rooms or cute chew toys or adoption certificates. Instead, there is cage after cage of rounded up mongrels from city dumps, abandoned buildings and other unsavory places that wild dogs gather. They were emaciated, frightened, and LOUD. As I took my 7 and 9 year old through the kennel, the dogs snarled and barked and leaped against the cage doors, terrifying them. Only to spy a sign for a section of quarantined DANGEROUS animals, out of our sight. These were the TAME ones.
After this Kennel incident, I’m certain my husband would have been thrilled that I had traumatized my children to the point of never wanting a dog. But taking the shaking, trembling little girls out of the city kennel, I knew I had to make amends. Thinking on my feet, I announced, “Obviously this is the wrong building. I thought we were going to the Animal Protective League, not Dog Prison.” Driving a few more blocks, we arrived at the pristine APL building, our oasis from the Snarling Wild Dog preview a few minutes earlier.
As I reminded my children, “We’re just here to look and pet a few animals”, they tentatively walked into the building with me. After a preliminary sign in, we were permitted in the kennel part.
There we met Moe, a 5 year old beagle mix. With his sad loving brown eyes, we read Moe’s dossier, which suggested Moe was at the APL because he chased cats and birds. In amazement that he was given away for acting as any self respecting dog would, my heart strings tugged. This was the sort of dog I wanted. A mellow, smaller, mature dog with a bit of spunk… I thought, how can I sneak this boy home?
The girls and I were completely smitten, but knew Dad’s resistance to hermit crabs, let alone a dog. So we tore ourselves away and conspired to find a plan to bring a dog home sometime SOON. My chief co-conspirator was my then 7 year old. From that day forward, she would study the APL website every day, copying pictures of homeless dogs, their description and why they would be a perfect pet. They all had names and her file grew like a deck of Old Maid cards. We were specifically looking for an adult dog (not a chewing unhousebroken puppy), and a dog small enough to snuggle on our lap.
Summer vacations and activities kept us from doing much besides watching and studying the dogs, but we knew we were building a solid case to rescue an animal. The day of reckoning arrived, when one day we noticed that the APL inventory went from 20 to 45 dogs overnight. We saw a Basset Hound mix named Riley, who seemed to fit our bill. Armed with a new toy and leash, we convinced Dad to drive down with us.
We walked up to the desk and said, we want to meet Riley, the Basset Hound. Apparently Riley had heard through the grapevine that she had company coming, because the minute we arrived at her cage, she jumped up on the door and let out a howl that can only be described as wounded animal. I think she was trying to impress us with her operatic stylings, but I cringed and immediately said, wrong animal for our calm quiet home. Let’s look around some more.
Around the corner, were two more possibilities. Winston, a yellow lab with a stump tail and a weight problem. Winston was mellow, and kind, but at 8 years old, we could foresee nothing but health issues. And at 80 lbs, I also saw outrageous dog food bills and very little lap time. Not to mention the yard bombs to pick up from a dog that size.
Then the antithesis of everything I thought I wanted was in the cage across the way. A 4 month old male puppy, breed undetermined, but possibly a Sharpei mix in the body of a lab. Short wrinkly tan skin, sweet eyes and boundless energy. The children melted and I reluctantly said, “Let’s get to know this guy better.”
Well, this little guy apparently knew how to market himself. He sat with as much restraint as a puppy can muster, his tail whipping back and forth impatiently, and looked at us wistfully with his furrowed wrinkled forehead. At this point, I said, he looks like he’s a deep thinker. My older daughter said; let’s call him Einstein if we can take him home. As if on cue, we all looked at my husband and with a perfected “please” look, and stared him down.
Unable to resist the pressure of four sets of eyes (three human, and one canine), my husband said, “He is a handsome dog.”
He trembled in fear the whole time home, apparently from motion sickness. Once we arrived home, he took in his environment with joy, discovering a house with two dogs out our back window for his viewing pleasure. To this day, nearly two years later, he lets us know anytime they are outside, or any member of their family. He has become their personal stalker, guarding their house from afar.
The first time I took him to the vet; he apparently thought if he drove that would solve the problem of car sickness. I was quite the sight driving with a 30 lb. puppy on my lap quivering.
The honeymoon quickly came to an end when Einstein thought anything left on the floor was his personal chew toy. We had several single shoes, a dining room chair leg, Bratz dolls and countless socks lost to the cause of Einstein’s teething.
As Einstein grew, and his wrinkles diminished, it became clear he was not the Sharpei the APL had guessed. We began to study books and finally determined that he is probably mostly Rhodesian Ridgeback, an African hunting dog. This theory has been backed up by his dislike of cold weather and his amazing speed when he is loose. Much to his joy, he discovered that high snow drifts rendered his invisible fence useless and he took off through the neighborhood, beckoning the other dogs to join him. Gallivanting around with glee, they relished the opportunity to frolic and smell each other. Finally all the dogs were gathered and properly restrained. Einstein just smiled, panted and then scratched his ear, short term memory failing him to the point of having no idea or recollection of his adventure.
There was another time he found a large teddy bear in one of the kid’s rooms; it was dressed in a pink ballerina tutu. He attempted to walk by my bedroom nonchalantly, like he had nothing in his mouth, but he was foiled by his own sideways glance, not to mention the big pink fluff on the side of his face. Thank goodness he doesn’t play poker.
He also has an attachment to towels and washcloths. Most towels that are not hung up immediately have been discovered with holes chewed in them, to the point where some of our towels have begun to resemble Swiss cheese. Recently, he found a pile of clean folded washcloths sitting on the coffee table which is his height. The holy grail of fun things for him. Of course, he has figured out that he must be sneaky, so after somehow pulling the pile of washcloths onto the floor, he casually laid his body over them apparently to hide his crime. His guilty face gave away his momentary joy. I noticed multicolored pieces of terrycloth sticking out from under his torso as he attempted to lie perfectly still over his treasure and I was able to rescue the washcloths from becoming matched with the towels.
Einstein has also discovered a fondness for chicken. One day, as 8 cooked chicken breasts cooled in the sink drainer to be diced for other meals, I came back to the kitchen to find the colander on the floor, the chicken vanished and a contented smirk on Einstein’s face with nary a trace of chicken to be found. But his innocent act didn’t fool me, especially when he didn’t eat for three days the chicken incident. I called the vet and inquired if the chicken was more dangerous to him than my thoughts of killing him.
His name has proven to be a bit of an embarrassment, especially when we need to yell for him and he ignores us. The implication of genius is just too much pressure for him and we call him “Stupid Dog” for short. But he’s our stupid dog and we wouldn’t trade him for the world.
February 25, 2009
Swimming in a Wading Pool
I have had a bit of dialogue with a few friends lately about the lack of quality journalism. The lazy habits of not just the readers, but also the writers. Last week, my local paper had the wrong name of the editor. They called him Tony, not Todd. One day, it had a photo caption about six people, except, there were seven in the photo. Misspellings and grammar errors are everyday occurances. Either nobody is paying attention, or nobody cares. I'm not sure which it is.
Huxley wrote of a Brave New World as his vision of the future. A world where the focus of life is pleasure and simplicity. Everyone is shiny, happy, and perpetually amused. Style is chosen over substance and nobody has to work for anything. Life is spoon fed from the day of incubation to the day of expiration.
We've slipped even more. Electronic media is increasing in popularity. Texting can destroy a teen's allowance with 15¢/per LOL or Wassup. Yet, very little is truly being said in these pricey exchanges.
I liken this phenomenon to trying to swim in a wading pool. It simply cannot happen. Imagine the wading pool at Boston Commons. The water is 6 inches deep; refreshing for hot tired feet at best. There is no opportunity to exercise or practice the backstroke. Swimming holes dry up, and fear of lawsuits has cities closing pools. Nobody really wants to get mud on their feet or dive from the high dive, anyway. It may be dangerous. We don't know how to tread water and our brains atrophy. We realize that we could drown even in six inches of water if we lay face down and never move. The wading pool fills with unmoving brains and bodies, completely lacking skills for any amount of depth.
We have forgotten how to swim. We are not prepared with lifesaving skills. We splash in the wading pool and feel refreshed, but not truly cleansed. Huxley's vision doesn't seem so futuristic. Perhaps the future is today, and suddenly, I'm not feeling quite so Brave.
February 19, 2009
The Unsinkables
I recently caught the end of The Titanic.
Quite possibly... The Worst. Movie. Ever. Really.
It is ridiculously overblown, melodramatic, and unrealistic. I don't know why it irks me so much. I suppose I'm far too practical to get swept up in the unlikelihood of a street boy (Jack) knowing how to thwart every possible snafu when on a sinking cruise ship as if that were his full-time career. I cannot believe Rose gets off a lifeboat. I cannot believe Old Woman Rose drops the necklace in the water. She really is senile. I cannot believe she had 87 photos of her life on an exploration ship. I love musical theater because it is supposed to be cheesy. This movie took itself way too seriously.
I got to thinking about how much more campy and fun the movie could have been. Suppose the cast from The Love Boat was on-board the Titanic. Can you see Julie passing out squirt guns for a water fight? Or perhaps teaching an ice carving workshop? Doc swearing that if that woman takes off her heavy coat and gown she'll float much better? He'd throw in a personal exam, too. Isaac mixing up a few hot toddies to take the chill off. Gopher... what, what did Gopher do again? Oh, Gopher would be campaigning for the Senate. And of course Capt. Stubing, I think he would have had a romance with Molly Brown. I can see Kathy Bates and Gavin McLeod dining at the Captain's table followed by a quick whirl around the dance floor.
I think it would be so much more poignant to have a thwarted romance with the Captain, as he must go down with the ship. Can't ya just see it? The Love Boat would NOT be complete without a guest appearance by Charro. How could the henchman who kept trying to keep Rose and Jack apart take himself seriously with a half-dressed Charro coochie-cooching him? Then I would be laughing not screaming at the movie. I could accept every implausibility and suspend my disbelief.
The potential for a sequel would be so much more promising.
Gilligan's Iceberg, anyone?
Quite possibly... The Worst. Movie. Ever. Really.
It is ridiculously overblown, melodramatic, and unrealistic. I don't know why it irks me so much. I suppose I'm far too practical to get swept up in the unlikelihood of a street boy (Jack) knowing how to thwart every possible snafu when on a sinking cruise ship as if that were his full-time career. I cannot believe Rose gets off a lifeboat. I cannot believe Old Woman Rose drops the necklace in the water. She really is senile. I cannot believe she had 87 photos of her life on an exploration ship. I love musical theater because it is supposed to be cheesy. This movie took itself way too seriously.
I got to thinking about how much more campy and fun the movie could have been. Suppose the cast from The Love Boat was on-board the Titanic. Can you see Julie passing out squirt guns for a water fight? Or perhaps teaching an ice carving workshop? Doc swearing that if that woman takes off her heavy coat and gown she'll float much better? He'd throw in a personal exam, too. Isaac mixing up a few hot toddies to take the chill off. Gopher... what, what did Gopher do again? Oh, Gopher would be campaigning for the Senate. And of course Capt. Stubing, I think he would have had a romance with Molly Brown. I can see Kathy Bates and Gavin McLeod dining at the Captain's table followed by a quick whirl around the dance floor.
I think it would be so much more poignant to have a thwarted romance with the Captain, as he must go down with the ship. Can't ya just see it? The Love Boat would NOT be complete without a guest appearance by Charro. How could the henchman who kept trying to keep Rose and Jack apart take himself seriously with a half-dressed Charro coochie-cooching him? Then I would be laughing not screaming at the movie. I could accept every implausibility and suspend my disbelief.
The potential for a sequel would be so much more promising.
Gilligan's Iceberg, anyone?
My Favorite Teacher
My 5th grader has a favorite teacher. There isn't a day of the week she doesn't come home with a story that starts with, Mr. E said... She could write this teacher's biography and be president of his fan club. He inspires her and she learns more in the 45 minutes a day she is with him than the entire rest of her day, because she is engaged. It's thrilling.
Since becoming a parent, I have seen both good and bad teachers, but I resist mightily to be one of "those parents". Even with the bad teachers, I tell the kids, someday you may have a bad boss. You have to learn how to deal with both good and bad authority figures. That's a life lesson, too.
Sometimes, a teacher just knows how to grab into the very soul of a student and bring out their very best. The most special kind of teacher. I had a teacher in 8th grade, Mrs. P. She was my English teacher, and she was who I wanted to grow up to be. She was classy, elegant, and had a sense of irony and humor that didn't go over my head. I can still see her chic wardrobe and mirthful smile. Oh more than anything, I wanted to be her.
We had an assignment to write about encountering a lion. To write about it as descriptively as possible. I wanted to impress her. I wanted to prove I was worthy of carrying on her legacy. I labored over that assignment. I poured every ounce of creativity I could into that paper. She handed them back. I was baffled by my grade. She marked it with... a ... "P".
If my eyes had been a magnifying glass, I probably would have burned a hole in the paper, as I tried to see if it was a sloppy B, or the A missing a tail. Heaven forbid, I prayed it wasn't a messy F. But, there was no question about it, it was a P. Could that be a code for her last name? A "P"? What the HECK sort of grade is a P? I was confused and fought back the tears. It wasn't an A, was all I knew. I must not have impressed her as I hoped.
I tried to pay attention in class but I was mentally rehearsing how to gather my courage to approach her after class and ask, "what does this "P" mean?" As much as I worshipped her, I was also terribly intimidated by this amazing woman. I stumbled over how to approach her. With a combination of relief and trepidation, I shyly walked up to her desk after the bell rang. Mrs. P? I don't understand my grade. What is a "P"?
She looked up from her gradebook and made direct eye contact with me as the dimples on the side of her face deepened.
"P is for Promising."
That was all she said. But it was all she needed to say. Her words were the first time I believed I would write, and I've tried to keep that promise.
She was my favorite teacher, ever.
Since becoming a parent, I have seen both good and bad teachers, but I resist mightily to be one of "those parents". Even with the bad teachers, I tell the kids, someday you may have a bad boss. You have to learn how to deal with both good and bad authority figures. That's a life lesson, too.
Sometimes, a teacher just knows how to grab into the very soul of a student and bring out their very best. The most special kind of teacher. I had a teacher in 8th grade, Mrs. P. She was my English teacher, and she was who I wanted to grow up to be. She was classy, elegant, and had a sense of irony and humor that didn't go over my head. I can still see her chic wardrobe and mirthful smile. Oh more than anything, I wanted to be her.
We had an assignment to write about encountering a lion. To write about it as descriptively as possible. I wanted to impress her. I wanted to prove I was worthy of carrying on her legacy. I labored over that assignment. I poured every ounce of creativity I could into that paper. She handed them back. I was baffled by my grade. She marked it with... a ... "P".
If my eyes had been a magnifying glass, I probably would have burned a hole in the paper, as I tried to see if it was a sloppy B, or the A missing a tail. Heaven forbid, I prayed it wasn't a messy F. But, there was no question about it, it was a P. Could that be a code for her last name? A "P"? What the HECK sort of grade is a P? I was confused and fought back the tears. It wasn't an A, was all I knew. I must not have impressed her as I hoped.
I tried to pay attention in class but I was mentally rehearsing how to gather my courage to approach her after class and ask, "what does this "P" mean?" As much as I worshipped her, I was also terribly intimidated by this amazing woman. I stumbled over how to approach her. With a combination of relief and trepidation, I shyly walked up to her desk after the bell rang. Mrs. P? I don't understand my grade. What is a "P"?
She looked up from her gradebook and made direct eye contact with me as the dimples on the side of her face deepened.
"P is for Promising."
That was all she said. But it was all she needed to say. Her words were the first time I believed I would write, and I've tried to keep that promise.
She was my favorite teacher, ever.
February 18, 2009
Finding Hope
In our early 20s, when my husband and I were newlyweds, we went shopping for our first house. We had quite a list of what we wanted in a home, but we also were getting started in life. We opted for a neighborhood in the city proper versus the suburbs. We found a lovely old Tudor style home, with all sorts of charming details like built-in china cabinets, an eat-in kitchen, double oven, arched doorways, and hardwood floors. Even better was the two car garage. Everything a young couple could want. The owners seemed especially eager to sell. They were a few years older than us, with one baby and another one on the way. It was the sort of home that in the past, people raised families in, but that somehow along the path of the American dream, bigger indeed became better. They were extremely happy to negotiate with us.
It should have been a warning sign when we asked what the neighbors were like, and the wife stammered; oh they are pretty nice and talked about someone 5 doors down incessantly. We were blinded by the home, the deal, and our good fortune and brushed aside her evasiveness. We moved in. We worked opposite shifts, so our door was constantly revolving. We kept to ourselves and began to make a tidy life for ourselves. We noticed some odd activity next door, but really were never home and outside at the same time often enough to pay much attention. Then one day, a neighbor walking by stopped and introduced herself. We stood on the sidewalk gabbing and she kept glancing nervously at the house next door. She dropped her voice and whispered, "So have you had any problems with...", as rolled her eyes towards the home next door. I had noticed kids crossing the street when they rode by pointing at that house, but other than that, I said, I hadn't really noticed anything unusual. She clammed up and said, "That's good." She refused to elaborate.
Later that afternoon, I struck up a conversation with the neighbor on the other side, trying to dig a bit. He says, "B & R (the couple who sold the house to us), had a lot of problems with Hope. “Hope?" I asked. "Yes, the woman on the other side. You haven't met Hope yet?"
"No, but I've seen a woman from time to time." The mystery deepened.
"Well," the neighbor said, "Hope is a bit crazy and the threatened to kill B & R's baby."
My heart started to race with terror as I tried to keep a calm façade. Instead I went to the Animal Protective League and adopted a dog. A German Shepherd mix. I figured if I was going to be alone at night with a potential murderer next door, I would at least have some protection.
The next day at work, I was lamenting to a lady I worked with, Annie. Annie was a widow, and very devoutly religious. I was practically in tears at having bought our first home, next to a murderer. Hysterical with fear, Annie grasped my trembling hand and said, "Just be kind to her."
I don't know why her words made such sense nor had such a calming effect, but I thought, what could it hurt? At the risk of sounding crazier than my neighbor, I believe her words to me were some sort of divine intervention. Being kind was the last thing on my mind. When I got home that afternoon, I took the dog out for a walk, and she came outside. I paid more attention to her than I ever had, and actually walked over to her yard, and introduced myself.
Up close, she probably was in her mid-40s, and lived with her diabetic father, who was in his 70s. Hope appeared to have gone to the Joan Crawford School of beauty, and was plastered with thick lipstick and war paint blush and bright blue eye shadow and matted hair. Clearly, the neighborhood crazy lady. But crazy is not dangerous, I kept mentally saying as a mantra. Crazy is ill. I introduced her to my "I swear she will be fierce someday" puppy.
I prayed that Hope would notice my newly acquired guard dog, who was licking her hands and wagging her tail enthusiastically. Hope said wait here, and walked robotically back into the house. She returned a moment later with a milk bone treat for my dog. I stood there and talked to Hope for about 15 minutes while my puppy rolled and played on the grass, and kept nipping at me for that walk. I asked Hope if she wanted to join us and she declined, but also smiled.
We lived in that house for seven wonderful years. We became good friends with her and her father. He was missing half of one of his feet from diabetes so we would shovel their walk in the winter and help mow the postage stamp sized lawn. He would be outside on nice summer days listening to either jazz music or the Indians on his radio, tending his deceased wife's rose garden.
I came to worry if I didn't hear that on a summer day. Hope had her good days and bad. I think the good days were the days she took her medicine and then put on her makeup. She would walk robotically up to the store for a soda and back and people would avoid her and point at her. She would always stop and ask if I wanted anything from the store before she left. She had her quirks, but she never came close to threatening us.
We learned from the "really terrific neighbor" that she was the neighborhood joke and that someone once turned a garden hose on her during one of her rants. The people who owned our house before would antagonize her regularly. How immature and cruel. I'm glad we got that house for a song. But even more, I am glad I listened to Annie.
Be Kind. Just Be Kind To Her. I wonder how many opportunities we pass in life when we are too quick to judge and too hasty to be cruel.
I will always remember Annie's words. They brought me... Hope.
It should have been a warning sign when we asked what the neighbors were like, and the wife stammered; oh they are pretty nice and talked about someone 5 doors down incessantly. We were blinded by the home, the deal, and our good fortune and brushed aside her evasiveness. We moved in. We worked opposite shifts, so our door was constantly revolving. We kept to ourselves and began to make a tidy life for ourselves. We noticed some odd activity next door, but really were never home and outside at the same time often enough to pay much attention. Then one day, a neighbor walking by stopped and introduced herself. We stood on the sidewalk gabbing and she kept glancing nervously at the house next door. She dropped her voice and whispered, "So have you had any problems with...", as rolled her eyes towards the home next door. I had noticed kids crossing the street when they rode by pointing at that house, but other than that, I said, I hadn't really noticed anything unusual. She clammed up and said, "That's good." She refused to elaborate.
Later that afternoon, I struck up a conversation with the neighbor on the other side, trying to dig a bit. He says, "B & R (the couple who sold the house to us), had a lot of problems with Hope. “Hope?" I asked. "Yes, the woman on the other side. You haven't met Hope yet?"
"No, but I've seen a woman from time to time." The mystery deepened.
"Well," the neighbor said, "Hope is a bit crazy and the threatened to kill B & R's baby."
My heart started to race with terror as I tried to keep a calm façade. Instead I went to the Animal Protective League and adopted a dog. A German Shepherd mix. I figured if I was going to be alone at night with a potential murderer next door, I would at least have some protection.
The next day at work, I was lamenting to a lady I worked with, Annie. Annie was a widow, and very devoutly religious. I was practically in tears at having bought our first home, next to a murderer. Hysterical with fear, Annie grasped my trembling hand and said, "Just be kind to her."
I don't know why her words made such sense nor had such a calming effect, but I thought, what could it hurt? At the risk of sounding crazier than my neighbor, I believe her words to me were some sort of divine intervention. Being kind was the last thing on my mind. When I got home that afternoon, I took the dog out for a walk, and she came outside. I paid more attention to her than I ever had, and actually walked over to her yard, and introduced myself.
Up close, she probably was in her mid-40s, and lived with her diabetic father, who was in his 70s. Hope appeared to have gone to the Joan Crawford School of beauty, and was plastered with thick lipstick and war paint blush and bright blue eye shadow and matted hair. Clearly, the neighborhood crazy lady. But crazy is not dangerous, I kept mentally saying as a mantra. Crazy is ill. I introduced her to my "I swear she will be fierce someday" puppy.
I prayed that Hope would notice my newly acquired guard dog, who was licking her hands and wagging her tail enthusiastically. Hope said wait here, and walked robotically back into the house. She returned a moment later with a milk bone treat for my dog. I stood there and talked to Hope for about 15 minutes while my puppy rolled and played on the grass, and kept nipping at me for that walk. I asked Hope if she wanted to join us and she declined, but also smiled.
We lived in that house for seven wonderful years. We became good friends with her and her father. He was missing half of one of his feet from diabetes so we would shovel their walk in the winter and help mow the postage stamp sized lawn. He would be outside on nice summer days listening to either jazz music or the Indians on his radio, tending his deceased wife's rose garden.
I came to worry if I didn't hear that on a summer day. Hope had her good days and bad. I think the good days were the days she took her medicine and then put on her makeup. She would walk robotically up to the store for a soda and back and people would avoid her and point at her. She would always stop and ask if I wanted anything from the store before she left. She had her quirks, but she never came close to threatening us.
We learned from the "really terrific neighbor" that she was the neighborhood joke and that someone once turned a garden hose on her during one of her rants. The people who owned our house before would antagonize her regularly. How immature and cruel. I'm glad we got that house for a song. But even more, I am glad I listened to Annie.
Be Kind. Just Be Kind To Her. I wonder how many opportunities we pass in life when we are too quick to judge and too hasty to be cruel.
I will always remember Annie's words. They brought me... Hope.
Tony and Tina's Baby
This is a riff on the off Broadway sensation of the past 20 years or so, Tony 'n Tina's wedding. I've accidentally seen part of it once, and intentionally seen the whole thing once. It's an interactive theater experience, where Tony 'n Tina are a couple of Brooklyn Italian young lovers and the theater goers are guests at their wedding. I was walking the streets of NYC in the late 80s and found myself swept up in the rice throwing and just married station wagon with the bride and groom driving along. Anyway, it's a spoof on big Italian weddings, and it really is a hoot.
When I gave birth to the first Mini Fresh, it was in the early days of immense cost cutting measures by the insurance companies. Births were given 24 hours, drive by labor. I was lucky, I started my labor early, in a store while shopping, when my water broke. I thought I had a bladder accident, but it didn't stop. I wasn't due for another 5 weeks, so I really got an early start. We arrive at the hospital, did the birth thing, but that isn't the point of the story.
The point was I was up all night, my first child, I was exhausted, exhilarated and yes, more than a little terrified. The baby was still in one of those incubator things, she was a preemie and having trouble breathing. I really was trying to get whatever rest I could before they kicked me out of the hospital to try to figure out how to take care of that mini-person.
Alas, there was an empty bed on the other half of my room. Not for long. Private rooms were not part of the insurance package. Just as I was about to drift off to sleep, 25 loud boisterous Italians barge into the room, as they wheel the mom over to the empty bed. The blinding glare from the gold chains was almost as noxious as the cigars being passed around until the nurse told them there was no smoking inside the hospital. I will call the proud papa Tony and the proud momma Tina. I don't remember their real names, to be honest. But Tony offered Mr. Fresh a cigar and a discount on hair replacements, which was his line of work. Apparently, Tony figured that he was having sex with Tina the same time Mr. Fresh and I were conceiving and that was discount worthy. They had a girl also, so he must have felt a special bond as a fellow X chromosome donor. I didn't have the heart to tell him our baby was a preemie, and jeopardize the potential price reduction on a toupee.
The celebratory cigars were extinguished with a few expletives and the family started snapping pictures of everything in the room. I pulled a sheet over my head, praying to wake up and have them gone. Mr. Fresh squeezed my hand and said, he needed to go back to the house and let the dog out. Chickenshit. So I was alone with Tony, Tina, and their extended family.
Little by little, the family tapered off and the two proud parents had the room to themselves. I was invisible on the other side of the curtain, I guess. Tony asked Tina if the doctor really said they had to wait 6 weeks to have sex again, because he'd gone without for a few weeks already. She cursed at him and said, let's at least name this baby before we start another one. Then she complained that she really needed to smoke, she had waited 9 months for a cigarette, so hurry up and name the kid. Tony grumbled and whipped out the baby name book.
Call me over-prepared, but we knew for the past 8 months that we were having a child and that our baby would need a name. We had narrowed our choices down to one girl name and one boy name. Tony and Tina apparently just realized they would have to name the baby. Allison, Amy? Annie? no no no. She doesn't look like those names. None of the A names fit their precious little child. Barbara, what the f* are you thinking? Remember that slut Barbara who tried to feel you up at Cousin Vinny's wedding? F* no, no Barbaras! Nor was Brittany a good choice. ON it went. I was so relieved they settled on Carly with a C. I don't think I could have handled the rest of the alphabet.
Finally, Tony had to go make more hair replacements or something and it was just Tina and I. I was trying to make a little small talk, do some new mom bonding, then get some rest. No, it wasn't her first baby, she had two children from other men, but they were teenagers. This was her first baby with Tony and his first baby. Then she asked me if I knew where she could go outside to have a smoke. I didn't know. She started to head off, cigarettes in hand, hospital gown waving in the wind, but, apparently the nurse said she couldn't leave in her gown. She improvised and smoked in our shared bathroom instead.
Tina watched infomercials all night. Rolling the stations, periodically getting up for a smoke, and telling the nurse she didn't want her baby, this was her last shot at peace and quiet, she had months of feeding and changing ahead of her. I remember thinking how I wished they would let me hold my baby, but she was still under observation. I've come to believe that Tina was an underground operative for the 24 hour baby birthing lobby.
I couldn't get out of there fast enough and never complained about only having 24 hours. It was about 23 too long.
When I gave birth to the first Mini Fresh, it was in the early days of immense cost cutting measures by the insurance companies. Births were given 24 hours, drive by labor. I was lucky, I started my labor early, in a store while shopping, when my water broke. I thought I had a bladder accident, but it didn't stop. I wasn't due for another 5 weeks, so I really got an early start. We arrive at the hospital, did the birth thing, but that isn't the point of the story.
The point was I was up all night, my first child, I was exhausted, exhilarated and yes, more than a little terrified. The baby was still in one of those incubator things, she was a preemie and having trouble breathing. I really was trying to get whatever rest I could before they kicked me out of the hospital to try to figure out how to take care of that mini-person.
Alas, there was an empty bed on the other half of my room. Not for long. Private rooms were not part of the insurance package. Just as I was about to drift off to sleep, 25 loud boisterous Italians barge into the room, as they wheel the mom over to the empty bed. The blinding glare from the gold chains was almost as noxious as the cigars being passed around until the nurse told them there was no smoking inside the hospital. I will call the proud papa Tony and the proud momma Tina. I don't remember their real names, to be honest. But Tony offered Mr. Fresh a cigar and a discount on hair replacements, which was his line of work. Apparently, Tony figured that he was having sex with Tina the same time Mr. Fresh and I were conceiving and that was discount worthy. They had a girl also, so he must have felt a special bond as a fellow X chromosome donor. I didn't have the heart to tell him our baby was a preemie, and jeopardize the potential price reduction on a toupee.
The celebratory cigars were extinguished with a few expletives and the family started snapping pictures of everything in the room. I pulled a sheet over my head, praying to wake up and have them gone. Mr. Fresh squeezed my hand and said, he needed to go back to the house and let the dog out. Chickenshit. So I was alone with Tony, Tina, and their extended family.
Little by little, the family tapered off and the two proud parents had the room to themselves. I was invisible on the other side of the curtain, I guess. Tony asked Tina if the doctor really said they had to wait 6 weeks to have sex again, because he'd gone without for a few weeks already. She cursed at him and said, let's at least name this baby before we start another one. Then she complained that she really needed to smoke, she had waited 9 months for a cigarette, so hurry up and name the kid. Tony grumbled and whipped out the baby name book.
Call me over-prepared, but we knew for the past 8 months that we were having a child and that our baby would need a name. We had narrowed our choices down to one girl name and one boy name. Tony and Tina apparently just realized they would have to name the baby. Allison, Amy? Annie? no no no. She doesn't look like those names. None of the A names fit their precious little child. Barbara, what the f* are you thinking? Remember that slut Barbara who tried to feel you up at Cousin Vinny's wedding? F* no, no Barbaras! Nor was Brittany a good choice. ON it went. I was so relieved they settled on Carly with a C. I don't think I could have handled the rest of the alphabet.
Finally, Tony had to go make more hair replacements or something and it was just Tina and I. I was trying to make a little small talk, do some new mom bonding, then get some rest. No, it wasn't her first baby, she had two children from other men, but they were teenagers. This was her first baby with Tony and his first baby. Then she asked me if I knew where she could go outside to have a smoke. I didn't know. She started to head off, cigarettes in hand, hospital gown waving in the wind, but, apparently the nurse said she couldn't leave in her gown. She improvised and smoked in our shared bathroom instead.
Tina watched infomercials all night. Rolling the stations, periodically getting up for a smoke, and telling the nurse she didn't want her baby, this was her last shot at peace and quiet, she had months of feeding and changing ahead of her. I remember thinking how I wished they would let me hold my baby, but she was still under observation. I've come to believe that Tina was an underground operative for the 24 hour baby birthing lobby.
I couldn't get out of there fast enough and never complained about only having 24 hours. It was about 23 too long.
February 16, 2009
Loving Joseph
I have a crush, again.
He is 11, I’m sure he is completely unaware of my crush and I’m not concerned about any sort of Mrs. Robinson inappropriate behavior. The object of my crush is an autistic boy that I get to spend an hour a week with. His idiosyncrasies charm me.
He is in my Sunday school class, and usually, with the exception of my own brilliant and talented Mini, the only student. But he’s reliable. Every week, he is there early and waiting when I arrive. I am positive that his father relishes the break, which is part of the reason Joseph has perfect attendance. Every week he has a story for me about either Super Mario or Indiana Jones, the only two things that seem to matter in his life. He arrives with a crooked smile, his dark brown impenetrable eyes, and another hour of quirkiness.
I rarely manage to finish a lesson plan as I continue to be interrupted with enthusiastic tales of Mario or Indy. My daughter told me last year, their teacher was very impatient and mean to him and that he is probably why nobody comes to class anymore. Everyone blamed Joseph for the teacher’s outbursts.
My heart broke. Joseph has an older brother the same age as my oldest Mini. His brother and my daughter are on the academic excellence circuit and frequently see each other at various competitions. His brother is as poised and mature as Joseph is awkward and goofy. They worship each other. When Joseph doesn’t talk about Mario or Indy, he mentions his big brother. When his big brother picks him up, he ruffles the Little Wild Man’s hair.
Over Christmas, Joseph informed me weekly that if he had to sing at the pageant, he surely would die. Of course he coupled his announcement with video game sound effects that simulate Game Over. I told him I was sure he wouldn’t die, but that I would sit up near the front, just in case. He told me that he would consider being a shepherd if he could carry a sheep stuffed animal. I promised he could. The morning of the pageant, we draped him in sheets and wrapped a cord around his waist and handed him a stuffed animal. He was the shepherd. His brother was the narrator. Joseph stood out of place and sang loud and off key. The contrast between the two brothers couldn’t be starker. I wonder about a universe that gave everything to the older brother, and left the younger one grasping for simple connections.
Except Joseph isn’t grasping, we are. He is one of the happiest children I know. He always has a smile and a story. It rarely has anything to do with anything we’re discussing, but I look over and see his smile and his ministrations, and I smile back.
Yesterday, Joseph was exceptionally wild. His father and I talked for a few minutes before class and he explained that during the week, Joseph has to take medication for ADD. That he gives him a break on the weekends from the constant zone of chemical numbing. I respect that choice. I cannot imagine how difficult it would be to not see that spark of mischief in Joseph’s eyes. But he was a handful yesterday. I gently corrected him and said, “Joseph, do we need to talk to your father about this when class is over?” He stopped for a moment and said, “What should we tell him?” I said, “What do you think I will tell him?” He looked at me very earnestly and said, “The truth.”
It was the only thing in my entire lesson he absorbed. Or maybe I was the one getting the lesson, not him. He gave me a big hug when I was done and said, “I’m going to go tell my father what a wild baboon I was today, I’ll see you next week.”
He is 11, I’m sure he is completely unaware of my crush and I’m not concerned about any sort of Mrs. Robinson inappropriate behavior. The object of my crush is an autistic boy that I get to spend an hour a week with. His idiosyncrasies charm me.
He is in my Sunday school class, and usually, with the exception of my own brilliant and talented Mini, the only student. But he’s reliable. Every week, he is there early and waiting when I arrive. I am positive that his father relishes the break, which is part of the reason Joseph has perfect attendance. Every week he has a story for me about either Super Mario or Indiana Jones, the only two things that seem to matter in his life. He arrives with a crooked smile, his dark brown impenetrable eyes, and another hour of quirkiness.
I rarely manage to finish a lesson plan as I continue to be interrupted with enthusiastic tales of Mario or Indy. My daughter told me last year, their teacher was very impatient and mean to him and that he is probably why nobody comes to class anymore. Everyone blamed Joseph for the teacher’s outbursts.
My heart broke. Joseph has an older brother the same age as my oldest Mini. His brother and my daughter are on the academic excellence circuit and frequently see each other at various competitions. His brother is as poised and mature as Joseph is awkward and goofy. They worship each other. When Joseph doesn’t talk about Mario or Indy, he mentions his big brother. When his big brother picks him up, he ruffles the Little Wild Man’s hair.
Over Christmas, Joseph informed me weekly that if he had to sing at the pageant, he surely would die. Of course he coupled his announcement with video game sound effects that simulate Game Over. I told him I was sure he wouldn’t die, but that I would sit up near the front, just in case. He told me that he would consider being a shepherd if he could carry a sheep stuffed animal. I promised he could. The morning of the pageant, we draped him in sheets and wrapped a cord around his waist and handed him a stuffed animal. He was the shepherd. His brother was the narrator. Joseph stood out of place and sang loud and off key. The contrast between the two brothers couldn’t be starker. I wonder about a universe that gave everything to the older brother, and left the younger one grasping for simple connections.
Except Joseph isn’t grasping, we are. He is one of the happiest children I know. He always has a smile and a story. It rarely has anything to do with anything we’re discussing, but I look over and see his smile and his ministrations, and I smile back.
Yesterday, Joseph was exceptionally wild. His father and I talked for a few minutes before class and he explained that during the week, Joseph has to take medication for ADD. That he gives him a break on the weekends from the constant zone of chemical numbing. I respect that choice. I cannot imagine how difficult it would be to not see that spark of mischief in Joseph’s eyes. But he was a handful yesterday. I gently corrected him and said, “Joseph, do we need to talk to your father about this when class is over?” He stopped for a moment and said, “What should we tell him?” I said, “What do you think I will tell him?” He looked at me very earnestly and said, “The truth.”
It was the only thing in my entire lesson he absorbed. Or maybe I was the one getting the lesson, not him. He gave me a big hug when I was done and said, “I’m going to go tell my father what a wild baboon I was today, I’ll see you next week.”
February 6, 2009
You know you've never been outside the USA if....
(I wrote this in response to my friend who has lived everywhere... and knew she was a Third Culture Kid)... Feel free to add to the list!
Where are you from? means Which subdivision?
You still think Hawaii is a foreign country.
You can spell, but your kids cannot, since they have spell-check.
You can swear or toast in a foreign language.
But you cannot read, speak or understand it if you were to travel there.
When you write fancy things, you try to use a diacritic, but probably put it in the wrong place. You had to look it up online so you didn't just say accent mark and used the proper term.
You don't know why anyone ever worried about that metric nonsense.
You think Paris is that blonde heiress and Venice is a city in California.
You have a friend who traveled to Italy and was shocked that there were no Pizza Huts.
You get frustrated when a store clerk speaks with an accent and you cannot understand them. You take cruises in the Caribbean to soak in foreign cultures, in 5 hour increments during port calls.
You cannot believe you now need a passport to take a cruise.
You believe Epcot truly is a World Showcase.
You don't know where to go for Mexican food now that Chi-chi's closed.
You have watched Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade and now know everything you need to know about NYC.
Your kids have a shirt that says "Someone in Florida Loves Me."
You can never remember if it's Russia or USSR, but you know it's filled with Communists. Packing for a vacation means loading the SUV or Minivan. Full. With a rooftop carrier.
The idea of staying somewhere without a private bathroom or air conditioning is ridiculous.
You think the capital of Mexico is Cancun.
You get mad when your cell phone loses reception, even if just for a mile.
You give directions in terms of how many blocks.
You have lived in a town with a gazebo.
You have shopped at the Gap.
You own clothing that has stars and stripes on it, and proudly sport it on the 4th of July.
Where are you from? means Which subdivision?
You still think Hawaii is a foreign country.
You can spell, but your kids cannot, since they have spell-check.
You can swear or toast in a foreign language.
But you cannot read, speak or understand it if you were to travel there.
When you write fancy things, you try to use a diacritic, but probably put it in the wrong place. You had to look it up online so you didn't just say accent mark and used the proper term.
You don't know why anyone ever worried about that metric nonsense.
You think Paris is that blonde heiress and Venice is a city in California.
You have a friend who traveled to Italy and was shocked that there were no Pizza Huts.
You get frustrated when a store clerk speaks with an accent and you cannot understand them. You take cruises in the Caribbean to soak in foreign cultures, in 5 hour increments during port calls.
You cannot believe you now need a passport to take a cruise.
You believe Epcot truly is a World Showcase.
You don't know where to go for Mexican food now that Chi-chi's closed.
You have watched Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade and now know everything you need to know about NYC.
Your kids have a shirt that says "Someone in Florida Loves Me."
You can never remember if it's Russia or USSR, but you know it's filled with Communists. Packing for a vacation means loading the SUV or Minivan. Full. With a rooftop carrier.
The idea of staying somewhere without a private bathroom or air conditioning is ridiculous.
You think the capital of Mexico is Cancun.
You get mad when your cell phone loses reception, even if just for a mile.
You give directions in terms of how many blocks.
You have lived in a town with a gazebo.
You have shopped at the Gap.
You own clothing that has stars and stripes on it, and proudly sport it on the 4th of July.
February 2, 2009
This. Is. Extreme. Home. Idol.
A new type of reality show. The other night, as I was watching another episode of my guilty pleasure, American Idol, I had to listen to the repeated groans of the Fresh family. I'm sure they don't really hate the show, but they do like to give me a hard time about how much I enjoy it. I remind them that I have put up with a lot of their programs, from Pokemon to Blues Clues.
A few years ago, the Minis favorite show was Extreme Home Makeover. The premise of the show is that a hard luck family sends in an application video why they deserve a new home and why they cannot fix what they have. There have been some true heartbreaking stories on there, I admit. Veterans are a favorite cause, as are kids with diseases, and single parents. They give the family a mansion that they build in a week, working around the clock. The Minis would play EHM with their dolls and blocks, taking particular glee in the demolition part. They would decorate their doll house and yes, they *moved that bus* to show the dolls the new home. They laughed uproariously at Ty and his antics. And (for real) made a Michael doll and dressed him in princess clothes. (He's a very effeminate man on the show). I watched the show with them, but truly, it became so sappy and predictable and I had to rein in my snide remarks. I kept thinking they would have a family that had a child who was just a head in a jar and they'd put a bowling alley in the house.
The cynic in me apparently became contagious, as the Minis now prefer the Simpsons to EHM. Last night, I reminded them of all the times I endured Extreme Home Makeover, so be nice to Mom with her Idol obsession. We got to laughing and wondered if the two shows were combined? Suppose everyone had to audition for a new home with a song and dance number. And if you got voted off you had to work on the crew for the winning team, and you didn't get a house unless you won.
Think about it. Wouldn't the quest for a new home be more entertaining if instead of sobs the applicants entertained us?
What if Ty and Simon had to sit at the same table and determine worthiness as well as talent? Trying to juxtapose Ty's hyper-kinetic screaming with Simon's calm arrogance is hilarious. If you think Paula irritates him, imagine Ty. Paige could convince Randy that real dawgs wear pink. Paula and Ty could NOT carpool, under any circumstances.
Hello, DUI with a bus? Egads!
So now I ask, what should the audition songs be?
If I had a Hammer?
Brick House?
A few years ago, the Minis favorite show was Extreme Home Makeover. The premise of the show is that a hard luck family sends in an application video why they deserve a new home and why they cannot fix what they have. There have been some true heartbreaking stories on there, I admit. Veterans are a favorite cause, as are kids with diseases, and single parents. They give the family a mansion that they build in a week, working around the clock. The Minis would play EHM with their dolls and blocks, taking particular glee in the demolition part. They would decorate their doll house and yes, they *moved that bus* to show the dolls the new home. They laughed uproariously at Ty and his antics. And (for real) made a Michael doll and dressed him in princess clothes. (He's a very effeminate man on the show). I watched the show with them, but truly, it became so sappy and predictable and I had to rein in my snide remarks. I kept thinking they would have a family that had a child who was just a head in a jar and they'd put a bowling alley in the house.
The cynic in me apparently became contagious, as the Minis now prefer the Simpsons to EHM. Last night, I reminded them of all the times I endured Extreme Home Makeover, so be nice to Mom with her Idol obsession. We got to laughing and wondered if the two shows were combined? Suppose everyone had to audition for a new home with a song and dance number. And if you got voted off you had to work on the crew for the winning team, and you didn't get a house unless you won.
Think about it. Wouldn't the quest for a new home be more entertaining if instead of sobs the applicants entertained us?
What if Ty and Simon had to sit at the same table and determine worthiness as well as talent? Trying to juxtapose Ty's hyper-kinetic screaming with Simon's calm arrogance is hilarious. If you think Paula irritates him, imagine Ty. Paige could convince Randy that real dawgs wear pink. Paula and Ty could NOT carpool, under any circumstances.
Hello, DUI with a bus? Egads!
So now I ask, what should the audition songs be?
If I had a Hammer?
Brick House?
September 30, 2008
Run for the hills... it's political around here!
I'm so frustrated, right now.
I just got an email from a friend of mine who has made it her mission to convince me to vote the same way she is voting. (Which there isn't a chance).
However, daily, she sends me email articles from her view. Except it's not true. What makes me so mad, is that the information she is sharing is not even from reputable sources. Today's "mind changer" was a YouTube video some guy produced that showed highlights of assorted government documents, (flashing by) with big black and white words superimposed over the pictures, apparently explaining what it meant. It was patronizing and quite frankly, untrue. I researched each "point" on this YouTube video that she sent me, from reputable sources, I cited Newsweek, Barrons, a transcript of government hearings, and Business Week.
The point is if you want to change someone's mind, please use facts not propaganda. It was slick, sloppy, and completely untrue.
Or maybe propaganda DOES work?
I just got an email from a friend of mine who has made it her mission to convince me to vote the same way she is voting. (Which there isn't a chance).
However, daily, she sends me email articles from her view. Except it's not true. What makes me so mad, is that the information she is sharing is not even from reputable sources. Today's "mind changer" was a YouTube video some guy produced that showed highlights of assorted government documents, (flashing by) with big black and white words superimposed over the pictures, apparently explaining what it meant. It was patronizing and quite frankly, untrue. I researched each "point" on this YouTube video that she sent me, from reputable sources, I cited Newsweek, Barrons, a transcript of government hearings, and Business Week.
The point is if you want to change someone's mind, please use facts not propaganda. It was slick, sloppy, and completely untrue.
Or maybe propaganda DOES work?
September 12, 2008
Wanna see something really scary?
I do not like Halloween. I cannot stand horror movies, I'm such a princess about my sweet tooth and nobody gives out Godiva so I'm not excited about the candy, but most of all, I really hate getting dressed up.
But for real, I was traumatized. I know this isn't a singular memory because my two siblings also hate Halloween. (Although, they aren't princesses about the candy). I grew up in a small rural town, so instead of Trick or Treat, we had a party at the Town Hall the Saturday afternoon before Halloween. This meant EVERYONE at SCHOOL saw you dressed and it was BROAD DAYLIGHT.
Mama had a few rules regarding our costumes. (I've altered those rules for my own children ... my rule is simple, If I cannot buy it, you cannot be it.)
Commandment 1: Spend no money on something that will be worn a few hours.
Commandment 2: The point of Halloween is that nobody recognizes the costumed one. (this was an idea we grew to embrace, praying nobody would recognize us).
Commandment 3: Be creative.
Commandment 4: You cannot be a simple Charlie Brown ghost.
Armed with these rules, Mama set out to dress her children for Halloween. I particularly recall the year I learned to NEVER ASK TO BE ANYTHING SPECIFIC. That was the year I wanted to be Wonder Woman. All I remember is wearing a bra fashioned out of pot pie tins. What? Wonder Woman's breasts were shiny! C'mon, you do too look like Wonder Woman. I also was wearing a red one-piece swimsuit, tall white go-go boots, and a tinfoil headband. And a crimson shade of natural red on my cheeks.
Other memorable costumes included my brother as a witch (see Commandment 2). Nobody expected a boy to be a witch, especially him. My other brother one year was a felt flower in a flower pot. One year, I was a football player, wearing my dad's enormous old jersey and helmet. I think the jersey came to my ankles. Gender role-switching was highly encouraged. My brothers and I argued about who had the worst costume, but I'm convinced I won that award for life. (Incidentally, we never did win the costume prize at the town hall. Not so shocking, huh?)
It was the morning of the Halloween party. I knew better, but I didn't have a costume and decided to say something to Mama. She glanced around the house and saw a pile of old antique flour and feed sacks, no doubt for some country craft. Ever the resourceful one, they were to become my costume. Long thin sacks on each arm, a large sack over my torso, and one over my head with two holes for eyes. I don't know if I looked like a mutant Pillsbury Dough Boy crossed with a KKK member or what. I arrived at the Town Hall, grateful my face was hidden to cover the horrified look on my face. But... they just had to play bobbing for apples, they just had to have refreshments. I had to take off my flour sack head.
The questions came at me rapid fire, "What are you?" All I could muster was, "I don't know."
This year, I've decided to get hair extensions and dress as Lady Godiva. If anyone were to receive Godiva chocolate, I think it would be her! I have to ask Mama for ideas. On second thought, maybe not. She may have me wearing cooked pasta noodles on my head.
But for real, I was traumatized. I know this isn't a singular memory because my two siblings also hate Halloween. (Although, they aren't princesses about the candy). I grew up in a small rural town, so instead of Trick or Treat, we had a party at the Town Hall the Saturday afternoon before Halloween. This meant EVERYONE at SCHOOL saw you dressed and it was BROAD DAYLIGHT.
Mama had a few rules regarding our costumes. (I've altered those rules for my own children ... my rule is simple, If I cannot buy it, you cannot be it.)
Commandment 1: Spend no money on something that will be worn a few hours.
Commandment 2: The point of Halloween is that nobody recognizes the costumed one. (this was an idea we grew to embrace, praying nobody would recognize us).
Commandment 3: Be creative.
Commandment 4: You cannot be a simple Charlie Brown ghost.
 |
Armed with these rules, Mama set out to dress her children for Halloween. I particularly recall the year I learned to NEVER ASK TO BE ANYTHING SPECIFIC. That was the year I wanted to be Wonder Woman. All I remember is wearing a bra fashioned out of pot pie tins. What? Wonder Woman's breasts were shiny! C'mon, you do too look like Wonder Woman. I also was wearing a red one-piece swimsuit, tall white go-go boots, and a tinfoil headband. And a crimson shade of natural red on my cheeks.
Other memorable costumes included my brother as a witch (see Commandment 2). Nobody expected a boy to be a witch, especially him. My other brother one year was a felt flower in a flower pot. One year, I was a football player, wearing my dad's enormous old jersey and helmet. I think the jersey came to my ankles. Gender role-switching was highly encouraged. My brothers and I argued about who had the worst costume, but I'm convinced I won that award for life. (Incidentally, we never did win the costume prize at the town hall. Not so shocking, huh?)
It was the morning of the Halloween party. I knew better, but I didn't have a costume and decided to say something to Mama. She glanced around the house and saw a pile of old antique flour and feed sacks, no doubt for some country craft. Ever the resourceful one, they were to become my costume. Long thin sacks on each arm, a large sack over my torso, and one over my head with two holes for eyes. I don't know if I looked like a mutant Pillsbury Dough Boy crossed with a KKK member or what. I arrived at the Town Hall, grateful my face was hidden to cover the horrified look on my face. But... they just had to play bobbing for apples, they just had to have refreshments. I had to take off my flour sack head.
The questions came at me rapid fire, "What are you?" All I could muster was, "I don't know."
This year, I've decided to get hair extensions and dress as Lady Godiva. If anyone were to receive Godiva chocolate, I think it would be her! I have to ask Mama for ideas. On second thought, maybe not. She may have me wearing cooked pasta noodles on my head.
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