This year I learned that I really am a good cook . . . when I focus. I never used to buy into the idea that food could be made “with love”; that’s not an ingredient, it’s an emotion. But cooking with love includes cooking intentionally, not just throwing things into a pot or a pan and calling it dinner. I learned that even when I had only three or four ingredients to put toward a meal, they only tasted good when I focused my attention on the end result – tasted and planned and revised and served in a nice dish, as if my own family was “company.” I learned to treat my family like welcome guests at the table, not as recipients of a motherly chore.
This year I learned that letting go is hard, and necessary. I came across the term “helicopter parent,” and spent a lot of time trying to figure out what altitude was acceptable. A third of the time, I listened to myself nag the Boy about homework each and every time I got a homework alert; I graphed and charted missing assignments and spent sleepless nights over failing grades and what that would mean for his chances of becoming a productive adult. Another third of the time, I left lists of things to do on the table and walked away – hands off: he’d do the assignments or not, because I wasn’t going to relive ninth grade. I was more like a “satellite parent,” tracking, collecting data, but not interfering. I didn’t get any more sleep that way. And finally, the rest of the time, I pored over stacks of How to Parent a Teenager (Who Has ADHD, By the Way) books, trying to find some strategy, some operational plan to get through these high school years. And what those books told me was that high school sucks, that some teens are more difficult than others, and that there is no plan. There’s just your kid, who is unique. I learned that The Serenity Prayer applies to parenting.
I learned that sometimes the way God gets you to move to the next step, even the next level, is to allow things to get so intolerable, so excruciatingly dreadful, that all you can do is go. It’s like being kicked out of an airplane by a big Heavenly boot and hoping desperately that your parachute will open. I’ve learned that that first step is a doozy.
I learned that my daughter does not like dresses – and I’m okay with that. I learned that my middle son has a talent for cooking. I learned that my oldest, my most difficult child at the moment, has a knack for dealing with the elderly and making them feel special.
This year I learned that two boats tethered together may drift apart, but will never separate completely. No matter how busy, stressed, or distracted Rev and I get, his hand is still there when I reach out with mine.
Important lessons, all of them, some learned the hard way. Let’s hope they stick for 2012.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Monday, December 19, 2011
Making Christmas Special
I was eight or nine years old the first time my mother went Christmas shopping for someone else’s kids.
I remember my mother saying that her best friend, Mrs. A, had called. Mrs. A knew a family whose house had caught on fire. The father was out of work, and the kids had nothing for Christmas. Would my mother be willing to buy a gift for each of the four kids, something small, so that they would at least have something to open on Christmas morning?
Sure, said my mom.
So, about a week before the holiday, we piled into the car and drove to the “good” mall. This was the mall a couple towns over – more special than the one up the street from our house. The “normal” mall had a Mammoth Mart, which later became a Caldor, and then something else after that. Mammoth Mart (yes, its logo was an elephant) was slightly more upscale than Woolworth’s, but not quite on the level of a Zayre’s. Mammoth Mart was where we bought our heavy-soled leather shoes, scratchy wool turtlenecks, and fake fur winter coats for school each September.
But the “good” mall had a Bradlees. (None of these stores exist anymore.) Bradlees was the “Tar-jay” of its day, with clothes, housewares, books, toys, and shoes. Bradlees was where you could sometimes get brand named stuff, when that idea was still in its infancy, last season’s fashions at bargain basement prices. Bradlees was where we did our Christmas shopping (well, Mom and Dad did; we kids bought gifts at the discount store up the street, where five dollars went a long way), just because Christmas was special.
So off to Bradlees we went, shopping for four children whom we knew by age and gender, but not name.
If I recall correctly, there was a baby, and three older kids, a boy and two girls between the ages of four and ten. My mom gave us the run of the store, and we chose toys we’d like to have and put them in the basket. Not being well-off, we understood the value of a dollar; we picked out reasonably priced dolls and clothes to go on them, board games, stuff like that. My mom carefully selected an outfit for each child. We understood that. We got new clothes three times a year: summer, the beginning of the school year, and Christmas, and tried not to grow. The rest of the time, my mother made our clothes (pants, skirts, dresses – we looked good). Mom and Dad saved up for Christmas (remember Christmas clubs at the local bank?) and with 20/20 hindsight, I know that the money to fund three kids’ Christmas expectations probably came out of overtime hours and skipped lunches. If we gazed wistfully at the half-filled carriage, it was only because we figured we might get a little less that year. Dividing that pie by seven instead of three might make for some pretty thin slices. But we were game, because the alternative, that kids would wake up with nothing under the tree – or not even a tree – was too awful to contemplate.
I do not know, to this day, what my parents sacrificed to pay for this extra shopping trip. I do know that we had no disappointment on Christmas morning – if we did receive less than we otherwise would have, none of us noticed.
After the shopping trip, we settled down in the living room and wrapped every one of those gifts. I think we marked them with tags that indicated who they were for: “baby,” “five year old girl,” etc. Each package got a bow. We left the “from” space empty, so that the parents could write whatever they wanted. Maybe the presents would be from Santa that year. It was up to them. When we were done, my mom called Mrs. A and told her she could come pick up the gifts.
As long as I live, I will never forget the look of utter shock on Mrs. A’s face when she walked in the front door and saw the pile of festive gifts in the foyer. There were probably three gifts for each kid: toys and clothing. Mrs. A said to my mom, “I thought there’d just be a big green garbage bag.”
My mom said, “That’s not Christmas.”
Mrs. A had to make a couple of trips to collect all the gifts. Later, she called up to say how thrilled the mother and father of those children were, and how grateful. She started to tell my mom who they were, and my mother interrupted her. “No, no, no,” she said. “I don’t want to know their names, and I don’t want you to tell them who I am.” Her reason? “I don’t want to be walking down the street someday and meet them and have everybody feel all embarrassed about this. Just let it be anonymous.” As far as I know, Mrs. A honored that request.
There are many family traditions that I’ve let fall by the wayside. Giving anonymous gifts to needy children is the one I will always keep. I remember looking at my mother that day and seeing the face of God. It was probably the first time I really wanted to be her – not be like her, but be her – when I grew up. I often think about that family, destitute and defeated in the midst of a beautiful holiday season. I imagine that one of those children, maybe the oldest, knew the situation they were in and had resigned himself or herself that there wouldn’t be a real Christmas that year. And then I imagine the joy and wonder on that kid’s face as he or she opened a gift picked out by a stranger and was reminded that there still was magic in the world.
I remember my mother saying that her best friend, Mrs. A, had called. Mrs. A knew a family whose house had caught on fire. The father was out of work, and the kids had nothing for Christmas. Would my mother be willing to buy a gift for each of the four kids, something small, so that they would at least have something to open on Christmas morning?
Sure, said my mom.
So, about a week before the holiday, we piled into the car and drove to the “good” mall. This was the mall a couple towns over – more special than the one up the street from our house. The “normal” mall had a Mammoth Mart, which later became a Caldor, and then something else after that. Mammoth Mart (yes, its logo was an elephant) was slightly more upscale than Woolworth’s, but not quite on the level of a Zayre’s. Mammoth Mart was where we bought our heavy-soled leather shoes, scratchy wool turtlenecks, and fake fur winter coats for school each September.
But the “good” mall had a Bradlees. (None of these stores exist anymore.) Bradlees was the “Tar-jay” of its day, with clothes, housewares, books, toys, and shoes. Bradlees was where you could sometimes get brand named stuff, when that idea was still in its infancy, last season’s fashions at bargain basement prices. Bradlees was where we did our Christmas shopping (well, Mom and Dad did; we kids bought gifts at the discount store up the street, where five dollars went a long way), just because Christmas was special.
So off to Bradlees we went, shopping for four children whom we knew by age and gender, but not name.
If I recall correctly, there was a baby, and three older kids, a boy and two girls between the ages of four and ten. My mom gave us the run of the store, and we chose toys we’d like to have and put them in the basket. Not being well-off, we understood the value of a dollar; we picked out reasonably priced dolls and clothes to go on them, board games, stuff like that. My mom carefully selected an outfit for each child. We understood that. We got new clothes three times a year: summer, the beginning of the school year, and Christmas, and tried not to grow. The rest of the time, my mother made our clothes (pants, skirts, dresses – we looked good). Mom and Dad saved up for Christmas (remember Christmas clubs at the local bank?) and with 20/20 hindsight, I know that the money to fund three kids’ Christmas expectations probably came out of overtime hours and skipped lunches. If we gazed wistfully at the half-filled carriage, it was only because we figured we might get a little less that year. Dividing that pie by seven instead of three might make for some pretty thin slices. But we were game, because the alternative, that kids would wake up with nothing under the tree – or not even a tree – was too awful to contemplate.
I do not know, to this day, what my parents sacrificed to pay for this extra shopping trip. I do know that we had no disappointment on Christmas morning – if we did receive less than we otherwise would have, none of us noticed.
After the shopping trip, we settled down in the living room and wrapped every one of those gifts. I think we marked them with tags that indicated who they were for: “baby,” “five year old girl,” etc. Each package got a bow. We left the “from” space empty, so that the parents could write whatever they wanted. Maybe the presents would be from Santa that year. It was up to them. When we were done, my mom called Mrs. A and told her she could come pick up the gifts.
As long as I live, I will never forget the look of utter shock on Mrs. A’s face when she walked in the front door and saw the pile of festive gifts in the foyer. There were probably three gifts for each kid: toys and clothing. Mrs. A said to my mom, “I thought there’d just be a big green garbage bag.”
My mom said, “That’s not Christmas.”
Mrs. A had to make a couple of trips to collect all the gifts. Later, she called up to say how thrilled the mother and father of those children were, and how grateful. She started to tell my mom who they were, and my mother interrupted her. “No, no, no,” she said. “I don’t want to know their names, and I don’t want you to tell them who I am.” Her reason? “I don’t want to be walking down the street someday and meet them and have everybody feel all embarrassed about this. Just let it be anonymous.” As far as I know, Mrs. A honored that request.
There are many family traditions that I’ve let fall by the wayside. Giving anonymous gifts to needy children is the one I will always keep. I remember looking at my mother that day and seeing the face of God. It was probably the first time I really wanted to be her – not be like her, but be her – when I grew up. I often think about that family, destitute and defeated in the midst of a beautiful holiday season. I imagine that one of those children, maybe the oldest, knew the situation they were in and had resigned himself or herself that there wouldn’t be a real Christmas that year. And then I imagine the joy and wonder on that kid’s face as he or she opened a gift picked out by a stranger and was reminded that there still was magic in the world.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The Lover, The Dreamer, and Me
Been awhile.
I’m finding myself in a very nostalgic mood lately. No doubt it’s partly due to seeing The Muppets last weekend. I dreaded being dragged by Scooby and Doodle to this film, convinced that, like all of the remakes, re-boots and sequels I’ve seen lately, it wouldn’t ever live up to my childhood memories of the show.
It did – completely.
There were lovely little tributes to the old-time celebs who guest-hosted The Muppet Show back in the day, some of whom are gone now, like Bob Hope. The three levels of the movie (basic “good vs. bad” kid movie; meta statement of the Muppets in pop culture; nostalgic trip down memory lane) all worked wonderfully together. The movie hit the sweet spot between fun kid movie for little ones who may or may not know anything about the Muppets and lovely nostalgia for those of us who remember the show.
In Muppet-world, all you really needed to do was to be yourself, and even though disaster threatened every time you raised the curtain and lit the lights, you all pulled together and made the show a success. It happened every week.
I wanted to be Kermit the Frog, appearing on stage enthusiastically for every performance, getting the chickens to march in a parade, wincing at untimely explosions and unfunny jokes, but never doubting that this was what he was meant to do.
When was the last time I threw myself that wholeheartedly into something I loved doing?
I felt tears welling up when Kermit and the gang launched into “The Rainbow Connection,” that cautiously hopeful, poignant anthem – and I didn’t feel the least bit embarrassed. Mainly because it was dark, but more importantly because I could hear strains of the song wafting softly around me, sung in many grow up voices from all over the theatre. (The guy next to me had a lovely baritone.)
I think many of us needed to be reminded that we could still find that beautiful connection. Someday hasn’t come yet, has it?
Go ahead, I dare you not to sing along.
The Rainbow Connection (1979)
You’re welcome.
I’m finding myself in a very nostalgic mood lately. No doubt it’s partly due to seeing The Muppets last weekend. I dreaded being dragged by Scooby and Doodle to this film, convinced that, like all of the remakes, re-boots and sequels I’ve seen lately, it wouldn’t ever live up to my childhood memories of the show.
It did – completely.
There were lovely little tributes to the old-time celebs who guest-hosted The Muppet Show back in the day, some of whom are gone now, like Bob Hope. The three levels of the movie (basic “good vs. bad” kid movie; meta statement of the Muppets in pop culture; nostalgic trip down memory lane) all worked wonderfully together. The movie hit the sweet spot between fun kid movie for little ones who may or may not know anything about the Muppets and lovely nostalgia for those of us who remember the show.
In Muppet-world, all you really needed to do was to be yourself, and even though disaster threatened every time you raised the curtain and lit the lights, you all pulled together and made the show a success. It happened every week.
I wanted to be Kermit the Frog, appearing on stage enthusiastically for every performance, getting the chickens to march in a parade, wincing at untimely explosions and unfunny jokes, but never doubting that this was what he was meant to do.
When was the last time I threw myself that wholeheartedly into something I loved doing?
I felt tears welling up when Kermit and the gang launched into “The Rainbow Connection,” that cautiously hopeful, poignant anthem – and I didn’t feel the least bit embarrassed. Mainly because it was dark, but more importantly because I could hear strains of the song wafting softly around me, sung in many grow up voices from all over the theatre. (The guy next to me had a lovely baritone.)
I think many of us needed to be reminded that we could still find that beautiful connection. Someday hasn’t come yet, has it?
Go ahead, I dare you not to sing along.
The Rainbow Connection (1979)
You’re welcome.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Baking 101
Today is a beautiful autumn day in New England, a Norman Rockwell painting kind of day. It’s an auspicious day to make apple pies for Thanksgiving. And it’s a perfect day to make a bread pudding, that comfort-food-with-a-wow-factor dessert. Today’s flavor will be chocolate and cherry, with a nice bit of caramel sauce on the side. (Since I have no self control, I’ll make a smaller pan to eat between now and Thursday.)
My head is so full of plans for making these dishes that I have no room to think of anything to say about the food. So, I will leave you with two images. One, the oven.
This is Scooby’s EasyBake™ Oven. She got it as a gift from camp. Although I had expected my hard-core budding feminist to rail against having been given a girl toy (hard to re-define a kitchen appliance as an action figure accessory, but I was willing to try), she fell in love with it immediately. It helped that the oven is not pink.
The first project was a bit of a disaster, as Scooby didn’t realize that ingredients had to be carefully measured. (Doodle, always the gentleman, gamely ate the “cake” that resulted from that experiment and convinced her that it was dee-licious. He will make a fine husband someday.) The second project, S’mores, went much better, even though the oven can only bake one cookie at a time. We meticulously went through each of the fifteen steps, and Scooby’s finished product was closer to the masterpiece she was aiming for:
Maybe I’ll invite Scooby and Doodle to bake with me (using the big oven, of course). After all, even feminists have to eat. They might as well learn to bake while they’re young.
My head is so full of plans for making these dishes that I have no room to think of anything to say about the food. So, I will leave you with two images. One, the oven.
This is Scooby’s EasyBake™ Oven. She got it as a gift from camp. Although I had expected my hard-core budding feminist to rail against having been given a girl toy (hard to re-define a kitchen appliance as an action figure accessory, but I was willing to try), she fell in love with it immediately. It helped that the oven is not pink.
The first project was a bit of a disaster, as Scooby didn’t realize that ingredients had to be carefully measured. (Doodle, always the gentleman, gamely ate the “cake” that resulted from that experiment and convinced her that it was dee-licious. He will make a fine husband someday.) The second project, S’mores, went much better, even though the oven can only bake one cookie at a time. We meticulously went through each of the fifteen steps, and Scooby’s finished product was closer to the masterpiece she was aiming for:
Maybe I’ll invite Scooby and Doodle to bake with me (using the big oven, of course). After all, even feminists have to eat. They might as well learn to bake while they’re young.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
On Weddings and Marriage
This weekend, we drove up to Maine to attend a friend’s wedding. Actually, Rev was performing the wedding, and we were there to offer him moral support as much as to witness the marriage. In the end, it was a tiny wedding in a rural country church, with the same number of guests as members of the wedding party.
Every bride wants her wedding to be perfect: beautiful and sunny weather, happy guests, no disasters. She wants to be the gorgeous princess, with all eyes on her in stunned admiration. She wants to have a leisurely breakfast, pampering herself and her attendants as they do their hair and makeup.
She doesn’t want to wake up to a broken sprinkler gushing in her hotel room, which causes a flood of biblical proportions and leaves her gown and all of the bridesmaids’ dresses in sodden heaps on the floor. She doesn’t want to be late for her own ceremony (designed to take place on 11/11/11 at 11:00) due to having to give statements to the police and the fire department.
We left our house at the crack of dawn, drove across two states, and arrived at the church early (for once) to the news that the wedding might be a tad delayed. This was conveyed by the groom, who was the quintessential unflappable Mainer. We got to work filling balloons with helium (Doodle and Scooby are happiest when they are being useful, like Thomas the Tank Engine), while Rev went over the ceremony with the groom. By the time the bride arrived, her laughter a hair shy of hysteria, all of the family and guests had settled into a collective shrug: hey, if this is the worst that will happen, you’re going to have a fine married life.
For his homily, Rev used a piece of advice my dad had given him years ago. In sum, most people think that marriage is a fifty/fifty proposition: each gives an equal fifty percent. But it’s not. Each person has to give 100 percent – because there will be days when one or the other can’t give that much, or maybe can’t give anything at all. And the other one covers the difference. Otherwise, on a bad day, you can’t even meet in the middle. He also reminded them that they don’t have to look behind them, because they will have each others’ backs.
Rev and I are seventeen and a half years into our marriage. On occasion, we still might have our schmoopy moments – when we’re not running around crazy busy and texting schedules to each other. He likes to pat my tush at inappropriate times in inappropriate places, and I think he is at his sexiest when he’s in his vestments. We have never had a shouting fight, and neither of us has ever placed a hand on the other in anger. (I like to say we argue like chess, not tennis.)
But he always has my back. If I say, Honey, I want to try to do X, his natural response is, That’s great; what can I do to help you? He wants me to succeed, and wants me to be happy, and he’ll do anything in his power to help me get there.
And I’m, as Scripture says, his helpmeet. I protect his unguarded flank. I keep watch for predators and dangers; I offer my good sense and solid opinions; and when I can, I take out the enemy.
When we got to the hotel that afternoon, I watched an episode of Say Yes To The Dress – with my mouth open. I only have five weeks to find my perfect dress! My fiance and my mother want to pick out my dress and I don’t agree with their taste! Waaaah! This is sooooo hard!
Seriously?
You can tell brides until you’re blue in the face that a wedding is just a day, but a marriage is a lifetime. That’s a truth they have to come to on their own. Regardless of the disasters that happen on The Day, all that matters is that there is a husband and a wife standing there at the end. I used to have a Post-It stuck to the credenza in my office in the days leading up to my wedding. It said: All you need for a marriage to be valid is a bride, a groom, an officiant, a witness, and a license. Everything else is fluff.
Fluff is good. Fluff is sweet and gooey and yummy. But fluff has no nutritional value.
I wish that our friends’ wedding had been perfect. I wish it had been everything that the bride had hoped for and dreamed of.
But more than that, I wish that the couple will be able to face every day with the same calmness and good humor as they did the small-scale catastrophes of their wedding day.
For the rest of their lives.
Every bride wants her wedding to be perfect: beautiful and sunny weather, happy guests, no disasters. She wants to be the gorgeous princess, with all eyes on her in stunned admiration. She wants to have a leisurely breakfast, pampering herself and her attendants as they do their hair and makeup.
She doesn’t want to wake up to a broken sprinkler gushing in her hotel room, which causes a flood of biblical proportions and leaves her gown and all of the bridesmaids’ dresses in sodden heaps on the floor. She doesn’t want to be late for her own ceremony (designed to take place on 11/11/11 at 11:00) due to having to give statements to the police and the fire department.
We left our house at the crack of dawn, drove across two states, and arrived at the church early (for once) to the news that the wedding might be a tad delayed. This was conveyed by the groom, who was the quintessential unflappable Mainer. We got to work filling balloons with helium (Doodle and Scooby are happiest when they are being useful, like Thomas the Tank Engine), while Rev went over the ceremony with the groom. By the time the bride arrived, her laughter a hair shy of hysteria, all of the family and guests had settled into a collective shrug: hey, if this is the worst that will happen, you’re going to have a fine married life.
For his homily, Rev used a piece of advice my dad had given him years ago. In sum, most people think that marriage is a fifty/fifty proposition: each gives an equal fifty percent. But it’s not. Each person has to give 100 percent – because there will be days when one or the other can’t give that much, or maybe can’t give anything at all. And the other one covers the difference. Otherwise, on a bad day, you can’t even meet in the middle. He also reminded them that they don’t have to look behind them, because they will have each others’ backs.
Rev and I are seventeen and a half years into our marriage. On occasion, we still might have our schmoopy moments – when we’re not running around crazy busy and texting schedules to each other. He likes to pat my tush at inappropriate times in inappropriate places, and I think he is at his sexiest when he’s in his vestments. We have never had a shouting fight, and neither of us has ever placed a hand on the other in anger. (I like to say we argue like chess, not tennis.)
But he always has my back. If I say, Honey, I want to try to do X, his natural response is, That’s great; what can I do to help you? He wants me to succeed, and wants me to be happy, and he’ll do anything in his power to help me get there.
And I’m, as Scripture says, his helpmeet. I protect his unguarded flank. I keep watch for predators and dangers; I offer my good sense and solid opinions; and when I can, I take out the enemy.
When we got to the hotel that afternoon, I watched an episode of Say Yes To The Dress – with my mouth open. I only have five weeks to find my perfect dress! My fiance and my mother want to pick out my dress and I don’t agree with their taste! Waaaah! This is sooooo hard!
Seriously?
You can tell brides until you’re blue in the face that a wedding is just a day, but a marriage is a lifetime. That’s a truth they have to come to on their own. Regardless of the disasters that happen on The Day, all that matters is that there is a husband and a wife standing there at the end. I used to have a Post-It stuck to the credenza in my office in the days leading up to my wedding. It said: All you need for a marriage to be valid is a bride, a groom, an officiant, a witness, and a license. Everything else is fluff.
Fluff is good. Fluff is sweet and gooey and yummy. But fluff has no nutritional value.
I wish that our friends’ wedding had been perfect. I wish it had been everything that the bride had hoped for and dreamed of.
But more than that, I wish that the couple will be able to face every day with the same calmness and good humor as they did the small-scale catastrophes of their wedding day.
For the rest of their lives.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Even Seven Year Olds Need To Breathe Deeply
It seems the perfect antidote to a stress-filled — although fun – child’s birthday party is . . . yoga. With a seven year old.
Let me back up. I make everything difficult. I have some control issues, I’ll be the first to admit, when it comes to planning an event that needs to go well. Today, it was my ten year old’s bowling birthday party. Oh, I had done the advance planning, reconnoitered with the bowling alley, arranged for completely nut-free refreshments on account of the kid with the allergy, chased down just the right loot bags and the acceptably benign stuff to go in them. I had managed the time down to the minute and put out a small logistical fire regarding whether two or three of the invited guests would be able to attend despite a breakout of head lice (they got their treatments in time and agreed to wear baseball caps anyway).
Of course, man plans and God laughs. Our normal two-hour first Sunday of the month service stretched out endlessly, as everyone and his or her cousin wanted to ramble on and on about all kinds of things, which I’d normally be all into – but not today. I ducked out before Communion and managed not to run over anyone as I sped across town trying to salvage my schedule.
Most of the guests were on time, and by ten past two, they were happily bowling away. (Although, proving, I guess that CP Time trumps Daylight Saving Time, two kids showed up after two strings of bowling had been completed and as we were sitting down to have pizza and cake.)
It went as well as a party of ten year olds could go. Moms and Dads came and got their happy kids, and I went home, determined not to do another thing for the rest of the day.
Except yoga.
There it was on the whiteboard: do yoga with Scooby. She’d been watching last night as I’d shopped for a well-reviewed yoga program on NetStreaming – just until I could get back to the Y for a live class. I figured I’d practice at home in the meantime and maybe look a little less awkward next time I went. We watched on video a bit as the instructor took her students through the first couple of stretches, then Scooby asked, “Can we do that?”
Not now, I said, it’s time for bed.
How about tomorrow?
Fine. And so, up it went on the whiteboard. It was her last reminder to me before she fell asleep, and her first request this morning.
So, still wired from being responsible for a bunch of other people’s kids for two hours, I crept into the kitchen and encountered the whiteboard reminder.
We rolled out our yoga mats and started the video. We earnestly tried each pose, following the directions to relax or press down with various body parts. (Scooby’s flexible!) I thought she would get bored quickly; after all, yoga is slow-moving and the instructor’s voice was, well, soporific.
She tried everything. She only got the giggles when she kept falling over during the touch-your-feet-to-the-floor-behind-your-head pose. (Whatever.) I could hear her breathing deeply next to me as she concentrated. She seemed surprised when it was over; it was a little abrupt: deep breathing, deep breathing, credits.
How do you feel? I asked her.
That was fun, and hard, she said. We did yoga! And then she added, Can we do it again?
Maybe tomorrow, I said.
The strange part was that I wasn’t self-conscious or anxious or anything. At the end of it all, I was relaxed, refreshed, and looking forward to the next time we could do yoga together. I wouldn’t have thought spending fifty minutes with my seven year old daughter contorting ourselves in front of a TV screen would be anywhere on my list of things to do, but there it is. Maybe Scooby, like her mom, gets a little tired of running around her life like a crazy person. Maybe she craves a little quiet time and deep breathing to center herself before another hectic week begins.
I guess it’s never too early to learn such a useful skill.
Let me back up. I make everything difficult. I have some control issues, I’ll be the first to admit, when it comes to planning an event that needs to go well. Today, it was my ten year old’s bowling birthday party. Oh, I had done the advance planning, reconnoitered with the bowling alley, arranged for completely nut-free refreshments on account of the kid with the allergy, chased down just the right loot bags and the acceptably benign stuff to go in them. I had managed the time down to the minute and put out a small logistical fire regarding whether two or three of the invited guests would be able to attend despite a breakout of head lice (they got their treatments in time and agreed to wear baseball caps anyway).
Of course, man plans and God laughs. Our normal two-hour first Sunday of the month service stretched out endlessly, as everyone and his or her cousin wanted to ramble on and on about all kinds of things, which I’d normally be all into – but not today. I ducked out before Communion and managed not to run over anyone as I sped across town trying to salvage my schedule.
Most of the guests were on time, and by ten past two, they were happily bowling away. (Although, proving, I guess that CP Time trumps Daylight Saving Time, two kids showed up after two strings of bowling had been completed and as we were sitting down to have pizza and cake.)
It went as well as a party of ten year olds could go. Moms and Dads came and got their happy kids, and I went home, determined not to do another thing for the rest of the day.
Except yoga.
There it was on the whiteboard: do yoga with Scooby. She’d been watching last night as I’d shopped for a well-reviewed yoga program on NetStreaming – just until I could get back to the Y for a live class. I figured I’d practice at home in the meantime and maybe look a little less awkward next time I went. We watched on video a bit as the instructor took her students through the first couple of stretches, then Scooby asked, “Can we do that?”
Not now, I said, it’s time for bed.
How about tomorrow?
Fine. And so, up it went on the whiteboard. It was her last reminder to me before she fell asleep, and her first request this morning.
So, still wired from being responsible for a bunch of other people’s kids for two hours, I crept into the kitchen and encountered the whiteboard reminder.
We rolled out our yoga mats and started the video. We earnestly tried each pose, following the directions to relax or press down with various body parts. (Scooby’s flexible!) I thought she would get bored quickly; after all, yoga is slow-moving and the instructor’s voice was, well, soporific.
She tried everything. She only got the giggles when she kept falling over during the touch-your-feet-to-the-floor-behind-your-head pose. (Whatever.) I could hear her breathing deeply next to me as she concentrated. She seemed surprised when it was over; it was a little abrupt: deep breathing, deep breathing, credits.
How do you feel? I asked her.
That was fun, and hard, she said. We did yoga! And then she added, Can we do it again?
Maybe tomorrow, I said.
The strange part was that I wasn’t self-conscious or anxious or anything. At the end of it all, I was relaxed, refreshed, and looking forward to the next time we could do yoga together. I wouldn’t have thought spending fifty minutes with my seven year old daughter contorting ourselves in front of a TV screen would be anywhere on my list of things to do, but there it is. Maybe Scooby, like her mom, gets a little tired of running around her life like a crazy person. Maybe she craves a little quiet time and deep breathing to center herself before another hectic week begins.
I guess it’s never too early to learn such a useful skill.
Monday, October 17, 2011
A Dose of Reality
Okay, so perhaps I watch too much reality TV. I have already confessed to my obsession with organizing-decorating shows (and, really, the first step is admitting you have a problem), but it doesn’t stop there. Not by a long shot.
I watch cooking shows: Top Chef, Masterchef, Rachael Ray’s 30 Minute Meals at $40 a Day (or whatever). True, I’m not going to be making anything with truffle oil anytime soon, but I have to say I’ve widened my flavor horizons, just in case Chef Tom Colicchio ever graces my kitchen.
Tomato soup - from scratch. Go, me!
Even Hell’s Kitchen throws out a good challenge every now and then (and I can make a terrific, creamy risotto because of it, so, Thanks, incompetent, foul-mouthed chefs!) .
I watch competition shows about stuff that really shouldn’t be competitive. I love The Amazing Race (travel as a contact sport), and The Biggest Loser ($250,000 might be an incentive to get me off the couch and . . . nah, who am I kidding?), and America’s Next Top Model (is it wrong to say that some of those contestants look like drag queens?), enabler of my shoe fetish.
The one show that I watch for no particular reason – and I mean, none – is Project Runway. Why do I say that? Because I cannot sew. As in, if you put a gun to my head, I might be able to do a decent hem so I’m not treading on my trousers when I wear my flats, and it’s possible I could replace a button on a shirt, but beyond that? Nope. Actually constructing something is a skill I never mastered, like trigonometry. Oh, I have a sewing machine, and I did for a while haveplansdelusions that I was going to make gorgeous flowered pillowcases for my sofa, but that idea died a quiet death the minute the bobbin ran out of thread. One look at the instructions for re-threading that thing, and the lovely material ended up neatly folded and stashed in my linen closet.
Also? I have no fashion sense. Heidi Klum would take one look at my wardrobe and pronounce me “owt” immediately. I might get the double-cheek kiss before being escorted out by Tim Gunn.
So, it was an interesting Saturday, to put it mildly, spending time with Doodle and Scooby as they cut up old t-shirts and pajamas and stitched PANTS for their stuffed bear and dog.
Seriously. Totes adorbs. (They did not make the “Boston” shirt.)
In the end, they put together several “looks,” including a second pair of bear pants, a vest, and a matching hat (not pictured).
Now that’s how you make it work.
I watch cooking shows: Top Chef, Masterchef, Rachael Ray’s 30 Minute Meals at $40 a Day (or whatever). True, I’m not going to be making anything with truffle oil anytime soon, but I have to say I’ve widened my flavor horizons, just in case Chef Tom Colicchio ever graces my kitchen.
Even Hell’s Kitchen throws out a good challenge every now and then (and I can make a terrific, creamy risotto because of it, so, Thanks, incompetent, foul-mouthed chefs!) .
I watch competition shows about stuff that really shouldn’t be competitive. I love The Amazing Race (travel as a contact sport), and The Biggest Loser ($250,000 might be an incentive to get me off the couch and . . . nah, who am I kidding?), and America’s Next Top Model (is it wrong to say that some of those contestants look like drag queens?), enabler of my shoe fetish.
The one show that I watch for no particular reason – and I mean, none – is Project Runway. Why do I say that? Because I cannot sew. As in, if you put a gun to my head, I might be able to do a decent hem so I’m not treading on my trousers when I wear my flats, and it’s possible I could replace a button on a shirt, but beyond that? Nope. Actually constructing something is a skill I never mastered, like trigonometry. Oh, I have a sewing machine, and I did for a while have
Also? I have no fashion sense. Heidi Klum would take one look at my wardrobe and pronounce me “owt” immediately. I might get the double-cheek kiss before being escorted out by Tim Gunn.
So, it was an interesting Saturday, to put it mildly, spending time with Doodle and Scooby as they cut up old t-shirts and pajamas and stitched PANTS for their stuffed bear and dog.
In the end, they put together several “looks,” including a second pair of bear pants, a vest, and a matching hat (not pictured).
Now that’s how you make it work.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Mission: Clean Slate
I used to be a sucker for those organizing/decorating shows that were all the rage a few years ago. Clean Sweep, Clean House, and Mission: Organization were all appointment TV for me. For an hour at a time, I’d sit and swing between judgment and chagrin, knowing full well that I was a box of clothes or two shy of being a “makeover” myself. I’d gather little tips from this show or that one, and internalize the pep talks about letting go of clutter and making your house a home.
I’d start a project and peter out just as the hard work began.
So, this past weekend, for my birthday, I decided to bite off a small doable piece, and actually complete it during a four-day weekend. (Three days, actually, because Sunday was already fully booked.) I took a day off from work on Friday, and made sure to plan and prepare (a change from my usual on-the-fly approach).
My target: the front entry.
Here was the depository of everything that we were too lazy to give a good home. Coats, backpacks, purses, shoes. Books, papers, folders. Keys, magazines, mail. A travel-sized Communion kit. It all came to rest in the hall, and once there, never went away. It got to the point where I felt like I needed to apologize to any visitors as soon as they came in. It made me feel flustered, anxious, and embarrassed. It had to go.
I shopped and prepped on Friday. Scooby and I painted our hearts out on Saturday (it didn’t hurt that it was an Indian summer holiday weekend), and found a perfect piece of furniture (if not an antique, then close enough) to make a good first impression. I finished up the details on Monday.
We went from this:
to this:
Okay, so it’s not the biggest space in the world; barely a blip on HGTV’s radar, but it came out almost exactly the way I’d imagined it in my head. (And at least now, I don’t feel like I’m headed for the latest TLC show, Hoarders.)
Gosh, what a relief. Not a bad way to start my 45th year. Clean House, Clean Sweep, clean slate.
I’d start a project and peter out just as the hard work began.
So, this past weekend, for my birthday, I decided to bite off a small doable piece, and actually complete it during a four-day weekend. (Three days, actually, because Sunday was already fully booked.) I took a day off from work on Friday, and made sure to plan and prepare (a change from my usual on-the-fly approach).
My target: the front entry.
Here was the depository of everything that we were too lazy to give a good home. Coats, backpacks, purses, shoes. Books, papers, folders. Keys, magazines, mail. A travel-sized Communion kit. It all came to rest in the hall, and once there, never went away. It got to the point where I felt like I needed to apologize to any visitors as soon as they came in. It made me feel flustered, anxious, and embarrassed. It had to go.
I shopped and prepped on Friday. Scooby and I painted our hearts out on Saturday (it didn’t hurt that it was an Indian summer holiday weekend), and found a perfect piece of furniture (if not an antique, then close enough) to make a good first impression. I finished up the details on Monday.
We went from this:
to this:
Okay, so it’s not the biggest space in the world; barely a blip on HGTV’s radar, but it came out almost exactly the way I’d imagined it in my head. (And at least now, I don’t feel like I’m headed for the latest TLC show, Hoarders.)
Gosh, what a relief. Not a bad way to start my 45th year. Clean House, Clean Sweep, clean slate.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
A Moment's Peace
It’s that time of year again.
School’s back in and starting to settle into a routine. I’m in the process of memorizing each kid’s particular weekly schedule – who has tests/quizzes/reports due when, how much time can I reasonably demand each one to devote to homework. Actually, it’s not so much a matter of committing it to memory (as mine doesn’t really work), but rather devising a color coded weekly chart to keep track of it all.*
It’s also the time for obsessing over my life. My birthday’s coming up soon. I have a doc appointment coming up, and it’s a doozy: my four month cancer checkup and my yearly physical. I can feel myself tensing up already. I’m starting to worry about my weight, beating myself up every morning because I can’t seem to shed thosethree five stubborn pounds I gained over the summer. I’ve given up chocolate (sort of) and cheese, because I suspect my cholesterol will be tested and found wanting. I’m obsessing over the level of stress and anxiety in my life in anticipation of my blood pressure being measured (I always have a whopping case of “white coat syndrome”). Yes, I’m anxious and stressed over being anxious and stressed.
I’ve nearly convinced myself to try a yoga class. (I’m not quite sold on the idea because I’m worried that I’ll look ridiculous, which, I suspect, comes close to defeating the purpose of taking the class in the first place.)
I’m falling out of love with my job of seventeen years and so I’m starting to think about an exit strategy.
There’s a lot on my plate.
I’m reminded of the admonition in Philippians 4:6, which says, basically, Don’t be anxious for anything, but pray and ask God for what you need, thanking Him in advance for it. And you will experience the peace of God, which nobody can ever understand, through Jesus Christ.
Problem is, I’m running so hard, so fast, so steadily, that I don’t even know what I need or what to pray for. More time? A more fit body? No cancer? All of those things feel both frivolous and too much to ask for, all at once. There are bigger problems in the world.
Maybe I’ll just cut to the chase and ask for peace. World peace; political peace; inner peace; peace and quiet. Just a couple moments’ worth. Enough uninterrupted consecutive minutes to take in the fact that I’m turning forty-four next week, and to be thankful about that. To take a look at the wide open space that the coming year represents, and maybe set a few goals. To cross the stuff off of my list that I didn’t do and that didn’t matter anyway. To enjoy my life. For the peace of wild things, which neither sow nor reap.
I think I’ll start by carving out one hour of my week for yoga.
*(You think I’m kidding. I’m not. Boy is red; Doodle is blue; Scooby is purple; Rev is black. I don’t have a color.)
School’s back in and starting to settle into a routine. I’m in the process of memorizing each kid’s particular weekly schedule – who has tests/quizzes/reports due when, how much time can I reasonably demand each one to devote to homework. Actually, it’s not so much a matter of committing it to memory (as mine doesn’t really work), but rather devising a color coded weekly chart to keep track of it all.*
It’s also the time for obsessing over my life. My birthday’s coming up soon. I have a doc appointment coming up, and it’s a doozy: my four month cancer checkup and my yearly physical. I can feel myself tensing up already. I’m starting to worry about my weight, beating myself up every morning because I can’t seem to shed those
I’ve nearly convinced myself to try a yoga class. (I’m not quite sold on the idea because I’m worried that I’ll look ridiculous, which, I suspect, comes close to defeating the purpose of taking the class in the first place.)
I’m falling out of love with my job of seventeen years and so I’m starting to think about an exit strategy.
There’s a lot on my plate.
I’m reminded of the admonition in Philippians 4:6, which says, basically, Don’t be anxious for anything, but pray and ask God for what you need, thanking Him in advance for it. And you will experience the peace of God, which nobody can ever understand, through Jesus Christ.
Problem is, I’m running so hard, so fast, so steadily, that I don’t even know what I need or what to pray for. More time? A more fit body? No cancer? All of those things feel both frivolous and too much to ask for, all at once. There are bigger problems in the world.
Maybe I’ll just cut to the chase and ask for peace. World peace; political peace; inner peace; peace and quiet. Just a couple moments’ worth. Enough uninterrupted consecutive minutes to take in the fact that I’m turning forty-four next week, and to be thankful about that. To take a look at the wide open space that the coming year represents, and maybe set a few goals. To cross the stuff off of my list that I didn’t do and that didn’t matter anyway. To enjoy my life. For the peace of wild things, which neither sow nor reap.
I think I’ll start by carving out one hour of my week for yoga.
*(You think I’m kidding. I’m not. Boy is red; Doodle is blue; Scooby is purple; Rev is black. I don’t have a color.)
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Into Temptation
I am easily influenced.
Example One: I had a few moments to myself on Saturday, so I indulged myself but catching up on this week’s America’s Next Top Model. (Don’t judge me.) I have nothing in common with any of these contestants, given that they are tall, thin, (almost all) beautiful, and attention seeking – nothing except a fascination for stilettos. Dude! That photo shoot with the gowns and the hotdogs – they had some slamming shoes. So, under the guise of I’m going to go out and run some errands and, yeah, I’ll go ahead and pick up dinner, I grabbed my keys and dashed out of the house.
And ended up at the Shoe Warehouse. As you knew I would.
In my defense, they were waiting for me on the clearance rack, waaaay at the back of the store, and if I were not meant to have them, they wouldn’t have been my size and 30% off, now would they?
And, really, who doesn’t need a new pair of purple patent leather pumps with lovely purple roses on the toes? (Put your hand down, you’re just in denial.)
Behold.
Example Two, Top Chef: Just Desserts. Guilt and sugar-topped sugar confections go hand in hand, so I felt the double whammy of (1) having bought such ridiculously frivolous (but fabulous) footwear, and (2) not making a chocolate cake as I had planned for Sunday dinner.
I lasted through two commercial breaks. The third found me rummaging through my cabinets, hoisting down my trusty Fannie Farmer cookbook, and whipping up a batch of crepes.
Strawberry and Nutella crepes, to be exact. Like my foremother, Eve, I managed to yank Rev off of his Weight Watchers wagon and into temptation as I presented the still-warm, gooey goodness on a plate. The kids could not stop hugging me. Scooby insisted that I should go on a cooking show.
Exaggeration, maybe. But there’s something very glamorous, even sexy, about chocolate, strawberries, and high heeled shoes.
America’s Next Top Chef Model, Mom Edition. I’m so there.
Example One: I had a few moments to myself on Saturday, so I indulged myself but catching up on this week’s America’s Next Top Model. (Don’t judge me.) I have nothing in common with any of these contestants, given that they are tall, thin, (almost all) beautiful, and attention seeking – nothing except a fascination for stilettos. Dude! That photo shoot with the gowns and the hotdogs – they had some slamming shoes. So, under the guise of I’m going to go out and run some errands and, yeah, I’ll go ahead and pick up dinner, I grabbed my keys and dashed out of the house.
And ended up at the Shoe Warehouse. As you knew I would.
In my defense, they were waiting for me on the clearance rack, waaaay at the back of the store, and if I were not meant to have them, they wouldn’t have been my size and 30% off, now would they?
And, really, who doesn’t need a new pair of purple patent leather pumps with lovely purple roses on the toes? (Put your hand down, you’re just in denial.)
Behold.
Example Two, Top Chef: Just Desserts. Guilt and sugar-topped sugar confections go hand in hand, so I felt the double whammy of (1) having bought such ridiculously frivolous (but fabulous) footwear, and (2) not making a chocolate cake as I had planned for Sunday dinner.
I lasted through two commercial breaks. The third found me rummaging through my cabinets, hoisting down my trusty Fannie Farmer cookbook, and whipping up a batch of crepes.
Strawberry and Nutella crepes, to be exact. Like my foremother, Eve, I managed to yank Rev off of his Weight Watchers wagon and into temptation as I presented the still-warm, gooey goodness on a plate. The kids could not stop hugging me. Scooby insisted that I should go on a cooking show.
Exaggeration, maybe. But there’s something very glamorous, even sexy, about chocolate, strawberries, and high heeled shoes.
America’s Next Top Chef Model, Mom Edition. I’m so there.
Friday, September 23, 2011
The Circle Of Life
And here is my lesson for the day.
Scooby: Lions eat caramels. But when the lion dies, it lies down on the ground and becomes the grass and the water. Then the caramels eat the lions.
Me: Caramels?
Scooby: Yeah.
Me (thinking, Camels, maybe? No, that can’t be right): What . . . what do caramels look like?
Scooby (using patented Are you kidding me with this? look): They are brown and they have four legs and they run really fast.
Me: Um, gazelles?
Scooby: Yeah, gazelles! They eat the lion when it turns into grass!
Ah, second grade. That brief moment when you know everything about everything, and everything you know is slightly wrong.
Oh, and by the way, Doodle’s drop-off was exactly on time today. Scooby’s was only (!) fifteen minutes late. Guess the squeaky wheel gets the grease, even on big yellow school buses.
Scooby: Lions eat caramels. But when the lion dies, it lies down on the ground and becomes the grass and the water. Then the caramels eat the lions.
Me: Caramels?
Scooby: Yeah.
Me (thinking, Camels, maybe? No, that can’t be right): What . . . what do caramels look like?
Scooby (using patented Are you kidding me with this? look): They are brown and they have four legs and they run really fast.
Me: Um, gazelles?
Scooby: Yeah, gazelles! They eat the lion when it turns into grass!
Ah, second grade. That brief moment when you know everything about everything, and everything you know is slightly wrong.
Oh, and by the way, Doodle’s drop-off was exactly on time today. Scooby’s was only (!) fifteen minutes late. Guess the squeaky wheel gets the grease, even on big yellow school buses.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
On The Warpath
I am on the warpath. Worse than that, I am two paces behind Rev. While I can occasionally be understanding about the myriad little screw-ups that populate everyone’s days, Rev has a streak of impatience a mile wide. If you are incompetent – and, worse, if you show no signs of caring that you are incompetent – well, you might as well change your name to Chicken Caesar Salad, because Rev will eat you for lunch. He is a lawyer by training, a corporate litigator, which means that he can slice you and dice you without ever raising his voice. And he’s a minister, so he’ll do it without swearing or breaking either any Commandments or The Golden Rule.
I, on the other hand, have no problem indicating through words (I majored in English and so am a walking thesaurus) and tone (hi: litigator!) just how much contempt I have for my hapless victim and all of his or her ancestors. If you’ve pushed me hard enough to get me to Go There, well, abandon all hope because the gloves come off pretty fast.
Normally, one of us is able to talk the other down off the ledge. Not today. Right now, both of us are looking at the Line That Was Crossed in our rear-view mirror. What has us heated up is the inability of the School Bus System to get our children home from school timely. By “timely,” I mean, before I get home from work.
Here’s the deal. Both Scooby and Doodle go to schools that dismiss at approximately 3:30. Doodle’s school is just under a mile away, an easy twenty-five minute walk, but far enough that he qualifies for bus transportation. Scooby’s school is much farther away. Rather than have the babysitter chase across the city to pick up the kids, we decided that this year she would simply meet the buses at the assigned stops near the house. Theoretically, the kids would get home within ten minutes of each other, at around 4:15. (Yes, folks, that means that it should take Doodle exactly the same amount of time (45 minutes) to ride home as it does Scooby, even though his school is a five minute drive away.)
I say should because, in reality, Doodle’s bus has never been on time. Some days it’s been five or ten minutes late – that’s to be expected in the first days of school. But for the past week or so, his bus has been, on average, an hour and a half late. Scooby’s has been late less often, but on days when they don’t get it right, she’s close to two hours late. Today, her bus pulled up at 6:10 PM.
Doodle’s school sends out an “all call”: Good afternoon, parents. We just want to let you know that if your child rides Bus Number X, it has been delayed, followed at some point by, Good afternoon, parents. We just want to let you know that Bus Number X has just left the school. This is delivered by the school secretary in a voice so chipper that it makes you want to crawl through the phone and punch her in the face. Worse, the calls go to your home phone – so you don’t get them because you are at the bus stop waiting vainly for the kid’s bus to come around the corner. Scooby’s school doesn’t even call.
This afternoon, for example, the babysitter arrived at Scooby’s bus stop (since Scooby’s only seven, meeting her bus is the priority; Doodle is old enough to walk up the street by himself) at 3:50, on the off chance that the bus might be early. She finally called me on my cell as I got on the train to come home – at 5:20. I arrived at the bus stop before Scooby’s bus even got there. Doodle’s bus beat me there by about five minutes.
Today’s The Bus Is Delayed call was delivered by Doodle’s principal, who recited the number for the transportation department and invited parents to call and complain.
Complain? Oh, honey, we’re past the complaint stage. We are on the warpath. Tomorrow, we will work our way up the chain of command, gathering names, until we get to the Mayor’s Chief of Staff, whom Rev knows personally and works with often, and the School Superintendent. That should take approximately two hours and twenty minutes. About the time that it took for the children to get home today.
It’s on.
I, on the other hand, have no problem indicating through words (I majored in English and so am a walking thesaurus) and tone (hi: litigator!) just how much contempt I have for my hapless victim and all of his or her ancestors. If you’ve pushed me hard enough to get me to Go There, well, abandon all hope because the gloves come off pretty fast.
Normally, one of us is able to talk the other down off the ledge. Not today. Right now, both of us are looking at the Line That Was Crossed in our rear-view mirror. What has us heated up is the inability of the School Bus System to get our children home from school timely. By “timely,” I mean, before I get home from work.
Here’s the deal. Both Scooby and Doodle go to schools that dismiss at approximately 3:30. Doodle’s school is just under a mile away, an easy twenty-five minute walk, but far enough that he qualifies for bus transportation. Scooby’s school is much farther away. Rather than have the babysitter chase across the city to pick up the kids, we decided that this year she would simply meet the buses at the assigned stops near the house. Theoretically, the kids would get home within ten minutes of each other, at around 4:15. (Yes, folks, that means that it should take Doodle exactly the same amount of time (45 minutes) to ride home as it does Scooby, even though his school is a five minute drive away.)
I say should because, in reality, Doodle’s bus has never been on time. Some days it’s been five or ten minutes late – that’s to be expected in the first days of school. But for the past week or so, his bus has been, on average, an hour and a half late. Scooby’s has been late less often, but on days when they don’t get it right, she’s close to two hours late. Today, her bus pulled up at 6:10 PM.
Doodle’s school sends out an “all call”: Good afternoon, parents. We just want to let you know that if your child rides Bus Number X, it has been delayed, followed at some point by, Good afternoon, parents. We just want to let you know that Bus Number X has just left the school. This is delivered by the school secretary in a voice so chipper that it makes you want to crawl through the phone and punch her in the face. Worse, the calls go to your home phone – so you don’t get them because you are at the bus stop waiting vainly for the kid’s bus to come around the corner. Scooby’s school doesn’t even call.
This afternoon, for example, the babysitter arrived at Scooby’s bus stop (since Scooby’s only seven, meeting her bus is the priority; Doodle is old enough to walk up the street by himself) at 3:50, on the off chance that the bus might be early. She finally called me on my cell as I got on the train to come home – at 5:20. I arrived at the bus stop before Scooby’s bus even got there. Doodle’s bus beat me there by about five minutes.
Today’s The Bus Is Delayed call was delivered by Doodle’s principal, who recited the number for the transportation department and invited parents to call and complain.
Complain? Oh, honey, we’re past the complaint stage. We are on the warpath. Tomorrow, we will work our way up the chain of command, gathering names, until we get to the Mayor’s Chief of Staff, whom Rev knows personally and works with often, and the School Superintendent. That should take approximately two hours and twenty minutes. About the time that it took for the children to get home today.
It’s on.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Yeesh. Rusty.
It is a beautiful, crisp autumn day. Tried to make paella from scratch and from memory. Ick.
I didn’t even make the kids finish their dinner. They looked so relieved when they left the table.
I guess I’ll have some humble pie for dessert.
I didn’t even make the kids finish their dinner. They looked so relieved when they left the table.
I guess I’ll have some humble pie for dessert.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Visions of Comfort Foods Dancing In My Head
Fall is imminent. Yeah, today it was 84 degrees and we’re sleeping with the windows open tonight, but in two days, the temperature will drop to the low seventies, upper sixties and stay there for a while before it slides inexorably into cold-as-a-witch’s-youknowwhat territory for the next four months. And guess what that means.
Yes. Dusting off those cookbooks and getting back into comfort foods – the stuff I started off this blog with nine months ago. No more “it’s too hot to cook; here’s some cereal” nights. We’re talking soups and stews and crockpot goodies. Tomorrow is one of my faves: eight-hour slow-cooked ribs, finished off in a smokin’ hot oven for about fifteen minutes, just long enough to carmelize the barbecue sauce. I’m not allowed to make those on any night when Rev has a meeting or class. There are never any leftovers for him.
I’m looking forward to the first really cold, crisp autumn evening, when I can try out my new chunky tomato soup recipe, served with homemade croutons or a splurg-y panini with prosciuto and Brie. Oh! And turkey chili (again, handy crockpot) with sweet, buttery cornbread. Maybe some homemade pizza (we can certainly stand to give the takeout chain a rest). I think I have the fixings for paella.
I can tell I’ll be having some nice dreams tonight.
Yes. Dusting off those cookbooks and getting back into comfort foods – the stuff I started off this blog with nine months ago. No more “it’s too hot to cook; here’s some cereal” nights. We’re talking soups and stews and crockpot goodies. Tomorrow is one of my faves: eight-hour slow-cooked ribs, finished off in a smokin’ hot oven for about fifteen minutes, just long enough to carmelize the barbecue sauce. I’m not allowed to make those on any night when Rev has a meeting or class. There are never any leftovers for him.
I’m looking forward to the first really cold, crisp autumn evening, when I can try out my new chunky tomato soup recipe, served with homemade croutons or a splurg-y panini with prosciuto and Brie. Oh! And turkey chili (again, handy crockpot) with sweet, buttery cornbread. Maybe some homemade pizza (we can certainly stand to give the takeout chain a rest). I think I have the fixings for paella.
I can tell I’ll be having some nice dreams tonight.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
If At First You Don't Succeed
The night before the first day of school has always been stressful for me. Even as a child, I was torn between watching the network premieres of primetime shows (those that came on before 9:00, anyway) and going to bed straight after dinner to get as much sleep as possible. I obsessed over every notebook and pencil, and laid out my new clothes like little flat people on the foot of my bed. I wanted everything to be perfect.
Not much has changed in thirty or so years.
Last night, I arranged and re-arranged all of the gear required by my elementary scholars. I sat them down, one at a time, and ran through the inventory with them, so they knew how much of the stuff on the supply list I’d gathered. We went over the bus rules (keep your hands inside; stay in your seat; no fooling around; obey the driver; cross in front of the bus). The babysitter would be meeting them at their bus stops up the street, not picking up from school, a change this year that Doodle and Scooby were both very excited about. I tucked the bus notices in their backpacks and made their lunches.
Then I got to nagging Boy about putting his clothes out for the morning. His movements are glacial once you can cajole him out of the bed, and for reasons unknown to me, high school starts at 7:20 AM. (That’s counterintuitive to me. The little kids bounce out of bed at the crack of dawn; they should go to school earlier than the teenager, who only achieves full consciousness sometime after noon.) I didn’t even want to contemplate being late on The First Day of High School – or getting pulled over by a cop as I sped up the Parkway. We were all buzzing; Doodle especially was channeling his inner Tigger, literally running around in circles. I thought we’d all be up, vibrating, the whole night.
We all slept like rocks. Five-thirty came early.
Having no confidence in first day’s chaotic bus schedule, I drove Boy to school. He chattered all the way there (even as I tried to concentrate through the downpour), betraying his anxiety. I said, “So, I’ll be praying for you all day.” I expected him to roll his eyes at my motherly concern. Instead, he said quietly, “Can you start right now?”
I read somewhere, a long time ago, that having a child is like walking around for the rest of your life with your heart outside your body. You bet I prayed as I watched my six-foot-one heart climb the stairs into high school.
It didn’t go as planned. While the little kids spent their day meeting new friends, learning how to spell their new teachers’ names, and riding the school buses, Boy spent his outside the principal’s office (his class assignment schedule was blank), and waiting two hours for the bus that would bring him home. Disappointed and tired, he skipped dinner and went to bed at 7:00 PM.
All of the planning, shopping, list-making, and imagining could not make this First Day Of High School go well for Boy. That makes me sad. But tomorrow, we’ll get up with the sun, do our usual tug of war over whether he’s really going to wear that shirt or whether or not he’ll eat some breakfast, and we’ll try again. I will give him the “clean slate” pep talk, reassure him that today is the first day of the rest of his life, and send him prayerfully off again.
Maybe tomorrow he’ll have the First Day Of School experience that his brother and sister had today, full of possibilities and newness and excitement. I hope so.
We’ll keep trying until we get it right.
Not much has changed in thirty or so years.
Last night, I arranged and re-arranged all of the gear required by my elementary scholars. I sat them down, one at a time, and ran through the inventory with them, so they knew how much of the stuff on the supply list I’d gathered. We went over the bus rules (keep your hands inside; stay in your seat; no fooling around; obey the driver; cross in front of the bus). The babysitter would be meeting them at their bus stops up the street, not picking up from school, a change this year that Doodle and Scooby were both very excited about. I tucked the bus notices in their backpacks and made their lunches.
Then I got to nagging Boy about putting his clothes out for the morning. His movements are glacial once you can cajole him out of the bed, and for reasons unknown to me, high school starts at 7:20 AM. (That’s counterintuitive to me. The little kids bounce out of bed at the crack of dawn; they should go to school earlier than the teenager, who only achieves full consciousness sometime after noon.) I didn’t even want to contemplate being late on The First Day of High School – or getting pulled over by a cop as I sped up the Parkway. We were all buzzing; Doodle especially was channeling his inner Tigger, literally running around in circles. I thought we’d all be up, vibrating, the whole night.
We all slept like rocks. Five-thirty came early.
Having no confidence in first day’s chaotic bus schedule, I drove Boy to school. He chattered all the way there (even as I tried to concentrate through the downpour), betraying his anxiety. I said, “So, I’ll be praying for you all day.” I expected him to roll his eyes at my motherly concern. Instead, he said quietly, “Can you start right now?”
I read somewhere, a long time ago, that having a child is like walking around for the rest of your life with your heart outside your body. You bet I prayed as I watched my six-foot-one heart climb the stairs into high school.
It didn’t go as planned. While the little kids spent their day meeting new friends, learning how to spell their new teachers’ names, and riding the school buses, Boy spent his outside the principal’s office (his class assignment schedule was blank), and waiting two hours for the bus that would bring him home. Disappointed and tired, he skipped dinner and went to bed at 7:00 PM.
All of the planning, shopping, list-making, and imagining could not make this First Day Of High School go well for Boy. That makes me sad. But tomorrow, we’ll get up with the sun, do our usual tug of war over whether he’s really going to wear that shirt or whether or not he’ll eat some breakfast, and we’ll try again. I will give him the “clean slate” pep talk, reassure him that today is the first day of the rest of his life, and send him prayerfully off again.
Maybe tomorrow he’ll have the First Day Of School experience that his brother and sister had today, full of possibilities and newness and excitement. I hope so.
We’ll keep trying until we get it right.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Change Of Plans
So the whale watch excursion didn’t happen. I took my own advice, put down the list, and let Rev make the arrangements. Only, he didn’t. Instead, he chose a tour company brochure at random as we headed out the door, and spent a while going in the wrong direction, thanks to the confused GPS (the “witch-in-a-box”). Despite his driving like Bruce Wayne, we squealed into the dock’s parking lot at 1:32, just in time to see the boat – crammed with tourists – sail away.
I seethed all the way back to the house, silently. Just like that, I was back to my control-freak self. If it had been me, if I hadn’t relinquished the planning, I’d have pinpointed our destination on the map, made reservations, left the house earlier. I was angry, and disappointed; this was the one thing I’d really wanted to do this week. As soon as the car rolled to a stop, I jumped out and walked toward the harbor, cussing to myself like those angry, crazy homeless people you see on the streets of big cities.
Something told me to check out the Visitor’s Center, where I found a brochure for a pirate ship tour, a 1 ½ hour excursion just along the coastline. I called up to the house and invited Rev to bring the kids down at a quarter to three (fifteen minutes early – I’m no dummy) and treated myself to a quick lunch.
The kids loved the trip. The captain was personable and let each of them hoist a sail and steer the ship while he told stories of New England’s piratical beginnings. The sea was pretty choppy, making the one and half hours feel like the first four months of my last pregnancy. In the end, if I’m being honest, it was a better day than I had expected; I still got to gaze out at the water and let my body be still (only partly because of queasiness). Each kid got special attention from the three-man crew. We all learned a little history. I got some great pictures.
It’s uncomfortable, even maddening, to have to ditch my to-do list, even if it’s to do something else equally fun. It leaves me unsettled. I like my world orderly, all my ducks in a row. I have to remind myself that my kids are pretty flexible; if they’re doing something different, they’re probably having fun. I’ve asked them several times over the last couple of days: did you guys have fun on vacation? Each time, they’ve responded with unfeigned enthusiasm.
So what if we lost two days because of the storm? Who cares if we only got to the beach twice? And, you know what? Those majestic whales will still be there a month from now, or next May, or next summer. This vacation wasn’t exactly how I had planned it, but it was definitely a success. I have the pictures, the smiles, and the hugs to prove it. Nice house, beautiful setting, fun activities. We had a good (if not completely relaxing) time, and that’s what’s important, right?
Of course it is. That is the lesson from this year’s vacation.
(I’ve already started the list for next year’s trip.)
I seethed all the way back to the house, silently. Just like that, I was back to my control-freak self. If it had been me, if I hadn’t relinquished the planning, I’d have pinpointed our destination on the map, made reservations, left the house earlier. I was angry, and disappointed; this was the one thing I’d really wanted to do this week. As soon as the car rolled to a stop, I jumped out and walked toward the harbor, cussing to myself like those angry, crazy homeless people you see on the streets of big cities.
Something told me to check out the Visitor’s Center, where I found a brochure for a pirate ship tour, a 1 ½ hour excursion just along the coastline. I called up to the house and invited Rev to bring the kids down at a quarter to three (fifteen minutes early – I’m no dummy) and treated myself to a quick lunch.
The kids loved the trip. The captain was personable and let each of them hoist a sail and steer the ship while he told stories of New England’s piratical beginnings. The sea was pretty choppy, making the one and half hours feel like the first four months of my last pregnancy. In the end, if I’m being honest, it was a better day than I had expected; I still got to gaze out at the water and let my body be still (only partly because of queasiness). Each kid got special attention from the three-man crew. We all learned a little history. I got some great pictures.
It’s uncomfortable, even maddening, to have to ditch my to-do list, even if it’s to do something else equally fun. It leaves me unsettled. I like my world orderly, all my ducks in a row. I have to remind myself that my kids are pretty flexible; if they’re doing something different, they’re probably having fun. I’ve asked them several times over the last couple of days: did you guys have fun on vacation? Each time, they’ve responded with unfeigned enthusiasm.
So what if we lost two days because of the storm? Who cares if we only got to the beach twice? And, you know what? Those majestic whales will still be there a month from now, or next May, or next summer. This vacation wasn’t exactly how I had planned it, but it was definitely a success. I have the pictures, the smiles, and the hugs to prove it. Nice house, beautiful setting, fun activities. We had a good (if not completely relaxing) time, and that’s what’s important, right?
Of course it is. That is the lesson from this year’s vacation.
(I’ve already started the list for next year’s trip.)
Friday, September 2, 2011
Be Still, My Soul
I’m wound pretty tightly most days. I am the multi-tasker of multi-taskers. If I were a computer, I’d have three or four windows open at all times, clicking among the tabs, constantly refreshing pages. Driving down the street, I’m thinking about what’s going to happen when I get to my destination, whether there is a less congested route I could be taking to get me there faster, and what each of the children is doing at that moment. I have three to-do lists going at any one time: my bound notebook, my computer task list, and the random piece of paper or envelope I use when I can’t find the other two.
I plan stuff out weeks in advance (“proper preparation prevents piss-poor performance”), and then obsess over every detail until each event arrives. I mention my plans to Rev from time to time, but since I recognize this obsessive behavior for what it is, I keep most of the dialogue locked up in my head.
You would think vacation would be different, wouldn’t you?
We are, at the moment, in a quaint little town on the North Shore. We can walk to the little artist community/harbor/beach in a little under ten minutes. We’ve done some touristy things, indulged our junk food cravings, and window shopped the myriad of knick-knacky things. We swam, a little –the water of the North Atlantic is cold, especially after a tropical storm.
Yet, on Monday, as I drove up with Scooby, I worked myself into a lather because I got frustratingly lost trying to get to the correct road. On Tuesday, I paced the tiny local beach, returning work voicemails about stuff that wasn’t urgent and could certainly have waited until after Labor Day. Wednesday, as I sat on a different beach, listening to my iPod and looking out at the eternal ocean, I managed to clear half of my mind of clutter. The other half was filled with plans for Thursday, when I would return home with Boy to attend his freshman orientation at his high school. (Yes, he successfully completed summer school and got promoted – thank you, God.)
On Thursday, I tried to keep it together as we crawled down the highway, stalled by road work for fifteen miles, frantic that we’d be late for the school meeting. (Calm down, you dummy. It’s a school meeting, with its twin constants of never starting on time and pointless repetition.) I obsessed about what Rev and the kids were doing (touring the Pirate Museum and having a fine time), and where I was going to meet them that afternoon. Power-strolling through the art museum, I kept one eye on the magnificently carved treasures brought back from the Orient by seafarers, and one on the clock, counting down until closing time.
In the background of all of this vacation anxiety was the constant hum of what are we going to do for dinner; what’s the plan for cleaning up the place on Saturday before we leave so I can get my security deposit back; when am I going to find time to get the rest of the school shopping done (where’s that LIST?); what are we going to do with Doodle in the hour before school starts . . . .
I feel like the Billy Crystal character in City Slickers, being pulled along the ground as he holds on for dear life to a stampeding cow: Wait! Wait! I’m on vacation!
This is our last full day at the beach house. We’ll pack tonight and eat as much of the leftover food as we can. Tomorrow, we’ll clean up and pack up and load up to head back home. It’s an hour away, and we have all day to get there. It’s Labor Day weekend, so maybe I’ll catch a back-to-school sale (and cross something significant off of my to-do list).
But in a little bit, we’re going to pack up the kids and go on a whale watch. My goal today, the only thing on my list of things to do, is to think about the open sea and sky. I want to watch the awe and wonder on the kids’ faces as they watch some of those majestic animals diving up into the air and slapping the water in triumph. I want to be in the moment, not thinking about what I need to do tomorrow or what I should have done yesterday. It’ll be an act of will, that’s for sure. Relaxation is not something that comes naturally. I’m not good at it.
The songwriter said: Be still, my soul; the waves and winds still know/His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below.
I have twenty-four more hours of vacation. I’m going to try to relax, and let tomorrow take care of itself.
I plan stuff out weeks in advance (“proper preparation prevents piss-poor performance”), and then obsess over every detail until each event arrives. I mention my plans to Rev from time to time, but since I recognize this obsessive behavior for what it is, I keep most of the dialogue locked up in my head.
You would think vacation would be different, wouldn’t you?
We are, at the moment, in a quaint little town on the North Shore. We can walk to the little artist community/harbor/beach in a little under ten minutes. We’ve done some touristy things, indulged our junk food cravings, and window shopped the myriad of knick-knacky things. We swam, a little –the water of the North Atlantic is cold, especially after a tropical storm.
Yet, on Monday, as I drove up with Scooby, I worked myself into a lather because I got frustratingly lost trying to get to the correct road. On Tuesday, I paced the tiny local beach, returning work voicemails about stuff that wasn’t urgent and could certainly have waited until after Labor Day. Wednesday, as I sat on a different beach, listening to my iPod and looking out at the eternal ocean, I managed to clear half of my mind of clutter. The other half was filled with plans for Thursday, when I would return home with Boy to attend his freshman orientation at his high school. (Yes, he successfully completed summer school and got promoted – thank you, God.)
On Thursday, I tried to keep it together as we crawled down the highway, stalled by road work for fifteen miles, frantic that we’d be late for the school meeting. (Calm down, you dummy. It’s a school meeting, with its twin constants of never starting on time and pointless repetition.) I obsessed about what Rev and the kids were doing (touring the Pirate Museum and having a fine time), and where I was going to meet them that afternoon. Power-strolling through the art museum, I kept one eye on the magnificently carved treasures brought back from the Orient by seafarers, and one on the clock, counting down until closing time.
In the background of all of this vacation anxiety was the constant hum of what are we going to do for dinner; what’s the plan for cleaning up the place on Saturday before we leave so I can get my security deposit back; when am I going to find time to get the rest of the school shopping done (where’s that LIST?); what are we going to do with Doodle in the hour before school starts . . . .
I feel like the Billy Crystal character in City Slickers, being pulled along the ground as he holds on for dear life to a stampeding cow: Wait! Wait! I’m on vacation!
This is our last full day at the beach house. We’ll pack tonight and eat as much of the leftover food as we can. Tomorrow, we’ll clean up and pack up and load up to head back home. It’s an hour away, and we have all day to get there. It’s Labor Day weekend, so maybe I’ll catch a back-to-school sale (and cross something significant off of my to-do list).
But in a little bit, we’re going to pack up the kids and go on a whale watch. My goal today, the only thing on my list of things to do, is to think about the open sea and sky. I want to watch the awe and wonder on the kids’ faces as they watch some of those majestic animals diving up into the air and slapping the water in triumph. I want to be in the moment, not thinking about what I need to do tomorrow or what I should have done yesterday. It’ll be an act of will, that’s for sure. Relaxation is not something that comes naturally. I’m not good at it.
The songwriter said: Be still, my soul; the waves and winds still know/His voice who ruled them while He dwelt below.
I have twenty-four more hours of vacation. I’m going to try to relax, and let tomorrow take care of itself.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
And Now, The Weather
So right now we’re waiting for Irene to arrive. No, that’s not a cousin or a long lost friend; it’s the Category 2/Category 1/Tropical Storm (depending on whom you ask, and when) that is “barreling” up the East Coast today.
And, apparently, there is nothing else going on in anywhere the world. No other news anywhere. It’s sort of like Superbowl Sunday, only wetter.
Listen, I get that a hurricane is a big thing: it’s dangerous and destructive. I get that people are actually harmed by wind and water – some lose their possessions, and some lose their lives. But the breathless anticipation on every news channel is rapidly wearing down my nerves. We’re at the point where, having talked about Irene intensely for about five days now, newcasters have started interviewing each other. Two or three days ago, it was all about FEMA representatives and governors of states warning people about potential evacuations and advising about emergency measures. That was helpful. I think there was a passing comment about Irene hitting the Bahamas and “flattening houses.” And by passing, I mean not even a full, stand-alone sentence.
Since then, there’s been this anxious Paul Revere-esque alarm going on no matter which station, whether TV or radio, you turn to. By Friday night, residents in the Northeast were warned to stay indoors for the weekend, to fill our bathtubs and gather our flashlights in case the water or electricity was lost. “Stay tuned for our continuing coverage of Hurricane Irene,” the news stations said.
It occurs to me that there is big business in keeping the population nervous. People tuning in to CNN or MSNBC or network news will sit through commercials to get the latest updates. They will skim web pages, including the advertisements, as they work on their computers. That all translates to money in the network’s pocket.
Now, I’m not saying that there is anything evil going on here. But in the time of 24-hour coverage, there’s only so many ways you can say the same thing (“hey, there’s a hurricane coming”) before you start ratcheting up the rhetoric. If you start just repeating yourself, people will turn the channel – in search of “news.” Or, as I’m tempted to do, they’ll just stop listening.
It’s still fairly early morning, and we’re all already bored from being inside all yesterday. It doesn’t help that, when you look out the window, it just looks like a regular rainy morning. We were supposed to drive to a beach house yesterday about an hour up the coast; we’ve put that off until Monday, agreeing that we’d rather ride out a big storm in our own house rather than in a strange house in walking distance of angry high tides.
I’m listening to National Public Radio this morning (instead of getting the kids ready for church), trying to get a sense of when the worst of the storm will hit. The anchor is talking to the reporter who, like so many reporters before him, stands on the beach, being buffeted by wind and pelted by blowing sand, as if we wouldn’t otherwise believe him. (Guys, it’s radio. You could be sitting in the studio using sound effects; we wouldn’t know the difference.) “Uh, what’s it like out there at this hour?” asks the anchor. “It’s starting to get gusty,” the reporter replies. “The clouds are moving across the sky from left to right.” No, seriously, that’s what he said. Well, that clears it up nicely, I think disgustedly, since I couldn’t possibly tell that from my own window.
Flights are cancelled. (Obviously.) People are advised to stay off the streets, which will probably flood. (Yes, got that.) A couple of tree limbs have fallen on some driveways. (You don’t say.) There are power outages. (Right, flashlights and candles, got it.) All of these are reported in the same overwrought, stumbling-over-words urgency.
You know what? They just got the number two guy in Al Qaida. Syria is doing stuff. And there’s a devastating drought in Somalia. I’d like to hear about those things, too, please.
Oh, right, there’s a hurricane coming. I guess everything else can wait.
And, apparently, there is nothing else going on in anywhere the world. No other news anywhere. It’s sort of like Superbowl Sunday, only wetter.
Listen, I get that a hurricane is a big thing: it’s dangerous and destructive. I get that people are actually harmed by wind and water – some lose their possessions, and some lose their lives. But the breathless anticipation on every news channel is rapidly wearing down my nerves. We’re at the point where, having talked about Irene intensely for about five days now, newcasters have started interviewing each other. Two or three days ago, it was all about FEMA representatives and governors of states warning people about potential evacuations and advising about emergency measures. That was helpful. I think there was a passing comment about Irene hitting the Bahamas and “flattening houses.” And by passing, I mean not even a full, stand-alone sentence.
Since then, there’s been this anxious Paul Revere-esque alarm going on no matter which station, whether TV or radio, you turn to. By Friday night, residents in the Northeast were warned to stay indoors for the weekend, to fill our bathtubs and gather our flashlights in case the water or electricity was lost. “Stay tuned for our continuing coverage of Hurricane Irene,” the news stations said.
It occurs to me that there is big business in keeping the population nervous. People tuning in to CNN or MSNBC or network news will sit through commercials to get the latest updates. They will skim web pages, including the advertisements, as they work on their computers. That all translates to money in the network’s pocket.
Now, I’m not saying that there is anything evil going on here. But in the time of 24-hour coverage, there’s only so many ways you can say the same thing (“hey, there’s a hurricane coming”) before you start ratcheting up the rhetoric. If you start just repeating yourself, people will turn the channel – in search of “news.” Or, as I’m tempted to do, they’ll just stop listening.
It’s still fairly early morning, and we’re all already bored from being inside all yesterday. It doesn’t help that, when you look out the window, it just looks like a regular rainy morning. We were supposed to drive to a beach house yesterday about an hour up the coast; we’ve put that off until Monday, agreeing that we’d rather ride out a big storm in our own house rather than in a strange house in walking distance of angry high tides.
I’m listening to National Public Radio this morning (instead of getting the kids ready for church), trying to get a sense of when the worst of the storm will hit. The anchor is talking to the reporter who, like so many reporters before him, stands on the beach, being buffeted by wind and pelted by blowing sand, as if we wouldn’t otherwise believe him. (Guys, it’s radio. You could be sitting in the studio using sound effects; we wouldn’t know the difference.) “Uh, what’s it like out there at this hour?” asks the anchor. “It’s starting to get gusty,” the reporter replies. “The clouds are moving across the sky from left to right.” No, seriously, that’s what he said. Well, that clears it up nicely, I think disgustedly, since I couldn’t possibly tell that from my own window.
Flights are cancelled. (Obviously.) People are advised to stay off the streets, which will probably flood. (Yes, got that.) A couple of tree limbs have fallen on some driveways. (You don’t say.) There are power outages. (Right, flashlights and candles, got it.) All of these are reported in the same overwrought, stumbling-over-words urgency.
You know what? They just got the number two guy in Al Qaida. Syria is doing stuff. And there’s a devastating drought in Somalia. I’d like to hear about those things, too, please.
Oh, right, there’s a hurricane coming. I guess everything else can wait.
Thursday, August 18, 2011
The View From The End Of Summer
First, a joke.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Woo.
Woo who?
Yeah. I’m excited too.
Come on, that there was funny. Okay, say it out loud. See? Funny. (Admit it.)
So, what am I excited about? Well, not much, really. I was being sarcastic.
It is the latter half of August, which means only two and a half more weeks until school starts. That, of course, means back-to-school shopping, both for school supplies and for clothes. I’m finding it a little bizarre that Doodle, a fourth grader, has to have a 4 GB thumb drive. I don’t think I even had to buy notebooks in the fourth grade. I’ve already started saving up for the ridiculous graphing calculator I know he’s going to need. The indelible memory of elementary school, for me, is bringing home those heavy, hardcover text books, science and math and grammar, and covering them in brown paper bags decorated in crayon. These days, you can’t even find brown paper bags in the supermarket.
I’ll drag Doodle and Scooby to the clothing store, maybe enlisting the help of my mother, who loves to shop as much as the little kids hate it. I’ll buy them all off with a lunch at Wendy’s, the reasonable going rate. Life’s a little easier this year, because Doodle, who is going to a new school, has the world’s easiest, no drama uniform (blue or white polo, navy or khaki pants), and Scooby is inheriting the school logo shirts that Doodle doesn’t need anymore. And just like in the olden days when I was a kid, my mother will insist that everyone get new school shoes.
We’ll push the kids to finish a couple more books, which is currency in our house. Boy is trying to make it through six books in order to earn a jacket (and is enjoying it!); Doodle found out three days ago that he has two assigned books to read before school starts, and should have read four more books this summer. Too bad they didn’t send out that little informational postcard in June instead of August, before he started his current 400-page tome. Even Scooby is making her way through a chapter book series, although not as willingly as her brothers.
I’m reading, as well. Books on ADHD, books on how to get my disorganized Boy organized for school, books on how to survive teenager-hood. No fiction for me.
I need to find a tutor for Boy and an after school activity for the kids, preferably one that is very active and has nothing to do with Dr. Seuss. I need to find a new pediatrician so I can fire my old one. I need to make an appointment for Boy for oral surgery so the braces he’s wearing will do some good. I need to map out a workable pickup schedule for the babysitter and figure out if I can afford to give her a raise for her extra effort.
Oh, and I need to take a vacation. Right at the butt-end of the summer, the last full week before school starts, I will cram seven days worth of five people into two cars, drive an hour or so up the highway, and spend a lot of time looking at and listening to the ocean. I may swim (not my favorite activity), but I will certainly tread water. It’s been non-stop motion for eight weeks; eight weeks of driving back and forth across the city, of praying that Boy will get through one more day of summer school, of packing and unpacking and repacking duffel bags and backpacks, of missing absent kids and managing present ones, of updating color-coordinated calendars just to keep track of which child is supposed to be where when.
So, between the busy-ness of summer and the madness of the new school year, I will take seven precious days, which may or may not be relaxing (I am, after all, taking the children with me) and just be. Maybe Rev and I will have some deep conversations; maybe we’ll just sit and look at the water together, silently.
One day like that, maybe two, and I’ll be ready to organize those supplies into those backpacks and send the kids off to face the new school year.
Woo hoo.
Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Woo.
Woo who?
Yeah. I’m excited too.
Come on, that there was funny. Okay, say it out loud. See? Funny. (Admit it.)
So, what am I excited about? Well, not much, really. I was being sarcastic.
It is the latter half of August, which means only two and a half more weeks until school starts. That, of course, means back-to-school shopping, both for school supplies and for clothes. I’m finding it a little bizarre that Doodle, a fourth grader, has to have a 4 GB thumb drive. I don’t think I even had to buy notebooks in the fourth grade. I’ve already started saving up for the ridiculous graphing calculator I know he’s going to need. The indelible memory of elementary school, for me, is bringing home those heavy, hardcover text books, science and math and grammar, and covering them in brown paper bags decorated in crayon. These days, you can’t even find brown paper bags in the supermarket.
I’ll drag Doodle and Scooby to the clothing store, maybe enlisting the help of my mother, who loves to shop as much as the little kids hate it. I’ll buy them all off with a lunch at Wendy’s, the reasonable going rate. Life’s a little easier this year, because Doodle, who is going to a new school, has the world’s easiest, no drama uniform (blue or white polo, navy or khaki pants), and Scooby is inheriting the school logo shirts that Doodle doesn’t need anymore. And just like in the olden days when I was a kid, my mother will insist that everyone get new school shoes.
We’ll push the kids to finish a couple more books, which is currency in our house. Boy is trying to make it through six books in order to earn a jacket (and is enjoying it!); Doodle found out three days ago that he has two assigned books to read before school starts, and should have read four more books this summer. Too bad they didn’t send out that little informational postcard in June instead of August, before he started his current 400-page tome. Even Scooby is making her way through a chapter book series, although not as willingly as her brothers.
I’m reading, as well. Books on ADHD, books on how to get my disorganized Boy organized for school, books on how to survive teenager-hood. No fiction for me.
I need to find a tutor for Boy and an after school activity for the kids, preferably one that is very active and has nothing to do with Dr. Seuss. I need to find a new pediatrician so I can fire my old one. I need to make an appointment for Boy for oral surgery so the braces he’s wearing will do some good. I need to map out a workable pickup schedule for the babysitter and figure out if I can afford to give her a raise for her extra effort.
Oh, and I need to take a vacation. Right at the butt-end of the summer, the last full week before school starts, I will cram seven days worth of five people into two cars, drive an hour or so up the highway, and spend a lot of time looking at and listening to the ocean. I may swim (not my favorite activity), but I will certainly tread water. It’s been non-stop motion for eight weeks; eight weeks of driving back and forth across the city, of praying that Boy will get through one more day of summer school, of packing and unpacking and repacking duffel bags and backpacks, of missing absent kids and managing present ones, of updating color-coordinated calendars just to keep track of which child is supposed to be where when.
So, between the busy-ness of summer and the madness of the new school year, I will take seven precious days, which may or may not be relaxing (I am, after all, taking the children with me) and just be. Maybe Rev and I will have some deep conversations; maybe we’ll just sit and look at the water together, silently.
One day like that, maybe two, and I’ll be ready to organize those supplies into those backpacks and send the kids off to face the new school year.
Woo hoo.
Friday, August 5, 2011
The Book On Boy
If you were to peruse the shelves of our household library, you’d have a pretty good biography of me. There’s still a few how to plan a wedding books, followed by several (marked and underlined) how to get pregnant books, then books on adoption strategies, and finally, the long-awaited pregnancy advice books (or, as I tended to call them, What To Expect While Expecting, If You Are Totally Unrealistic About Both You and Your Child).
And then there are the child-rearing books. At first, like most parents, I looked to the gospels of Dr. William Sears, Dr. T. Berry Brazelton, and Dr. Penelope Leach (who, as a bonus, had an actual daily chat show airing while my oldest was a baby). They advised me to understand my baby and attach to him – but always with sensible firmness. And they were rounded out by Dr. Richard Ferber (bless him!) who taught all of us how to get some sleep.
It wasn’t long before I began to think I had gotten the hang of this parenting thing. That delusion lasted about two years, until it became apparent that some more experts would need to be called in. The gentle titles (Understanding Your Baby and Child) gave way to grimmer, more problem specific names.
The Strong-Willed Child.
The Difficult Child.
The Explosive Child.
The Challenging Child.
Dare To Discipline.
Bringing Up Boys.
We had entered the Land of Boy, determined to assert our authority. Every morning was a struggle to get him up, dressed, and out of the house on time; every afternoon, we braced ourselves for the bad reports from caregivers and teachers, ranging from “he bit another child” to “don’t bring him back for two days.” (Really, how do you get suspended from day care?) Evenings ended in tears all around, as the battle to keep him in his bed escalated to nuclear proportions.
I scoured every volume, looking for just the right answers. I learned about picking my battles, about putting issues in separate “buckets,” and I began to consider organic brain dysfunction. We took Boy to a therapist who gave us the psycho-babble equivalent of, Eh, it’s too soon to tell whether it’s just him being a boy or something else.
Stanley Turecki’s The Difficult Child was a life-saver. Dr. Turecki basically said, Hey, stupid! Your kid is wired differently. Work with it! Stop fighting it.
I learned that Boy had sensitive skin (now I know, post ADHD diagnosis, that it’s all about stimulation), so I cut all the tags out of his clothes, and gave away anything with a turtleneck or long sleeves. He ran on a different schedule, so instead of Eat your food, now!, the rule became, You must sit at the table at dinnertime, but you can eat your (warmed up) food later, when you’re hungry. Likewise, I told him nightly, You don’t have to go to sleep right now, but you do have to stay in your bed.
I learned to count down to the end of activities, instead of expecting Boy to stop whatever he was doing on a dime. I still give ten, five, two, and one-minute warnings, even with Doodle and Scooby, and it still works. I learned to separate behavioral issues from disciplinary ones. (Don’t get me wrong; Boy sometimes does stuff that is absolutely and defiantly against the rules, and we come down on him like the Hammer of Thor.) And I learned too, when all else fails, to find humor in his over-the-top reactions, because, well, they’re funny.
One of Boy’s other nicknames is “Fred,” as in when he gives us this attitude, he stomps away down the hall on his big bare feet, and you can practically hear that distinctive descending-tuba theme from The Flintstones. It gives me the giggles every time.
But lately, I’ve been noticing some of the things I love about Fred, er, Boy. Oh, he’s still difficult, strong-willed, and, honestly, more sullen than explosive, but he’s also, smart, funny, and very, very cute.
This is the kid who, to pay for a jacket he designed online, agreed to read six books by the end of the summer, leading to the astonishing, breathless phone call I received at work from him: Mom! An Amazon box came with your name on it, can I please open it and get my book? It can't wait until you get home!
He’s the kid who, with indulgent amusement, let me hide my face in his shoulder during all the scary parts of Cowboys and Aliens (something Rev would never allow), and smiled when I insisted that I hadn’t really been all that frightened . . .
When he smiles, he shows his dimples, curiously at odds with the rumbling deep voice and stocky six-foot frame.
He politely holds doors open for people, and, without my asking, gives up his seat on a crowded bus.
He cooks for himself without complaint (a trait that his future girlfriends will eventually love him for), and does his own laundry.
He pulls up his sagging pants when I ask him to, struggles to master the Windsor knot as he dresses for church, and only pauses a few seconds before he mutters, “Lovey’too,” at the end of a telephone call.
Sometimes I can imagine additional chapters to Dr. Turecki’s book as I look at my teenaged son. Hey, stupid! Your kid is wired differently – he thinks that his new Mohawk and the attendant squiggles carved into his hair was a good idea, so keep your opinions about it to yourself. Hot sauce tastes good to him on everything, even chicken salad; stop nagging. Why do you care if he sleeps from 2 AM to noon on a Saturday, as long as he gets his ten hours?
It’s the twenty-first century, so my library collection has stalled. Now my research on how to do this parenting thing has moved on-line, and my current biographical status as a perplexed mother of a soon to be 15-year-old is told in the bookmarked and favorited websites on my laptop. I’m too embarrassed to even name them.
It occurs to me that life might be a bit easier for those of us navigating the shoals of teenager-hood, especially those of us with “difficult,” “strong-willed,” or otherwise adjective-challenged kids, if those kids themselves had access to their own library: The Strong-Willed Mom; The Difficult Parent; Dare to Be Different From Your Mom’s Fantasy Of Who You Should Be.
I know I’d read them.
And then there are the child-rearing books. At first, like most parents, I looked to the gospels of Dr. William Sears, Dr. T. Berry Brazelton, and Dr. Penelope Leach (who, as a bonus, had an actual daily chat show airing while my oldest was a baby). They advised me to understand my baby and attach to him – but always with sensible firmness. And they were rounded out by Dr. Richard Ferber (bless him!) who taught all of us how to get some sleep.
It wasn’t long before I began to think I had gotten the hang of this parenting thing. That delusion lasted about two years, until it became apparent that some more experts would need to be called in. The gentle titles (Understanding Your Baby and Child) gave way to grimmer, more problem specific names.
The Strong-Willed Child.
The Difficult Child.
The Explosive Child.
The Challenging Child.
Dare To Discipline.
Bringing Up Boys.
We had entered the Land of Boy, determined to assert our authority. Every morning was a struggle to get him up, dressed, and out of the house on time; every afternoon, we braced ourselves for the bad reports from caregivers and teachers, ranging from “he bit another child” to “don’t bring him back for two days.” (Really, how do you get suspended from day care?) Evenings ended in tears all around, as the battle to keep him in his bed escalated to nuclear proportions.
I scoured every volume, looking for just the right answers. I learned about picking my battles, about putting issues in separate “buckets,” and I began to consider organic brain dysfunction. We took Boy to a therapist who gave us the psycho-babble equivalent of, Eh, it’s too soon to tell whether it’s just him being a boy or something else.
Stanley Turecki’s The Difficult Child was a life-saver. Dr. Turecki basically said, Hey, stupid! Your kid is wired differently. Work with it! Stop fighting it.
I learned that Boy had sensitive skin (now I know, post ADHD diagnosis, that it’s all about stimulation), so I cut all the tags out of his clothes, and gave away anything with a turtleneck or long sleeves. He ran on a different schedule, so instead of Eat your food, now!, the rule became, You must sit at the table at dinnertime, but you can eat your (warmed up) food later, when you’re hungry. Likewise, I told him nightly, You don’t have to go to sleep right now, but you do have to stay in your bed.
I learned to count down to the end of activities, instead of expecting Boy to stop whatever he was doing on a dime. I still give ten, five, two, and one-minute warnings, even with Doodle and Scooby, and it still works. I learned to separate behavioral issues from disciplinary ones. (Don’t get me wrong; Boy sometimes does stuff that is absolutely and defiantly against the rules, and we come down on him like the Hammer of Thor.) And I learned too, when all else fails, to find humor in his over-the-top reactions, because, well, they’re funny.
One of Boy’s other nicknames is “Fred,” as in when he gives us this attitude, he stomps away down the hall on his big bare feet, and you can practically hear that distinctive descending-tuba theme from The Flintstones. It gives me the giggles every time.
But lately, I’ve been noticing some of the things I love about Fred, er, Boy. Oh, he’s still difficult, strong-willed, and, honestly, more sullen than explosive, but he’s also, smart, funny, and very, very cute.
This is the kid who, to pay for a jacket he designed online, agreed to read six books by the end of the summer, leading to the astonishing, breathless phone call I received at work from him: Mom! An Amazon box came with your name on it, can I please open it and get my book? It can't wait until you get home!
He’s the kid who, with indulgent amusement, let me hide my face in his shoulder during all the scary parts of Cowboys and Aliens (something Rev would never allow), and smiled when I insisted that I hadn’t really been all that frightened . . .
When he smiles, he shows his dimples, curiously at odds with the rumbling deep voice and stocky six-foot frame.
He politely holds doors open for people, and, without my asking, gives up his seat on a crowded bus.
He cooks for himself without complaint (a trait that his future girlfriends will eventually love him for), and does his own laundry.
He pulls up his sagging pants when I ask him to, struggles to master the Windsor knot as he dresses for church, and only pauses a few seconds before he mutters, “Lovey’too,” at the end of a telephone call.
Sometimes I can imagine additional chapters to Dr. Turecki’s book as I look at my teenaged son. Hey, stupid! Your kid is wired differently – he thinks that his new Mohawk and the attendant squiggles carved into his hair was a good idea, so keep your opinions about it to yourself. Hot sauce tastes good to him on everything, even chicken salad; stop nagging. Why do you care if he sleeps from 2 AM to noon on a Saturday, as long as he gets his ten hours?
It’s the twenty-first century, so my library collection has stalled. Now my research on how to do this parenting thing has moved on-line, and my current biographical status as a perplexed mother of a soon to be 15-year-old is told in the bookmarked and favorited websites on my laptop. I’m too embarrassed to even name them.
It occurs to me that life might be a bit easier for those of us navigating the shoals of teenager-hood, especially those of us with “difficult,” “strong-willed,” or otherwise adjective-challenged kids, if those kids themselves had access to their own library: The Strong-Willed Mom; The Difficult Parent; Dare to Be Different From Your Mom’s Fantasy Of Who You Should Be.
I know I’d read them.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Camp Is Hard Work
You think getting a child ready for camp is hard work? Try two. Last year, we sent Doodle, at age eight, to overnight camp for five days, an experiment to see if he liked it (Doodle not being the most outdoorsy kid in the world). He loved it, and asked if he could go back the next summer for a full, two week session. Naturally, Scooby chimed in that she wanted to go to overnight camp, too. I, foolishly promised that I’d think about it.
I’ll think about it in August eventually morphed into, Yes, of course you can go to overnight camp this summer by March. And so, I resigned myself that both kids would go away for at least a week in 2011. Imagine my surprise (and chagrin) when I learned that camps generally have a minimum age of eight years old. Scooby would have to wait another year. I braced myself for the Howl of Injustice.
At the last moment, however, Rev came to the rescue, finding a camp (run by a charity) just a few miles south of us, a five-day session that seemed a perfect introduction for seven-year old Scooby. I scheduled both children to be away for the same week, with Doodle taking a second week at his camp. I filled out the mind-numbingly repetitive paperwork, copied health forms, and calendared the due dates.
Now, I’m a good packer. I can throw together a weekend’s or week’s worth of clothing for myself on a moment’s notice, and I rarely need more than one bag. How hard could packing up a kid for camp be?
Good grief, people. Six loads of laundry later, I had chased down every single pair of underwear and socks, every wearable t-shirt and pair of shorts. I haunted dollar and discount stores for water bottles and laundry bags, hunted down fleece sweatshirts and sweatpants (in the middle of July!) just in case the temperature dared dip out of the eighties. And then I labeled each and every article with Sharpied initials, and stuffed them into their respective duffel bags. I packed and unpacked and re-packed until I was fairly satisfied that they would be able to find everything they needed with reasonable ease. They wouldn’t have me to lay out their clothes each morning.
The kids were beside themselves with excitement and anticipation. They talked about overnight camp all the time. Last night, they whispered late into the night, giggling about the cool things they would do while they were away. This morning, Scooby and I left church early to make the half-hour drive to her camp, with her chattering all the way. Seconds after we pulled up to the gate, Scooby leaped out of the car and made impatient faces at me through the window as I powered down the GPS.
But her demeanor took an abrupt, one-hundred eighty-degree turn as we ventured into the main hall of the camp. The rest of the campers, who had arrived by bus just ahead of us, were seated and having lunch quietly and calmly. Suddenly, Scooby didn’t want to stay. Tears welled up as she clung to my waist. This isn’t how I thought it would be, she whispered urgently. I want to go back home.
Perhaps if hadn’t put so much time, energy, and effort into accumulating and organizing all that stuff over the past couple of weeks, I might have been more sympathetic. Or maybe I was thinking about the fact that, if she didn’t stay, I’d have to find someplace else for her to be this week. Or maybe I knew, from long experience, that shortly after I left, Scooby would be making friends like she always does, happily putting on her life jacket to go on a cruise of the harbor, and having the time of her life. I hugged her, promised to bring her a big, red, swirly lollipop when I picked her up at the bus stop on Friday, and told her I loved her. Then I smiled and walked out the door. When I peeked back, she wasn’t crying anymore.
Occasionally over the next couple of days, she’ll get homesick. She may get teary. But she’ll get over it, and come back on Friday a little more independent than she’d been when I saw her last.
Tomorrow, I’ll kiss Doodle and give him a great big hug and send him off to his own two-week adventure. He’s already looking forward to archery and swimming and camping out in the woods.
Rev and Boy and I will move in our separate, slightly intersecting orbits this week. Rev’s got work and school; Boy has school and basketball; and I have work and, well, everything else. We’re planning on going to see Cowboys and Aliens one night; I can’t remember the last time we did something just the three of us. But for the next five days, at least, there will be pieces of my heart floating around out there, learning how to live independently of me, their mom, and, God willing, enjoying the heck out of the process.
And that’s a good thing, right? Right?
Yeah, this whole camp thing is hard, hard work.
I’ll think about it in August eventually morphed into, Yes, of course you can go to overnight camp this summer by March. And so, I resigned myself that both kids would go away for at least a week in 2011. Imagine my surprise (and chagrin) when I learned that camps generally have a minimum age of eight years old. Scooby would have to wait another year. I braced myself for the Howl of Injustice.
At the last moment, however, Rev came to the rescue, finding a camp (run by a charity) just a few miles south of us, a five-day session that seemed a perfect introduction for seven-year old Scooby. I scheduled both children to be away for the same week, with Doodle taking a second week at his camp. I filled out the mind-numbingly repetitive paperwork, copied health forms, and calendared the due dates.
Now, I’m a good packer. I can throw together a weekend’s or week’s worth of clothing for myself on a moment’s notice, and I rarely need more than one bag. How hard could packing up a kid for camp be?
Good grief, people. Six loads of laundry later, I had chased down every single pair of underwear and socks, every wearable t-shirt and pair of shorts. I haunted dollar and discount stores for water bottles and laundry bags, hunted down fleece sweatshirts and sweatpants (in the middle of July!) just in case the temperature dared dip out of the eighties. And then I labeled each and every article with Sharpied initials, and stuffed them into their respective duffel bags. I packed and unpacked and re-packed until I was fairly satisfied that they would be able to find everything they needed with reasonable ease. They wouldn’t have me to lay out their clothes each morning.
The kids were beside themselves with excitement and anticipation. They talked about overnight camp all the time. Last night, they whispered late into the night, giggling about the cool things they would do while they were away. This morning, Scooby and I left church early to make the half-hour drive to her camp, with her chattering all the way. Seconds after we pulled up to the gate, Scooby leaped out of the car and made impatient faces at me through the window as I powered down the GPS.
But her demeanor took an abrupt, one-hundred eighty-degree turn as we ventured into the main hall of the camp. The rest of the campers, who had arrived by bus just ahead of us, were seated and having lunch quietly and calmly. Suddenly, Scooby didn’t want to stay. Tears welled up as she clung to my waist. This isn’t how I thought it would be, she whispered urgently. I want to go back home.
Perhaps if hadn’t put so much time, energy, and effort into accumulating and organizing all that stuff over the past couple of weeks, I might have been more sympathetic. Or maybe I was thinking about the fact that, if she didn’t stay, I’d have to find someplace else for her to be this week. Or maybe I knew, from long experience, that shortly after I left, Scooby would be making friends like she always does, happily putting on her life jacket to go on a cruise of the harbor, and having the time of her life. I hugged her, promised to bring her a big, red, swirly lollipop when I picked her up at the bus stop on Friday, and told her I loved her. Then I smiled and walked out the door. When I peeked back, she wasn’t crying anymore.
Occasionally over the next couple of days, she’ll get homesick. She may get teary. But she’ll get over it, and come back on Friday a little more independent than she’d been when I saw her last.
Tomorrow, I’ll kiss Doodle and give him a great big hug and send him off to his own two-week adventure. He’s already looking forward to archery and swimming and camping out in the woods.
Rev and Boy and I will move in our separate, slightly intersecting orbits this week. Rev’s got work and school; Boy has school and basketball; and I have work and, well, everything else. We’re planning on going to see Cowboys and Aliens one night; I can’t remember the last time we did something just the three of us. But for the next five days, at least, there will be pieces of my heart floating around out there, learning how to live independently of me, their mom, and, God willing, enjoying the heck out of the process.
And that’s a good thing, right? Right?
Yeah, this whole camp thing is hard, hard work.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Twain, Meet
Suppose you were an idiot. And suppose you were a member of Congress. But I repeat myself. – Mark Twain.
Rev discovered this quote last night and I thought it was so completely appropriate, given this debt-ceiling, budget deficitdebate schoolyard fight going on, that I had to share it.
Rev discovered this quote last night and I thought it was so completely appropriate, given this debt-ceiling, budget deficit
Counting Lesson
And what did I learn today?
I learned that, to my children:
Seven is old enough not to have to eat squash anymore.
Ten is “grown.”
Thirteen is “teen.”
Eighteen is “adult,” although you’re also still a “teen.” And,
Twenty-four, twenty-five is “elderly.”
Sigh.
I learned that, to my children:
Seven is old enough not to have to eat squash anymore.
Ten is “grown.”
Thirteen is “teen.”
Eighteen is “adult,” although you’re also still a “teen.” And,
Twenty-four, twenty-five is “elderly.”
Sigh.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Donating My Body To Science
Ah, July. The time of year when New Englanders start complaining about the heat after eight months of cursing the cold.
It’s also what may or may not be the worst time to go to a teaching hospital.
Now, we have interns in our office, but since it’s a legal environment, and since they spend all their time looking up cases we already know about and writing arguments we will never use in any brief we intend on filing with the court, there’s not a whole lot of damage they can do, beyond maybe jamming the printer a zillion times a day.
But hospitals are a different story. In mid-July, which marks the first week of rotations after the medical school academic year ends, you have med students becoming new interns, interns becoming new residents, and residents becoming new attendings.
There’s a soft spot in my heart (and maybe my head) for med students. Probably this is because one of my two best friends in the world is a doc. I call her Dr. Wenchface, for reasons which I will never explain to you, so don’t ask. We met in college (her freshman year, my sophomore) and I watched her grind her way through organic and inorganic chemistry and bio-med, while I read Jane Austen (for my English major) and watched China Beach (for my history minor). Back before there was email, Wench used to call me at night and we’d commiserate for hours – her about med school and me about law. (Just an aside: student doctors learn their craft on cadavers; student lawyers practice on poor people. Which one is scarier, do you think?)
So I’m always mindful of the rigorous and difficult training that doctors go through, and the part that I as a patient contribute to their becoming physicians. They have to learn this stuff somehow, and early, from taking a thorough and accurate medical history to doing a competent exam.
A medical student taking a history is relatively harmless, and it’s a skill they MUST learn early on. Personally, I never refuse when my doc asks me if I will let a med student (or intern, who has graduated from med school) observe an exam. If I’m not in pain, I’ll even let the student have a feel. Why? Because they have to learn it somehow, and almost every hospital in my city is a teaching hospital.
Last year, during a post-op follow up, Dr. Adorkable asked my permission to have a med student present. I said okay, shrugging. No biggie. He put his hands out for emphasis and insisted, “You don't have to; you can say no.” I looked at him and said, At this point in my life, I've had pretty much the population of Vermont looking all up in my youknowwhat. One more isn't going to kill me. Have a party. Invite your friends.
It was a few moments before he could collect himself enough to go and get the kid.
I find it educational, too, because I have to be very specific in describing my history and symptoms accurately, because if I’m vague or shorthand it, it will end up being taken down wrong.
Eleven years ago, pregnant with twins, which involved some fairly intensive medical intervention, I ended up in the emergency room at 8 weeks with severe pain. Since they couldn’t do anything with radiation (no xrays, no MRIs, no CT scans) without potentially harming the babies, they couldn’t rule in or rule out appendicitis or ovarian hyperstimulation (either of which could have been fatal). So in the course of bouncing from the doc’s office to the ultrasound factory to the ER, I had 18 different exams (and not the fun kind) over the course of 10 hours.
In the ER, a brand spanking new intern (as in “I graduated last week”) came to take my medical history. My timing couldn’t have been worse – it was July 10. He took my complicated history on the back of an envelope and I had to spell all of the specialized drugs I was on.
Finally, after endless consultations, they decided to admit me and wait and see if the sudden absence of pain meant my appendix had burst. I remember all the different residents and attendings standing at the foot of the gurney (OB, GYN, ER, MED-SURG) making the decision to admit me – and this baby faced intern waaay in the back of the crowd, peering over the shoulders of the grownups. Finally, the GYN attending sheepishly asked would I mind if the intern did one last exam, his first one? Sure, I said, to my husband’s dismay. I will never forget the look on that young man’s face; you’d think I’d granted him amnesty. He was very gentle, a little tentative, and very, very careful. Every one of the various attendings and residents thanked me as they left.
Of course it’s up to every individual patient, how comfortable she feels about participating in this kind of learning exercise, and it is her right to say no. Personally, I think to myself, who knows where that doc is now, eleven years later? Maybe he has as vivid a memory as I do, recalling that lady in the ER that July night during his first rotation as an actual MD, who let him do his first exam. Maybe he’s somebody’s awesome GYN right now.
I like to think so.
It’s also what may or may not be the worst time to go to a teaching hospital.
Now, we have interns in our office, but since it’s a legal environment, and since they spend all their time looking up cases we already know about and writing arguments we will never use in any brief we intend on filing with the court, there’s not a whole lot of damage they can do, beyond maybe jamming the printer a zillion times a day.
But hospitals are a different story. In mid-July, which marks the first week of rotations after the medical school academic year ends, you have med students becoming new interns, interns becoming new residents, and residents becoming new attendings.
There’s a soft spot in my heart (and maybe my head) for med students. Probably this is because one of my two best friends in the world is a doc. I call her Dr. Wenchface, for reasons which I will never explain to you, so don’t ask. We met in college (her freshman year, my sophomore) and I watched her grind her way through organic and inorganic chemistry and bio-med, while I read Jane Austen (for my English major) and watched China Beach (for my history minor). Back before there was email, Wench used to call me at night and we’d commiserate for hours – her about med school and me about law. (Just an aside: student doctors learn their craft on cadavers; student lawyers practice on poor people. Which one is scarier, do you think?)
So I’m always mindful of the rigorous and difficult training that doctors go through, and the part that I as a patient contribute to their becoming physicians. They have to learn this stuff somehow, and early, from taking a thorough and accurate medical history to doing a competent exam.
A medical student taking a history is relatively harmless, and it’s a skill they MUST learn early on. Personally, I never refuse when my doc asks me if I will let a med student (or intern, who has graduated from med school) observe an exam. If I’m not in pain, I’ll even let the student have a feel. Why? Because they have to learn it somehow, and almost every hospital in my city is a teaching hospital.
Last year, during a post-op follow up, Dr. Adorkable asked my permission to have a med student present. I said okay, shrugging. No biggie. He put his hands out for emphasis and insisted, “You don't have to; you can say no.” I looked at him and said, At this point in my life, I've had pretty much the population of Vermont looking all up in my youknowwhat. One more isn't going to kill me. Have a party. Invite your friends.
It was a few moments before he could collect himself enough to go and get the kid.
I find it educational, too, because I have to be very specific in describing my history and symptoms accurately, because if I’m vague or shorthand it, it will end up being taken down wrong.
Eleven years ago, pregnant with twins, which involved some fairly intensive medical intervention, I ended up in the emergency room at 8 weeks with severe pain. Since they couldn’t do anything with radiation (no xrays, no MRIs, no CT scans) without potentially harming the babies, they couldn’t rule in or rule out appendicitis or ovarian hyperstimulation (either of which could have been fatal). So in the course of bouncing from the doc’s office to the ultrasound factory to the ER, I had 18 different exams (and not the fun kind) over the course of 10 hours.
In the ER, a brand spanking new intern (as in “I graduated last week”) came to take my medical history. My timing couldn’t have been worse – it was July 10. He took my complicated history on the back of an envelope and I had to spell all of the specialized drugs I was on.
Finally, after endless consultations, they decided to admit me and wait and see if the sudden absence of pain meant my appendix had burst. I remember all the different residents and attendings standing at the foot of the gurney (OB, GYN, ER, MED-SURG) making the decision to admit me – and this baby faced intern waaay in the back of the crowd, peering over the shoulders of the grownups. Finally, the GYN attending sheepishly asked would I mind if the intern did one last exam, his first one? Sure, I said, to my husband’s dismay. I will never forget the look on that young man’s face; you’d think I’d granted him amnesty. He was very gentle, a little tentative, and very, very careful. Every one of the various attendings and residents thanked me as they left.
Of course it’s up to every individual patient, how comfortable she feels about participating in this kind of learning exercise, and it is her right to say no. Personally, I think to myself, who knows where that doc is now, eleven years later? Maybe he has as vivid a memory as I do, recalling that lady in the ER that July night during his first rotation as an actual MD, who let him do his first exam. Maybe he’s somebody’s awesome GYN right now.
I like to think so.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Parental Guidance Suggested
Rev has been out of town for a couple of days, leaving me plenty of opportunity to appreciate these deep thoughts on parents from the monsters little kids.
From Scooby, on the way home from day camp:
Scooby: Hey, mom, what’s for dinner?
Me: Sausages. Brown beans [a/k/a baked beans] for you and scrambled eggs for Doodle, because he doesn’t like brown beans.
Scooby: Yay! I LOVE brown beans! Mom, you’re sooooo much nicer to us since camp started!
Me: As opposed to the mean witch I was during school?!
Scooby: (realizing what she said) Um, noooooo . . . .
Yeah, too late, kid. That cat is out of the bag.
From Doodle and Scooby, at dinner.
Doodle: I can’t wait til Dad gets home on Wednesday.
Scooby: I hope he brings us something.
Doodle: Kind of like Santa.
Scooby: Only he’s not white and he’s not fat and he doesn’t have a curly beard.
Doodle(looking at Scooby as if she’s mental): You know that Santa is just Satan with the letters rearranged, right?
Scooby (freaked out): Ummmmmm . . . .
Me: No more talking. Eat your dinner.
I hope whatever treats Rev brings home are enough to prove he isn’t the devil. I should probably text him and give him the heads up. Right?
Sigh. One more day to go. Maybe we can all play The Quiet Game until then.
From Scooby, on the way home from day camp:
Scooby: Hey, mom, what’s for dinner?
Me: Sausages. Brown beans [a/k/a baked beans] for you and scrambled eggs for Doodle, because he doesn’t like brown beans.
Scooby: Yay! I LOVE brown beans! Mom, you’re sooooo much nicer to us since camp started!
Me: As opposed to the mean witch I was during school?!
Scooby: (realizing what she said) Um, noooooo . . . .
Yeah, too late, kid. That cat is out of the bag.
From Doodle and Scooby, at dinner.
Doodle: I can’t wait til Dad gets home on Wednesday.
Scooby: I hope he brings us something.
Doodle: Kind of like Santa.
Scooby: Only he’s not white and he’s not fat and he doesn’t have a curly beard.
Doodle(looking at Scooby as if she’s mental): You know that Santa is just Satan with the letters rearranged, right?
Scooby (freaked out): Ummmmmm . . . .
Me: No more talking. Eat your dinner.
I hope whatever treats Rev brings home are enough to prove he isn’t the devil. I should probably text him and give him the heads up. Right?
Sigh. One more day to go. Maybe we can all play The Quiet Game until then.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Dream State
And now, a silly.
I had a dream last night, which is remarkable only because I never remember dreams in the morning. But this one was still crystal clear when I opened my eyes.
In my dream, it is the morning of the first day of trial in a case I’ve been working on for a couple of years. I get to work super early, but realize I am not dressed appropriately for court. I’m not naked, but I’ve got on normal clothes: a short-sleeved top and some trousers.
Okay, no problem, I’ll just go down the street to the mall and get a suit. So I drive into this big garage, where, of course, I get lost in the levels. For some reason, I head to the Ann Taylor store, thinking that I’ll just be able to grab a suit in my size off the rack and throw it on with no alterations.
I find myself in a black skirt suit, with tags hanging off of it. Suddenly, I’m surrounded by people who insist on doing my hair and makeup. I’m starting to panic because I realize I am entirely unprepared for trial and haven’t composed my opening statement. And then, over in the corner I see the one guy in the universe who can help me:
Yes, I am dreaming about Mr. Barnard Thompson, the sophisticated concierge from Pretty Woman. He blanches each time I yank the tags off my suit (they keep reappearing), and barks at the minions to bring me shoes that match my outfit better, like he’s trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
He reaches over gently but impatiently to straighten my collar – and I wake up laughing.
Maybe I’m stressed about work in general and this case in particular.
Maybe I still have a secret crush on Hector Elizondo (and really, who doesn’t?).
Maybe my subconscious is telling me to stop taking my life so damn seriously – or to work a little harder to pull myself together. I don’t know. At any rate, it appears I have Mr. Barnard on my side, and that’s pretty impressive.
After all, he did wonders for Julia Roberts. From this:
to this:
’Nuff said.
I had a dream last night, which is remarkable only because I never remember dreams in the morning. But this one was still crystal clear when I opened my eyes.
In my dream, it is the morning of the first day of trial in a case I’ve been working on for a couple of years. I get to work super early, but realize I am not dressed appropriately for court. I’m not naked, but I’ve got on normal clothes: a short-sleeved top and some trousers.
Okay, no problem, I’ll just go down the street to the mall and get a suit. So I drive into this big garage, where, of course, I get lost in the levels. For some reason, I head to the Ann Taylor store, thinking that I’ll just be able to grab a suit in my size off the rack and throw it on with no alterations.
I find myself in a black skirt suit, with tags hanging off of it. Suddenly, I’m surrounded by people who insist on doing my hair and makeup. I’m starting to panic because I realize I am entirely unprepared for trial and haven’t composed my opening statement. And then, over in the corner I see the one guy in the universe who can help me:
Yes, I am dreaming about Mr. Barnard Thompson, the sophisticated concierge from Pretty Woman. He blanches each time I yank the tags off my suit (they keep reappearing), and barks at the minions to bring me shoes that match my outfit better, like he’s trying to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.
He reaches over gently but impatiently to straighten my collar – and I wake up laughing.
Maybe I’m stressed about work in general and this case in particular.
Maybe I still have a secret crush on Hector Elizondo (and really, who doesn’t?).
Maybe my subconscious is telling me to stop taking my life so damn seriously – or to work a little harder to pull myself together. I don’t know. At any rate, it appears I have Mr. Barnard on my side, and that’s pretty impressive.
After all, he did wonders for Julia Roberts. From this:
to this:
’Nuff said.
Monday, July 4, 2011
An Old Woman Can Wear Purple On Her Birthday If She Wants To
The thing I love most about Independence Day is that everyone, whether from a red state or a blue, can find common ground in celebrating the line in the sand drawn by those courageous visionaries in Philadelphia that July day in 1776. If you've never read this document in its entirety, here it is. It is a thing of beauty: brief and to the point, listing the crimes committed by their Sovereign, King George III, and informing him that they refuse to be associated with him any longer. And then they signed it.
How extraordinary is that?
Hey, America? Happy 235th birthday. I must say, today you look lovely in purple:
How extraordinary is that?
Hey, America? Happy 235th birthday. I must say, today you look lovely in purple:
Warning - When I Am an Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple
By Jenny Joseph
When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple
with a red hat that doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
and satin candles, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I am tired
and gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
and run my stick along the public railings
and make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
and pick the flowers in other people's gardens
and learn to spit.
You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
and eat three pounds of sausages at a go
or only bread and pickles for a week
and hoard pens and pencils and beer nuts and things in boxes.
But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
and pay our rent and not swear in the street
and set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.
But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
When Security Isn't Invisible
When I was a junior in college, I spent a year in the United Kingdom. While “studying abroad” was one of the better decisions I have ever made, it was also scary and eye-opening. I believe I would not be the person I am today (for better or for worse, your choice) if I hadn’t spent time in a completely unfamiliar, obviously foreign, environment.
One of the more remarkable aspects of that year was the trip my friend “Kay” and I took during what was the University’s three-week Spring Break. In Britain, when they say “school vacation,” what they really mean is, You must leave campus until classes start again because we subsidize your very reasonably-priced education by renting out your dormitory room to corporations. And, by the way, make sure all of your stuff fits into that locked closet over there. Bye.
So, Kay and I bought InterRail passes, which allow students to ride in coach class for free on essentially all of Europe’s rail lines (think: Amtrak). At the time, it cost approximately $100. We decided to take the overnight train to London, stay for few days to see some sights and take in a play, and then fly to Rome (also dirt cheap to do). Kay, a devout Catholic, really, really wanted to see the Vatican. From Rome, we’d wing it, choosing our itinerary as we went.
When we arrived in Rome, and got off of the plane, we were astonished and yes, a little scared, to discover armed guards at the airport. We thought there had been some sort of incident, an attempted assassination, maybe, or a bomb threat. The (very cute) Italian teenager we’d chatted up on the flight assured us – and he really did mean for it to make us feel better – that these guards, called carabiniere, were always posted there. They carried your basic Uzis strapped across their shoulders, and they looked menacing.
How do people live like this? I wondered to myself. Just the act of passing through the checkpoint made me feel guilty. When I mentioned to our Italian teenager how odd that felt, he literally just said, “Eh.”
That was twenty three years ago, and I still can recall the shock of walking out into the bright Mediterranean sunlight and coming face to face with a weapon I had only seen in the movies.
You know what? This morning, like countless mornings before, I got off of the commuter train and passed American transit police armed with automatic rifles and sidearms. Their adorable black Labradors rested in patches of shade at their feet. And I realized that this doesn’t faze me anymore. It doesn’t bother me when they flick their eyes head-to-toe, assessing my potential threat level in about half a second. I smile at them casually, giving their canines the wide berth they deserve, and hurry along to my office. When I go to the courthouse where I work, I am almost amused that the service dog used by the blind guy who runs the concession stand on the first floor and the bomb-and-ordnance sniffing canine “officer” idly patrolling the courtrooms look enough alike that they could be from the same litter.
And I’m not shocked. Or guilty.
We are all hyper-alert. I won’t squawk that we’ve given up our freedoms for the illusion of safety or anything like that. I don’t feel oppressed (and I say that as a member of a minority group that would be among the first “profiled.”) It’s not that I feel particularly safe, either, because I’m old enough and cynical enough to know that all we can do, usually, is react to an attack, not prevent one. If a person is crazy enough, or evil enough, to leave a bag with a bomb, he or she is going to do it, regardless of any show of force. But having those trained officers with their dogs visible tells me that while we don’t know what exactly to do to keep ourselves safe, we are doing what we can. And maybe it’s working; there’s no way to quantify all of the incidents that don’t happen.
A few days ago, I was walking behind a United States Coast Guard officer, who was dressed, deliciously, in his whites. An older man approached from the other direction, and as he passed, I heard him say, “Thank you for your service.” I got the impression that this was something he did often, acknowledging the service and sacrifice of any branch member he encountered. I knew how he felt; I do it myself sometimes. And so this morning, as I came off of the train, I wondered whether the transit policeman and his dog ever get thanked like that, and if not, why not?
Is it because it’s not politically correct, because they’re only there by order of an unpopular ex-president?
Have we become complacent enough ten years out from the worst terrorist attack on U.S. soil to actually mind the slight inconveniences of heightened security? Are we more irritated than grateful for the reminder that security isn’t free or invisible?
Or do we resent that we’re no longer like the twenty-year-old me, stepping off a plane under a blue sky and bright sun, still able to be shocked and dismayed at the need for a blatant show of authority and force? We won’t ever enjoy that level of naïveté again.
Because now I look at those armed police patrolling my path, shrug my shoulders in a creditably Mediterranean way and say, “Eh.”
I think, starting tomorrow, I will say instead, “Good morning, and thank you for your service.”
One of the more remarkable aspects of that year was the trip my friend “Kay” and I took during what was the University’s three-week Spring Break. In Britain, when they say “school vacation,” what they really mean is, You must leave campus until classes start again because we subsidize your very reasonably-priced education by renting out your dormitory room to corporations. And, by the way, make sure all of your stuff fits into that locked closet over there. Bye.
So, Kay and I bought InterRail passes, which allow students to ride in coach class for free on essentially all of Europe’s rail lines (think: Amtrak). At the time, it cost approximately $100. We decided to take the overnight train to London, stay for few days to see some sights and take in a play, and then fly to Rome (also dirt cheap to do). Kay, a devout Catholic, really, really wanted to see the Vatican. From Rome, we’d wing it, choosing our itinerary as we went.
When we arrived in Rome, and got off of the plane, we were astonished and yes, a little scared, to discover armed guards at the airport. We thought there had been some sort of incident, an attempted assassination, maybe, or a bomb threat. The (very cute) Italian teenager we’d chatted up on the flight assured us – and he really did mean for it to make us feel better – that these guards, called carabiniere, were always posted there. They carried your basic Uzis strapped across their shoulders, and they looked menacing.
How do people live like this? I wondered to myself. Just the act of passing through the checkpoint made me feel guilty. When I mentioned to our Italian teenager how odd that felt, he literally just said, “Eh.”
That was twenty three years ago, and I still can recall the shock of walking out into the bright Mediterranean sunlight and coming face to face with a weapon I had only seen in the movies.
You know what? This morning, like countless mornings before, I got off of the commuter train and passed American transit police armed with automatic rifles and sidearms. Their adorable black Labradors rested in patches of shade at their feet. And I realized that this doesn’t faze me anymore. It doesn’t bother me when they flick their eyes head-to-toe, assessing my potential threat level in about half a second. I smile at them casually, giving their canines the wide berth they deserve, and hurry along to my office. When I go to the courthouse where I work, I am almost amused that the service dog used by the blind guy who runs the concession stand on the first floor and the bomb-and-ordnance sniffing canine “officer” idly patrolling the courtrooms look enough alike that they could be from the same litter.
And I’m not shocked. Or guilty.
We are all hyper-alert. I won’t squawk that we’ve given up our freedoms for the illusion of safety or anything like that. I don’t feel oppressed (and I say that as a member of a minority group that would be among the first “profiled.”) It’s not that I feel particularly safe, either, because I’m old enough and cynical enough to know that all we can do, usually, is react to an attack, not prevent one. If a person is crazy enough, or evil enough, to leave a bag with a bomb, he or she is going to do it, regardless of any show of force. But having those trained officers with their dogs visible tells me that while we don’t know what exactly to do to keep ourselves safe, we are doing what we can. And maybe it’s working; there’s no way to quantify all of the incidents that don’t happen.
A few days ago, I was walking behind a United States Coast Guard officer, who was dressed, deliciously, in his whites. An older man approached from the other direction, and as he passed, I heard him say, “Thank you for your service.” I got the impression that this was something he did often, acknowledging the service and sacrifice of any branch member he encountered. I knew how he felt; I do it myself sometimes. And so this morning, as I came off of the train, I wondered whether the transit policeman and his dog ever get thanked like that, and if not, why not?
Is it because it’s not politically correct, because they’re only there by order of an unpopular ex-president?
Have we become complacent enough ten years out from the worst terrorist attack on U.S. soil to actually mind the slight inconveniences of heightened security? Are we more irritated than grateful for the reminder that security isn’t free or invisible?
Or do we resent that we’re no longer like the twenty-year-old me, stepping off a plane under a blue sky and bright sun, still able to be shocked and dismayed at the need for a blatant show of authority and force? We won’t ever enjoy that level of naïveté again.
Because now I look at those armed police patrolling my path, shrug my shoulders in a creditably Mediterranean way and say, “Eh.”
I think, starting tomorrow, I will say instead, “Good morning, and thank you for your service.”
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Summer Cooking
At some point, Summer will come to New England. Any moment now. And with it, the elusive season will bring humid (we call it “muggy,” which is so much more evocative) high temperatures and the potential for my healthy and fabulous cooking endeavors to fall by the wayside.
I’m not a big fan of grilling. Oh, I can handle the occasional burger or hot dog scraped off of a screaming hot grill at a family barbecue. That’s fine, as long as it’s understood that we’ll be returning to real food the following day. Those burn marks on bright yellow zucchini spears and red peppers gracing every summer issue of every magazine look carcinogenic, not appetizing, to me. And I’ve destroyed more fish than the BP oil spill because I cannot find that perfect balanced between blackened (some might charitably say “Cajun”) exterior and gummy uncooked interior.
On the other hand, however, who wants to deal with a 350 degree oven at the tail end of a 90 degree day?
Of the five weeknights, I can probably get away with two salad dinners: one a leafy green topped with an assortment of hard boiled egg and fruit and (probably) bacon, and the other a potato salad that I’ll have to liven up with – something, I have no ideas at the moment. Doodle has already put the kibosh on the really good corn and bean salad that I brought to last week’s Father’s Day cookout. He informed me, and I quote: “Mom, it has five ingredients, and I don’t like to eat three of them.” (In case you’re wondering, he likes avocado and lime juice, and can do without the corn, the beans, and the tomatoes.)
That leaves three nights of crossing my fingers, negotiating forkfuls, or giving up and serving peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches.
Naw, man, I ain’t going out like that.
I have a feeling that this week will find me scouring every house and garden or cooking magazine I own just to find the six or so recipes I can recycle endlessly for the next eight weeks. I know the kids will look at their plates, gauge my mood, and tentatively ask if they can just have toast instead. Rev will take a mouthful, smile wanly, and proclaim that it’s good, whatever “it” may happen to be, in an effort to convince the kids to dig in, and to save my feelings.
Maybe I’ll find some healthful, affordable, able to be pulled together in less than thirty minutes, non carb-heavy, low fat, iron rich, able to be assigned Weight Watchers points, kid-friendly, and, oh, yes, delicious entrées to carry us through the dog days of summer. Sounds easy.
Or maybe I’ll just fire up the grill, throw some burgers and franks on, and call it a day.
I’m not a big fan of grilling. Oh, I can handle the occasional burger or hot dog scraped off of a screaming hot grill at a family barbecue. That’s fine, as long as it’s understood that we’ll be returning to real food the following day. Those burn marks on bright yellow zucchini spears and red peppers gracing every summer issue of every magazine look carcinogenic, not appetizing, to me. And I’ve destroyed more fish than the BP oil spill because I cannot find that perfect balanced between blackened (some might charitably say “Cajun”) exterior and gummy uncooked interior.
On the other hand, however, who wants to deal with a 350 degree oven at the tail end of a 90 degree day?
Of the five weeknights, I can probably get away with two salad dinners: one a leafy green topped with an assortment of hard boiled egg and fruit and (probably) bacon, and the other a potato salad that I’ll have to liven up with – something, I have no ideas at the moment. Doodle has already put the kibosh on the really good corn and bean salad that I brought to last week’s Father’s Day cookout. He informed me, and I quote: “Mom, it has five ingredients, and I don’t like to eat three of them.” (In case you’re wondering, he likes avocado and lime juice, and can do without the corn, the beans, and the tomatoes.)
That leaves three nights of crossing my fingers, negotiating forkfuls, or giving up and serving peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches.
Naw, man, I ain’t going out like that.
I have a feeling that this week will find me scouring every house and garden or cooking magazine I own just to find the six or so recipes I can recycle endlessly for the next eight weeks. I know the kids will look at their plates, gauge my mood, and tentatively ask if they can just have toast instead. Rev will take a mouthful, smile wanly, and proclaim that it’s good, whatever “it” may happen to be, in an effort to convince the kids to dig in, and to save my feelings.
Maybe I’ll find some healthful, affordable, able to be pulled together in less than thirty minutes, non carb-heavy, low fat, iron rich, able to be assigned Weight Watchers points, kid-friendly, and, oh, yes, delicious entrées to carry us through the dog days of summer. Sounds easy.
Or maybe I’ll just fire up the grill, throw some burgers and franks on, and call it a day.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Don't Quit Your Day Job
This afternoon, I experienced the joy that is Going To Your Kid's Recital.
Doodle and Scooby have spent the past year going to "drama" classes after school at the local community theatre. There, they practiced body language, stage presence, and improvisation. The idea is that your kid will get bitten by the acting bug and in turn, bug you to pay a few hundred dollars to let him or her audition for a bit part in the next production put on by the theatre company.
But for now, Doodle, who is nine, and Scooby, who is seven, have just been taking classes once a week. Normally, the babysitter picks them up from school and waits while they go to their respective classes. She's very hard of hearing, so she thinks all of the performances are great.
Today, though, the younger classes had their end of the year "recitals." These things happen in the middle of the day, so I banged out of work early to show my support.
Doodle's class acted out two Dr. Seuss plays, The Sneetches and The Lorax. Here's what I learned:
1. These plays rhyme. The words themselves apparently don't matter (because most of them were mumbled to the back of the stage), but it has a nice beat and you can dance to it.
2. These plays carry some sort of social message about consumerism and/or the environment. I'm not really sure what that message was exactly; see Lesson Number 1.
3. Doodle has a very loud voice. And he can recover quickly when he trips over stage props.
Now, Scooby's class was "Creative Dramatics," which is deliciously appropriate if you know Scooby's personality. There were about eight kids ranging from age four to seven years old, and their teacher clearly has more patience than I will ever possess. That recital went something like this:
So, we learned how to -- Evan, come on over here -- we wrote a story and picked our favorite characters -- can you put your mask back on, sweetie -- no, you have to stay in this room -- we had some GREAT energy -- (louder voice over the impressive soprano shrieking) -- can you say your names, no?, okay we'll just get on with the story -- it's okay, Anastasia, you don't have to say your lines, I'll just, um -- (a little desperately) how about we show your parents how we warm up to Firework -- good JUMPING everyone -- so that's what we did this year!
At some point, the babysitter leaned over to me and remarked that Scooby was the calmest one there.
Let that one sink in. My daughter, Scooby, was the calmest child in the room.
Then the teacher was thanking us for coming as we all practically ran out of the studio, clutching our cameras and cell phones full of blurry caught-in-mid-motion pictures.
You both were terrific! I told Doodle and Scooby as we stopped for a celebratory ice cream cone. I'm so proud of you.
Next year, maybe we'll try karate.
Doodle and Scooby have spent the past year going to "drama" classes after school at the local community theatre. There, they practiced body language, stage presence, and improvisation. The idea is that your kid will get bitten by the acting bug and in turn, bug you to pay a few hundred dollars to let him or her audition for a bit part in the next production put on by the theatre company.
But for now, Doodle, who is nine, and Scooby, who is seven, have just been taking classes once a week. Normally, the babysitter picks them up from school and waits while they go to their respective classes. She's very hard of hearing, so she thinks all of the performances are great.
Today, though, the younger classes had their end of the year "recitals." These things happen in the middle of the day, so I banged out of work early to show my support.
Doodle's class acted out two Dr. Seuss plays, The Sneetches and The Lorax. Here's what I learned:
1. These plays rhyme. The words themselves apparently don't matter (because most of them were mumbled to the back of the stage), but it has a nice beat and you can dance to it.
2. These plays carry some sort of social message about consumerism and/or the environment. I'm not really sure what that message was exactly; see Lesson Number 1.
3. Doodle has a very loud voice. And he can recover quickly when he trips over stage props.
Now, Scooby's class was "Creative Dramatics," which is deliciously appropriate if you know Scooby's personality. There were about eight kids ranging from age four to seven years old, and their teacher clearly has more patience than I will ever possess. That recital went something like this:
So, we learned how to -- Evan, come on over here -- we wrote a story and picked our favorite characters -- can you put your mask back on, sweetie -- no, you have to stay in this room -- we had some GREAT energy -- (louder voice over the impressive soprano shrieking) -- can you say your names, no?, okay we'll just get on with the story -- it's okay, Anastasia, you don't have to say your lines, I'll just, um -- (a little desperately) how about we show your parents how we warm up to Firework -- good JUMPING everyone -- so that's what we did this year!
At some point, the babysitter leaned over to me and remarked that Scooby was the calmest one there.
Let that one sink in. My daughter, Scooby, was the calmest child in the room.
Then the teacher was thanking us for coming as we all practically ran out of the studio, clutching our cameras and cell phones full of blurry caught-in-mid-motion pictures.
You both were terrific! I told Doodle and Scooby as we stopped for a celebratory ice cream cone. I'm so proud of you.
Next year, maybe we'll try karate.
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