Click, Clack, Ooh! Kids That Type

One of the best things about becoming a Woman of a Certain Age is that when you look back on your life, there’s a lot of real estate there.  I’ve started many a sentence with, “When I was a kid, . . .” and most of the time, the eye-rolling is kept to a minimum.  Doodle and Scooby, now 12 and 10, listen to these little remembrances like archaeologists on an audio dig – sometimes they’re fascinated, and sometimes they can’t even imagine what I’m talking about. 

The other day, I spent an inordinate amount of time explaining precisely what a typewriter did and how it worked.  The kids eyed the machine warily, marveling that the keys made noise, and that you couldn’t see what you’d typed before it got printed on the page.  The erase ribbon made them giggle.  They clamored for a blank piece of paper to try it out themselves.  I could hear them snorting with laughter all the way down the hall. 

And this was an electric typewriter.

I didn’t even attempt to describe the Remington manual that I wrote all of my high school papers on – with the silver armed carriage return that you hooked with your pinkie when the bell dinged.  The kind that made that satisfying clattering sound you associated with busy newsrooms in the movies.  The keyboard that had no numeral 1 (you had to use a lower-case L) and no semi-colon (you had to type a colon, then backspace and type a comma over it).  And when I learned how to touch-type (with ALL of my fingers, not just hunting and pecking), I got ink all over my fingertips trying to pry stuck keys away from the roller because I was typing too fast.

And then I turn my eyes forward.  Doodle has a cell phone – not a smartphone, just a basic bought-it-at-Walgreens model that I periodically put minutes on.  He texts his friends from elementary school and Boy Scouts, keeping in touch as they all move toward their separate lives.  

“When I was a kid,” I say, “I had to ask permission to use the phone, and my mother would start glaring at me at about the five minute mark.”  The kids snicker.  “And, you know what?  The phone was attached to the wall.”  

“How did you have private conversations?” they ask.

“We didn’t,” I tell them. 

For them, the telephone and the typewriter are practically the same thing.  They can commit their thoughts to “paper” with their thumbs, and send them down the street, across the country, around the world. 

For me, the typewriter represents something that is so very misunderstood in today’s world:  permanence.  If you made a mistake, a typographical error, you couldn’t just backspace it away.  You had to unscrew the tiny bottle of liquid paper, or in later technology, press the [x] button, line up your cursor and re-type your mistake to erase it.  You had to acknowledge, even repeat, that stray letter or symbol in order to make it go away. 

For pre-teens, this is a difficult concept.  They are so used to easily un-ringing the bell with a flippant “j/k” (just kidding!) or smiley emoticon.  They delete poorly-thought-out one-liners aimed at their friends and it’s like the zinger never existed. 

Except it did, and it does. 

My job as a parent is to get them to see that there really aren’t any take-backs. The words you write or text or say become part of our reality, and texting “LOL” doesn’t make it funny, and doesn’t heal hurt feelings. 

 
Soon, Doodle and Scooby will get caught up in whatever the next iteration of Facebook or Twitter will be, and their words, their jokes, their off-hand comments will become part of the cyber-sphere.  There is so little time to get them to understand that what they say, and how they say it, is un-erasable.  Just like with that old fashioned typewriter, they will not be able to just delete a hurtful or unwanted comment. They will have to take the time and actually correct it, make it right.  And that takes more effort than tapping backspace or delete.

Bitter Breakup Songs

Recently, I started thinking about my favorite genre of songs: the breakup song. I’m not talking about the sappy, regretful, where-did-I-go-wrong? type of song (“If I should stay, I would only be in your waaaay . . . and I will always love you--ooooh . . .”).

No, I mean the type of bitter break up songs (I’ll call them BBS) that guys tend to write. The no, really, it’s not me, it’s you approach to breaking up. They don’t internalize, or call up their friends and cry about their faults – and then set the whole thing to music. If a guy breaks up with a girl, clearly, the music tells us, there’s something wrong with the girl. If a girl breaks up with a guy? There’s something wrong with the girl. And, you know, that can make for some awesome put the windows down and sing at the top of your lungs all the way down the highway music.

One exception to this rule is “Grenade,” by Bruno Mars. Bruno, dude, man up! I would catch a grenade for you? Really – what is that? But even that song has that desperate, psychotic vibe to it, like, This woman has driven me to the point where I would contemplate various really violent forms of death, and write a song about it. That’s a woman I don’t ever want to meet (i.e., there’s something wrong with the girl).

The king of the BBS, for me, is Ceelo Green’s “‘Forget’ You.” (I put that word in quotes because that’s the radio-friendly title.) Where was this tiny round man when the guy I was going to go to the senior prom with started flirting with another girl at a party? I can just imagine my seventeen-year-old self bopping around in my pale lavender off the shoulder gown in the middle of the country club dance floor, singing in my strong soprano: I see you driving ‘round town with the guy I love, and I’m like, forget you!

Okay, maybe not, but the forty-five year old me can certainly go to town on it in her fantasy.

How about all those popular boys who never, ever gave me a glance in high school? Oh, I’ve been to my twenty-fifth reunion, you guys, and I know exactly what you look like. I saw your double takes at my fabulousness as I strode across the room to claim my gin and tonic at the bar. And, why, yes, I do still have that really great job and that awesome husband. The soundtrack to that particular night? The All-American Rejects’ “Gives You Hell.”

Tomorrow you'll be thinking to yourself
Yeah, where did it all go wrong?
But the list goes on and on
Truth be told I miss you
And truth be told I'm lying
When you see my face
Hope it gives you hell, hope it gives you hell
When you walk my way
Hope it gives you hell, hope it gives you hell

Or Keith Urban, who doesn’t find his ex’s cute qualities all that cute anymore: Take your cat and leave my sweater, ’cuz we’ve got nothing left to weather, in fact, I’ll feel a whole lot better, but you’ll think of me.

Not that women can’t do the BBS well, when they put their minds to it. Right up there with Ceelo’s “‘Forget’ You” is Beyoncé’s “Irreplaceable.” I mean, really:

I can have another you in a minute

Matter of fact, he’ll be here in a minute . . .

Now, that’s cold. I like the urban smoothness of it, that certainty that she could just walk down any crowded street and find a newer, better, updated model immediately. But there’s also a part of me that groks the down and dirty, malevolently violent mayhem of Carrie Underwood’s “Before He Cheats.” Girl follows the guy to a bar, keys his car, slashes his tires, and rips up his leather seats, all the while hilariously mocking the bimbo he’s cheating on her with:

Right now, she’s prob’ly up doing some

white trash version of Shania karaoke.

Right now, she’s prob’ly saying, “I’m drunk,”

and he’s a-thinkin’ that he’s gonna get lucky.

Right now, he’s prob’ly puttin’ on three dollars’ worth

of that bathroom cologne . . .

Yes, she commits a couple of minor felonies, but I’m rooting for her all the way.

When Alanis Morissette tells her ex, “I’m very happy for you both,” I pretty sure she’s being insincere, especially since the balance of “You Oughtta Know” is dripping with malice. Dude, I wouldn’t eat that box of chocolates she sent you if I were you.   Or sweet little Taylor Swift, offhandedly threatening to tell her ex’s friends that he’s gay. The forty-five-year-old me would definitely do something like that.

Why am I thinking these breakup thoughts?  Oh, I’m not planning on leaving Rev anytime soon (or poisoning his food).  But there comes a point when you look at your life -- a job, a relationship, an expectation -- and say, You know what, it’s not me, it's you, and I'm breaking up with you.  

You know what, 2012, I didn’t like you all that much.  I'm kicking you to the curb, buh-bye.  I deserved better than what you dished out, so I’m trash-canning you.  As my guy Keith Urban sang:

It took a while for her to figure out
That she could run
But when she did
She was
Long gone, long gone.
(“Stupid Boy”)

Summer Challenge

Why do schools put parents in this position?  My middle kid, Doodle, is in an "advanced work class," for fourth grade (which he just finished) and fifth grade.  His teacher, who is one of those "tough but fair" teachers you mention in your valedictory speech, sent home a book list/math and reading comprehension packet to complete over the summer.  I've looked through it.  It's a lot of work. The kids in her class (she'll have the same kids next year) have to read four books -- three assigned, and one more off this giant list.

Just to give you some context, one of the books, Divergent, by Veronica Roth, was one I had put aside in my Amazon.com wish list for Boy to read over the summer. Boy, who is fifteen years old.  That book is on my ten-year-old's summer reading list, along with Agatha Christie's Murder on the Orient Express.

Seriously, you people?!  The kid is ten years old. I didn't read Agatha Christie until college, and I was a reading maniac.  (True fact:  the three or four times I  played hooky from school, I went to the public library and hid out in the stacks. No word of a lie.)  I was debating whether he was ready for the first Harry Potter book.


The kids started day camp today, and when I went to pick them up this afternoon, Doodle was curled up on the floor of the gym, fast asleep, using his beach towel as a pillow.  He could barely keep his eyes open during dinner.  (Which is how it should be.  All I ask of a good summer day camp is that they send the kids back to me dirty, hungry, and exhausted.)  And now I have to goad, coax, and cajole him into doing a page or two of math drills.  Doesn't really seem right, that.


It's not like I don't challenge them.  This summer's goal is for Doodle and Scooby each to read twenty-five chapter books (only two of them can be from the Captain Underpants series), at a dollar a book, and if they reach twenty-five, they get a ten-dollar bonus.  (Yes, I bribe my kids; I'm not too proud to admit it.)  Boy's challenge is to read twelve books, at two dollars each, with the same ten-dollar bonus. There's a bonus in here for me, too; it gives me an excuse to get them out of my hair when we go on vacation.  I'm looking forward to a quiet round trip drive to the Berkshires, and an equally quiet flight to Florida, with the children's noses deep in their novels for long stretches of time.  


I felt like that was a doable challenge.  Now, though, having looked at the summer work load for my fourth-grader, I'm tempted to become "Julie McCoy, Your Cruise Director," just to make sure the kid has some summer in his summer.  

Doodle's fine with all this work, though, or at least he's resigned.  The four reading list books will count toward my challenge, and at the same time I ordered them, I bought a third grade workbook for Scooby, just so he won't feel as though she's getting off easy.

And when he's done with those books, maybe I'll read them myself.  I'm sure my brain could use the exercise over the summer, too.

Suspended Animation

Nope, not dead.  Nope, haven't given up, either.

Life has been in a state of  "suspended animation" -- you know, that feeling you have when you've just thrown a bunch of balls up into the air, and you're waiting for them to come back down.  You don't know where they're going to land, or even if you'll be able to catch any of them.  You just keep looking up at the sky in equal parts expectant hope and dread.

I look back on the past few months and realize that, for all the running around like crazy, spending late nights to get everything done, more running, and panicking over dropped stitches, we've been extraordinarily blessed.   Our kids are well, we're healthy, and summer is underway.

So picture me standing under a cloudless sky, looking upwards, hands open.  I'm ready to catch those balls as they come down, and I'm not going to worry about the ones that get away.

Inspiration, Silenced

Oh, dear. Yet another blog post about Whitney Houston (1963-2012).

But it’s not about her slammin’ rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner” at the Superbowl, or the brilliant, ubiquitous “I Will Always Love You,” which, for some odd reason people used for their wedding song (did people even ever listen to the lyrics?). It’s not about her sad, slow decline into a drug-fueled, reality-TV train wreck. It’s not even about the heartbreaking knowledge that she was blessed with and squandered a once-in-a-generation instrument, like leaving a Stradivarius out in the rain.

It’s about inspiration.

It’s about her soaring voice pushing Olympic hopefuls to get up and try to be more than they’ve ever been, just once.

It’s about “learning to love yourself.”

It’s about sitting on a front porch with your (okay, fictional) sister (okay, yes, who wants to have you killed – come on, work with me here), and just straight up singing about how much Jesus loves you because you feel it and because He does.

I wish, I wish, oh, how I wish that Ms. Houston had been able to hear herself, to actually listen to herself – and be inspired.

RIP, Whitney Houston. Thanks for the inspiration.

You Do The Math

What a cool evening.

Boy was sitting at the kitchen table, last night, doing his homework. No, that isn't the amazing part. He had just cued up some music videos and was huddled over a worksheet when I cruised through the room. I tossed a glance over his shoulder and halted. At the top of the page, it said, "Algebra."

Now, I have to confess: math is not my friend. I use a calculator to do the simplest addition. I get cold sweats thinking about Doodle's fourth grade fractions. Math was the one subject in high school that I routinely flunked -- and I never took another math class once I graduated. (My liberal arts college didn't require it.)

But as I looked at the worksheet, I noticed that it was on equations, the "solve for x" kind. Oooh! I was actually good at those!

Most of mathematics defeated me. But there were a couple of topics that were less about the numbers and more about the logic. I rocked geometry, because it was like one long series of logic games. Prove a triangle is a triangle? Okay, no problem. I liked -- even loved -- those elegant proofs. They were like a dance, and once you mastered the steps, it was kind of fun. (To be fair, I also enjoyed diagramming sentences.)

Likewise, I could solve for x like nobody's business. I can do those, I said to Boy.

He looked at me skeptically, having heard (all his life) about my math allergy. Okay, he replied, do problem number four.

I snagged a pencil and gave it my best shot. I had fractions going on in there, ended up stumped for a moment on how to convert it to a decimal. Five point two, I said triumphantly.

Four point four, Boy answered, his deep voice just a shade away from condescension. No way. He whizzed through the steps and I saw he was right and I was so, so wrong. As my face fell, and I balled up the paper and threw it, hard, into the recycling bin, he offered, That's okay, Mom. You're good at English.

Well, now, them there's fighting words.

Give me another one, I said.

He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. Try the last one. I can't do it.

I looked. There were two xs in that one. I snatched another piece of paper and started in.

All of a sudden, it all came back to me. It was easy. X equals 6, I said. Boy gave me a comical look of disbelief. He replaced the x with 6, did the math in his head, and stared at me, shocked. That's right, he said, on the cusp of total incredulity.

I then did probably the most offensive booty dance in the history of ever to the hip-hop song that was playing on the computer. I got it riiii-ight, I crowed. Boy's expression said, Please stop. You're embarrassing me, even though there is nobody else in the room. Rev came upstairs to see what the commotion was about.

And then I wrote on the homework sheet, "Mom got this one right!"

Algebraic equations living somewhere in the recesses of my middle aged, math-phobic brain? Who knew?

X = 6.

Best. Night. Ever.

Revisiting That Bucket List

I’m sitting in my bedroom, jealously listening to the conversation going on in the living room. Rev is sitting very close to a PYT (for non-Michael Jackson fans, that means “Pretty Young Thing”), speaking in hushed tones. He’s been looking forward to this date for weeks. He left work early to get here, probably driving a little faster than usual to make it on time.

I’m not jealous because of PYT’s age, or the fact that she’s cute and funny, and did I mention cute? I’m not worried about anything “inappropriate.”

I’m jealous because Rev is learning something new.

PYT is a music teacher, and Rev is learning how to play the guitar. As in, how do you hold this thing and where do I put my fingers? beginner guitar lesson. He joins Scooby and Doodle, who have both been learning to play the piano for about nine months now.

And I’m jealous.

Oh, I already know the basics of guitar, having taken a year or two in grade school. If I picked one up, I could play along to a few songs, so long as you didn’t throw too many sharps or flats or major sevenths at me. I have no desire to become the next (old) Taylor Swift.

I’m just sitting here feeling sorry for myself, asking myself, What is the last new thing you learned how to do?

I was going to learn to speak Spanish. Never did. Ballroom dancing? Nope. I did start yoga, but that’s not really a skill you learn and master (unless you’re planning to make a pilgrimage to Tibet or something). For a hot second, I thought about taking voice lessons, to learn how to sing the right way. That died a quick death when I realized I would then have no excuses for not singing in public, or at least in the church choir.

How can it be that at forty-four, I’ve lost the ability, the inclination, to learn new things? What the heck happened?

Maybe I’ve become too complacent. Two years ago, just after my diagnosis, I went through the usual bucket list exercise: what are the things I wanted to do before I die but haven’t gotten around to? Because death, at that point, seemed real and imminent, no matter what imaginary statistics the oncologists pulled out of their . . . hats.

Now, I sit here, listening to the first, halting chords – and really, what courage it takes to put yourself out there in middle age to learn something completely new – I think about what I can learn to do in my spare time. I can’t think of anything that isn’t too time-consuming (spare time? Hah.), too expensive, too out there. I’m mad at myself for not having any interesting, pro-active hobbies. Even my resume is boring: I enjoy reading, writing, and listening to music. Snore.

Clearly, I have some soul-searching to do. What can I learn – I mean, really throw myself into – that can enrich my life? I don’t want to become one of those sour, provincial people who do the same boring stuff every boring day.

Because, if not now, then when? Tomorrow isn’t promised to any of us, and I don’t want to reach my sunset consumed with coulda-woulda-shouldas.

Everyone needs a mission. That’s mine, and, ask they say, I choose to accept it.

Stay tuned.

Paying Attention To The Voices In My Head

Most people don’t like how they sound in a recording. I read somewhere years ago that the voice you hear when you speak isn’t the voice other people hear, because the sound is somehow not traveling through the air when you hear it, but it is when other people do. Or something. Don’t hold me to that unscientific explanation. (Actually, Popular Science tells me that I’m right, sort of. Go, me.) The point is that when we hear our own voices on tape, it always sounds different – twangier, more nasal, whatever – than we thought it did, because the air acts as a kind of filter. I hate listening to the outgoing message on my voice mail, for instance. I sound like a dork who’s trying too hard not to sound like a dork. I long for the day when I can win a contest on NPR’s Wait, Wait Don’t Tell Me, and have Karl Kassel’s voice on my answering machine.

So, this week, I’ve been calling home more than usual. I’m on trial and working crazy stupid hours. I leave the house with Boy (to get him to the bus, because some things just NEED to get done trial or no trial), and coming home right at or after bedtime. So haven’t seen Doodle or Scooby for more than a hot minute for a couple of days. Yesterday, being the bad mother I am, I stopped off at a fast food joint to pick up dinner because, once again, I hadn’t had time or ingredients to pull anything together before I’d left that morning.

I dialed the house phone and this stranger picked up. The voice wasn’t quite feminine, and I didn’t recognize it. “Helloooo,” it said (which should have tipped me off, but didn’t), “who is this?”

“This is danablue,” I said, “who's this?”

“Doodle. Hi, mom.”

I was speechless. I stopped in my tracks, cell phone pressed to my ear. When did my little Doodle get a grown up voice (and impeccable phone manners)? When did he stop sounding like a baby? When did he stop being a baby? How can it be that he is old enough to answer a phone and have an intelligent conversation without constant prompting to say things? When did that happen?

This evening, I called home to say that I was on my way. Scooby answered, with a gruff, very corner office-ready, “Yes?” Her phone voice is a soft mix of Elmo the muppet and Marilyn Monroe. (Sure, I’ll wait while you put those two together.) I would never have expected my tomboyish, dress-negotiating seven year old to sound so in command of a telephone conversation.

I’m only just getting used to my six foot one teenager and his down-in-the-canyon voice. Seriously, put that kid on stage and girls will be throwing themselves at him. (Um. Okay, excuse me while I go clean my gun.)

So, I was just thinking about voices, and how, in my head, I still hear my kids as they were – those tiny, tinny little sounds that pierced through the hubbub of any crowd. But, in reality, I guess, my seven year old and ten year old aren’t little kids anymore, and they don’t have little kid voices. The other day, I was home for dinner and we had an impromptu joke-telling contest, where we had to actually make up a joke of our own. I learned that Doodle has almost mastered the art of deadpan sarcasm and Scooby is a gifted – and deadly accurate – mimic. I was completely diverted by the full throated guffaw the Boy let loose at one point, in the unguarded moment when he forgot that being silly with his family wasn’t cool.

I wonder how many other things I’ve been perceiving through kid-filters instead of hearing or seeing as they are. Maybe, for example, it’s time to have conversations with them, instead of always being in let me explain the world to you mode. Maybe I should ask their opinions every once in a while. One thing’s for certain: I aim to close my mouth, open my ears, and listen to hear their real voices.

Lessons From The Old Year

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 have plansdelusions 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.

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.

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 those three 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.)

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.

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.

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.