Whenever you take your kids out in public ... more specifically, to any place wherein they are likely to come into contact with human beings who aren't genetically programmed to think they are the most adorable, intelligent, sweetly humorous, amazingly adorable beings to ever have walked on the planet ... you are on rented time.
The best of the best have daily errands down to a science.
"I can go grocery shopping between 10 and noon, so long as we are finished at noon so junior can have lunch and a two-hour nap. ...
"If for some reason we can't leave for the supermarket by quarter-past 10, we will have to wait until 2:30 when nap time is over and little pumpkin has had the smallest of wee snacks.
"Of course once we get there we will have to visit the lobsters first thing. Squash blossom really likes to count them, and really, it's not a lot of fun combing through the produce aisle when kids have their hearts (and their constant chatter) set on crustaceans.
"Now, to prevent any potential disruptions in the shopping excursion, we'll make sure junior is occupied with any of the 1,001 tiny distractions I've shrewdly stowed in my bottomless purse."
“Whenever we need to do something IMPORTANT we call a sitter.”
Ah ... to be so prepared.
That scenario is so far from me that the light from “That Scenario” would take 100,000 years to get to the place I am right now, which seems to be located somewhere between “Holding My Breath” and “Winging It.”
Grocery shopping for me -- a time that used to be filled with a moderate amount of welcome revelation when the children were still in arms -- has become a race to gather enough provisions before The Champ, who DEMANDS to use the aisle-wide car cart but REFUSES to sit in its cockpit for longer than it takes to navigate through the produce section, disappears into the bakery department not even glancing back.
Lumbering after him in a cart that barely fits past the pastries without upturning some flaky delight seems like the height of humiliation.
But it gets worse.
Worse are the times when you are forced to explain your child's "completely unusual behavior" to a kindly person who just wanted to strike up a casual conversation with your precious pumpkin and they were snubbed. Maybe even screamed at to "LEAVE ME AWONE!"
All of these things and more go through my head as I took my son to work on Election Day, hoping above hope that he would allow me to get just a few photographs of the candidate and his wife before the boy's head spun around and pea soup started spewing forth.
You hope for the best and prepare for the worst.
Those times when your precious little pea pod actually thanks the grandmotherly pollster for her offer of a cookie or a doughnut are so remote you don't even hope for them anymore. All you can do is apologize profusely when he scowls and hides his face.
"He's just tired."
"He's a little shy."
"He's unusually grumpy today."
None of that is entirely true.
“It’s 9 a.m.”
"He's three."
“He wanted ice cream for breakfast.”
It doesn't really matter what you tell them. Most people understand timing can be everything. They might even understand your kid's meter just ran out.
Sunday, November 07, 2010
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Closing our ears to parenting failures
"Did I show you the video?" my husband asks over breakfast the day after The Party.
Video? I stared at him. "Of her dancing," he answered the question my expression asked before my mouth even opened.
He clicks on his phone and holds it out for me to see. The music's volume strains the tiny speakers as the wispy figure of our daughter twirls and gyrates between splashes of strobe lights. She's not afraid to be the only person dancing.
"That's pretty loud," I say sucking my teeth. I should have remembered to bring earplugs.
I smile as I watch the tiny dancer strut her stuff on the dance floor. When I was her age I'd have been standing behind my mother's legs hoping no one would notice me. I never would have braved an empty dance floor.
None of this is new for us, though.
Since she started walking, Ittybit's been making her way to the front of the audience so she can dance with the band. And not just kids' performers, either. The bands she's seen live are accustomed to performing for adult-only crowds.
I hesitated to say this in the context of parenting since the often lamented observation that our children are losing their childhood in some ill-considered rush to attain maturity often pits parents against each other. The last thing I want to do is open a dialog about the rights and wrongs of popular culture or the parenting shortfalls that are pushing civilization toward the brink of extinction.
But it's on my mind and it just slips out.
"Do you think she's dancing inappropriately?"
He is quiet, having thought the same thing and dismissed it. "She's just having fun," he says reassuringly.
She is just doing what she's always done at parties we attend as a family. She loves the music. She loves to dance. The only difference is that she's growing up: She's attending school, choosing clothes that match and asking me to check for smudges on her face before we leave the house. She's just a little girl who knows, by heart, the lyrics of songs I've never heard before.
She's growing up. That's what's makes the off-hand remark "You're going to have to lock her up when she's a teenager" send a slight chill down my spine. I've seen the future. And it's frightening.
Usually I just shrug my shoulders an soldier on. I'm not a mom who covers my kids' eyes even when I probably should. I just don't usually notice age inappropriateness unless the little miss points it out with her own keen powers of observation.
I've become accustomed to trying to explain these awkward moments using terms I think she can understand. And then rephrasing several times until she either gets the gist or gives up in frustration.
"It's the conversation that matters, not the answers," I tell myself. I want to believe that the questions are the solution, not the problem. I tend to think that our answers have a tendency to changing with perspective and experience, each of which takes time.
Time seems to have a way of changing everything without really changing much at all.
For several decades at least, little girls shaking their hips to suggestive music wasn't something folks have had to look too hard to find: Madonna was the mother of all Britneys and Hannah Montanas.
I don't really think scantily-clad celebrities foretell the end of society, yet I can't be entirely sure.
I project my teenage self onto Ittybit's future teenager: "Go Listen to Lawrence Welk ... or what-ever-it-is-you-old-folks-listen-to ... and leave me alone with my Lady Gaga already. Sheesh."
We're not having that exact disagreement yet -- we may not be anywhere near there for all I know — but its time is coming.
My girl is growing up and she won't be mine forever.
That she will choose paths I wouldn't recommend is a certainty. Just as I did. Just as her father did. There will be mistakes and recriminations and justifications for all of us. Hopefully, there will be growth and revelations, too.
Maybe, instead of locking her up, we'll be able to let her go and she'll have the confidence to dance her way back.
Video? I stared at him. "Of her dancing," he answered the question my expression asked before my mouth even opened.
He clicks on his phone and holds it out for me to see. The music's volume strains the tiny speakers as the wispy figure of our daughter twirls and gyrates between splashes of strobe lights. She's not afraid to be the only person dancing.
"That's pretty loud," I say sucking my teeth. I should have remembered to bring earplugs.
I smile as I watch the tiny dancer strut her stuff on the dance floor. When I was her age I'd have been standing behind my mother's legs hoping no one would notice me. I never would have braved an empty dance floor.
None of this is new for us, though.
Since she started walking, Ittybit's been making her way to the front of the audience so she can dance with the band. And not just kids' performers, either. The bands she's seen live are accustomed to performing for adult-only crowds.
I hesitated to say this in the context of parenting since the often lamented observation that our children are losing their childhood in some ill-considered rush to attain maturity often pits parents against each other. The last thing I want to do is open a dialog about the rights and wrongs of popular culture or the parenting shortfalls that are pushing civilization toward the brink of extinction.
But it's on my mind and it just slips out.
"Do you think she's dancing inappropriately?"
He is quiet, having thought the same thing and dismissed it. "She's just having fun," he says reassuringly.
She is just doing what she's always done at parties we attend as a family. She loves the music. She loves to dance. The only difference is that she's growing up: She's attending school, choosing clothes that match and asking me to check for smudges on her face before we leave the house. She's just a little girl who knows, by heart, the lyrics of songs I've never heard before.
She's growing up. That's what's makes the off-hand remark "You're going to have to lock her up when she's a teenager" send a slight chill down my spine. I've seen the future. And it's frightening.
Usually I just shrug my shoulders an soldier on. I'm not a mom who covers my kids' eyes even when I probably should. I just don't usually notice age inappropriateness unless the little miss points it out with her own keen powers of observation.
I've become accustomed to trying to explain these awkward moments using terms I think she can understand. And then rephrasing several times until she either gets the gist or gives up in frustration.
"It's the conversation that matters, not the answers," I tell myself. I want to believe that the questions are the solution, not the problem. I tend to think that our answers have a tendency to changing with perspective and experience, each of which takes time.
Time seems to have a way of changing everything without really changing much at all.
For several decades at least, little girls shaking their hips to suggestive music wasn't something folks have had to look too hard to find: Madonna was the mother of all Britneys and Hannah Montanas.
I don't really think scantily-clad celebrities foretell the end of society, yet I can't be entirely sure.
I project my teenage self onto Ittybit's future teenager: "Go Listen to Lawrence Welk ... or what-ever-it-is-you-old-folks-listen-to ... and leave me alone with my Lady Gaga already. Sheesh."
We're not having that exact disagreement yet -- we may not be anywhere near there for all I know — but its time is coming.
My girl is growing up and she won't be mine forever.
That she will choose paths I wouldn't recommend is a certainty. Just as I did. Just as her father did. There will be mistakes and recriminations and justifications for all of us. Hopefully, there will be growth and revelations, too.
Maybe, instead of locking her up, we'll be able to let her go and she'll have the confidence to dance her way back.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
No regrets
I called the number on the invitation fully expecting to extend our regrets for the Saturday afternoon birthday party.
The RSVP date had already passed. I'd waited to reply for no good reason, a combination forgetfulness and dread. It’s just one more thing to put off doing.
Saturday is filled with things to do: Shopping, laundry, cleaning ... a mid-day party would put us over the top and over extended.
Yet, when the birthday boy's mom answered the phone I inexplicably accepted.
It was something about the sound of her voice as she said hello. Something I recognized as joyful curiosity, even though she didn't know me or the reason for my call. Before I knew what was happening I was sizing her up, making imaginary comparisons and liking our differences.
Optimism. I may not come by it naturally, but I like to think I can acquire it if I keep it in proximity.
Of course, making friends seems like just another chore, one that takes effort and skills that have somehow evaporated with your ability to sleep past the crack of dawn. Even if it were easy, you would put up imaginary barriers: “Just because our kids are friends doesn't mean WE have to be,” you tell yourself.
A series of these thoughts worm their way through your rituals:
I will go, but I won't stay. I will stay but I won't chat. I will chat but I won't be chummy.
But before you know it conversations about the weather evolve — in a graduated sequence — into polite comparisons of thoughts on school, teachers, how often you've driven the kids to school after they missed the bus.
She tells me about how many hours she slaved trying to make a pig-shaped cake. I like her immediately when she puts her foot down over the request it have a filling of strawberry jam. She didn't want to hack into the cake and recreate Texas Chainsaw Massacre … Bed time is hard enough as it is.
How can I not admire her for letting her mind go there …
I tell her about making 25 super hero capes out of bath towels the night before my son's third birthday.
She looked at me with the same “You are Crazy” admiration.
Our conversation progresses to the slightly more personal: plots of television programs, what phone carrier, who makes the best pizza. We end up talking about the joys of motherhood, both sincere and satirical. You kvetch about homework, high fructose corn syrup, our inability to make our kids wear socks. Bodily functions become a competitive sport. There's talk of projectile vomit and toilet clogging poop.
Oh yes, we go there. It’s what moms do.
It's all gearing up for the most intimate of mom-bonding moments: Swapping birth stories. Each detail memorized and shared with photographic clarity. Each story seems fascinatingly familiar. We revel in the comparisons: where we were when we went into labor, we recount a formulary of drugs and times they were administered. She pushed for 24 minutes but it felt like 24 hours. I wound up with a labor that didn't progress and a c-section. She thinks I got lucky … even with the surgical scar that healed from the inside out. You think she did … even with the episiotomy and third-degree tear.
By the time the party is waning, the few men in attendance are awkwardly smiling at us from the other side of the room. They are talking about the weather, sports or making shelves with a new band saw they bought off of ebay.
We are undeterred.
We've made elaborate birthday cakes, bath towels super hero capes … and humans. We made humans … who are stuffing their faces with pig shaped cake with a red butter cream center.
As we're leaving she asks if I still have her number. I promise to call and set up a play date.
This has the best party ever, I'm so glad I had no regrets.
The RSVP date had already passed. I'd waited to reply for no good reason, a combination forgetfulness and dread. It’s just one more thing to put off doing.
Saturday is filled with things to do: Shopping, laundry, cleaning ... a mid-day party would put us over the top and over extended.
Yet, when the birthday boy's mom answered the phone I inexplicably accepted.
It was something about the sound of her voice as she said hello. Something I recognized as joyful curiosity, even though she didn't know me or the reason for my call. Before I knew what was happening I was sizing her up, making imaginary comparisons and liking our differences.
Optimism. I may not come by it naturally, but I like to think I can acquire it if I keep it in proximity.
Of course, making friends seems like just another chore, one that takes effort and skills that have somehow evaporated with your ability to sleep past the crack of dawn. Even if it were easy, you would put up imaginary barriers: “Just because our kids are friends doesn't mean WE have to be,” you tell yourself.
A series of these thoughts worm their way through your rituals:
I will go, but I won't stay. I will stay but I won't chat. I will chat but I won't be chummy.
But before you know it conversations about the weather evolve — in a graduated sequence — into polite comparisons of thoughts on school, teachers, how often you've driven the kids to school after they missed the bus.
She tells me about how many hours she slaved trying to make a pig-shaped cake. I like her immediately when she puts her foot down over the request it have a filling of strawberry jam. She didn't want to hack into the cake and recreate Texas Chainsaw Massacre … Bed time is hard enough as it is.
How can I not admire her for letting her mind go there …
I tell her about making 25 super hero capes out of bath towels the night before my son's third birthday.
She looked at me with the same “You are Crazy” admiration.
Our conversation progresses to the slightly more personal: plots of television programs, what phone carrier, who makes the best pizza. We end up talking about the joys of motherhood, both sincere and satirical. You kvetch about homework, high fructose corn syrup, our inability to make our kids wear socks. Bodily functions become a competitive sport. There's talk of projectile vomit and toilet clogging poop.
Oh yes, we go there. It’s what moms do.
It's all gearing up for the most intimate of mom-bonding moments: Swapping birth stories. Each detail memorized and shared with photographic clarity. Each story seems fascinatingly familiar. We revel in the comparisons: where we were when we went into labor, we recount a formulary of drugs and times they were administered. She pushed for 24 minutes but it felt like 24 hours. I wound up with a labor that didn't progress and a c-section. She thinks I got lucky … even with the surgical scar that healed from the inside out. You think she did … even with the episiotomy and third-degree tear.
By the time the party is waning, the few men in attendance are awkwardly smiling at us from the other side of the room. They are talking about the weather, sports or making shelves with a new band saw they bought off of ebay.
We are undeterred.
We've made elaborate birthday cakes, bath towels super hero capes … and humans. We made humans … who are stuffing their faces with pig shaped cake with a red butter cream center.
As we're leaving she asks if I still have her number. I promise to call and set up a play date.
This has the best party ever, I'm so glad I had no regrets.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Tick Tock
I almost couldn't believe it. But there it was, crawling across the screen of my iPhone, illuminated by new messages in my gmail inbox.
"I hate apple picking," I said, standing up slowly from the couch, keeping my eyes on the tiny tick making its way toward my thumb, which had been hovering over "delete." I blamed the day's outing for its presence. The last tick I found hitched a ride on the dog, causing me to rethink, albeit momentarily, my ardor for household pets.
"Well ... you didn't want a BlackBerry," my husband says smiling at his own joke. "Seriously, though. You have to cut its head off with your fingernail. Those things are nasty."
I take it into the kitchen and practically set the place on fire trying to rid myself of the reason I'd never set foot outdoors if it were a viable option (and one that wouldn't deprive my kids of a relatively normal childhood, fresh air or Vitamin D).
The half bag of hand-picked apples is mocking me from its place on the counter. Little does it know its contents will be peeled and sliced and baked into pies. Probably tomorrow. Or maybe the next day. Because who doesn't like pie? I'm not even going to jest about that possibility.
What's wrong with going to the farmer's market and getting the kind that are already picked? Not that I'd really ask that question aloud. Not only would it be crazy talk, but it would be met with tearful protest from the minions.
There's some magical element embodied in the Pick-Your-Own produce craze that has helped generations of Americans retain the illusion that they are still in touch with their agricultural heritage ... Not that I'm cynical ... Or bitter from the simple fact I can't even grow a cactus. I'm just willing to ride the wave on my hypocritical surfboard.
Feeling the inertia of a sedentary life may be part of it, too. I dread the weight of the bushel bags we buy from the farm stand and the weight of the pressure to fill them up.We paid for a bushel after all. I also dread the task of searching for apples that are still on the trees and not laying in a fragrant but rotting carpet on the ground beneath them.
The weight of the waste weighs on me, too.
This year, to my delight, the orchard had changed its policy. The bags they provided were smaller and the apples were sold by the pound. The pressure to fill to bursting was lifted. Pick-Your-Own for the first time ceased to be the elephant sitting on the outing.
For the first time I could admit that I really do go apple picking for the Rockwell of it.
I go because I have a friend who I don't get to see as often as I'd like. I go because it's become a tradition that is simple and easy and satisfying for the five children we have between us. We go to the same place year after year because watching our children find bliss at the end of a branch while we shoot the breeze is worth its weight in gold.
It's even worth the occasional arachnid on my Apple.
"I hate apple picking," I said, standing up slowly from the couch, keeping my eyes on the tiny tick making its way toward my thumb, which had been hovering over "delete." I blamed the day's outing for its presence. The last tick I found hitched a ride on the dog, causing me to rethink, albeit momentarily, my ardor for household pets.
"Well ... you didn't want a BlackBerry," my husband says smiling at his own joke. "Seriously, though. You have to cut its head off with your fingernail. Those things are nasty."
I take it into the kitchen and practically set the place on fire trying to rid myself of the reason I'd never set foot outdoors if it were a viable option (and one that wouldn't deprive my kids of a relatively normal childhood, fresh air or Vitamin D).
The half bag of hand-picked apples is mocking me from its place on the counter. Little does it know its contents will be peeled and sliced and baked into pies. Probably tomorrow. Or maybe the next day. Because who doesn't like pie? I'm not even going to jest about that possibility.
What's wrong with going to the farmer's market and getting the kind that are already picked? Not that I'd really ask that question aloud. Not only would it be crazy talk, but it would be met with tearful protest from the minions.
There's some magical element embodied in the Pick-Your-Own produce craze that has helped generations of Americans retain the illusion that they are still in touch with their agricultural heritage ... Not that I'm cynical ... Or bitter from the simple fact I can't even grow a cactus. I'm just willing to ride the wave on my hypocritical surfboard.
Feeling the inertia of a sedentary life may be part of it, too. I dread the weight of the bushel bags we buy from the farm stand and the weight of the pressure to fill them up.We paid for a bushel after all. I also dread the task of searching for apples that are still on the trees and not laying in a fragrant but rotting carpet on the ground beneath them.
The weight of the waste weighs on me, too.
This year, to my delight, the orchard had changed its policy. The bags they provided were smaller and the apples were sold by the pound. The pressure to fill to bursting was lifted. Pick-Your-Own for the first time ceased to be the elephant sitting on the outing.
For the first time I could admit that I really do go apple picking for the Rockwell of it.
I go because I have a friend who I don't get to see as often as I'd like. I go because it's become a tradition that is simple and easy and satisfying for the five children we have between us. We go to the same place year after year because watching our children find bliss at the end of a branch while we shoot the breeze is worth its weight in gold.
It's even worth the occasional arachnid on my Apple.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
If you give a sheep a stamp pad ...
The air is crisp and chilly, the kind of weather that begs you to go outdoors at the crack of dawn.
How long has it been since you've watched the sun burn off fog that is rolling over a working farmyard? I'm telling you, no matter how much anyone grumbles or grouches about having to get out of warm beds at the crack of dawn on a weekend morning, it's worth the effort (even if you have to stop the car and retrieve the cell phone you dropped out the window as you were speeding by trying to capture the moment … but I digress).
You've stopped for doughnuts and some warm cider or coffee.
You might still be a little sleepy as you ramble onward toward, say, a somewhat famous sheep farm. You are careful to finish every morsel of the cinnamon-sugar-covered confection before you slog through the barns to take in the sites.
You could even be sleepwalking for all the quaint nostalgia presented by such a family outing.
The whirr-slosh, whirr-slosh sloshing of the milking machines is oddly comforting as you slurp from your paper cup, the coffee finally losing enough heat to drink. You ignore the smell wafting over the lid as you inhale.
The tour is self guided with no signage, but your children are still of the age in which they actually respect that you know everything. They pepper you with questions:
"Why are the sheep lower than the machines?"
"How do they get them in there?"
"Where does the milk go?"
"How do they get them out again?"
You try your best not to disappoint them, but you must admit you have no idea, only a rough guess. You curse that the Smart Phone is on the fritz or doesn't get reception.
The potential for you to be found out as knowing very little about the particulars of the sheep cheese trade, however, is offset by forward movement and fresh sights.
Not that it's rocket science. If you're observant enough, you think you can probably figure it out.
Such as … did you know they dock the tails of sheep? It's not a revelation to rival the decoding of DNA, but there is something uniquely satisfying about noticing a pattern and drawing a conclusion … based upon the obvious: The littlest lambs in the nursery, tails; the oldest, no tails; the middling lambs … rubber bands and tails in various states of atrophy.
"Why do they do that, mom?"
"My guess it is more hygienic for them if their tails aren't caked in … well … poo."
Hey, I'm not squeamish. I read the books by Taro Gomi and Shinta Cho. But again, I digress.
The widdle wambs are cute and all, but you're amazed you've been able to heed the signs forbidding you to touch them. The meter is running out on your ability to police tiny hands.
It's time for a longer walk along the pasture road.
You revel in all the things you and the children have noticed: The solar-powered electric fence, the electric coil at the bottom of the water trough to keep it from turning solid in winter, the gap in the fence where a ewe got separated from the herd. You watch as she finds her way back from being frantic.
And as you turn to leave your husband may notice something strange.
Such as a ram with a nylon harness, and something that looks like a green, felted jewel on his chest.
Maybe he'll joke about what he must have done to deserve such special treatment.
And then your kids will notice all the other sheep behind the fence … must be half of them … with green splashed across their rumps.
They will start to ask you questions.
“What is that for?”
“How did it get there?”
“No, really. How DID it get there?”
And you will find out, on this glorious fall morning at the sheep farm, that in you've also encountered the birds and the bees. And you may wish you hadn't dropped the Smart Phone.
Sunday, October 03, 2010
Jumping the Shark
"MOMMMMEEEEEEEEEE!" He appears in the doorway to greet me; he's used to his father picking him up from babysitting. Mommy showing up before 6 p.m. is a special treat.
I bend to gather his things; a backpack, a jacket, his lunchbox, some drawings …
But there wasn't the expected clatter of movement toward the door. There wasn't much sound at all.
The silence was eerie.
Our babysitter stared at me with her head cocked and lips pressed to almost disappearing. Her expression was apologetic and awkward in the way that usually precedes bad news. It reminded me of the time when the kids had accidentally seen a shopping supplement and had used it to create the ultimate Christmas wish list — stuff so rare that Santa himself couldn't procure.
"He knows what he wants to be for Halloween," she tells me sheepishly.
"Didn't you tell her what you wanted to be for Halloween?" she called after my son, who was back in the playroom pretending the toys would reassemble themselves into the boxes from which they came.
More silence.
"That would be a 'No.'"
She speaks to him again, quelling a laugh.
"Go ahead, tell her. … Tell your mom what you want to be for Halloween."
He darts into the room and stands at my feet. His stance is wide and his hands are at his hips.
"I'm going to be a humpback whale," he blurts out proudly.
I just stare at him, blinking. The first year that he has had any interest in dressing up … and he's fishing for something I will never be able to land, no matter how much web surfing I do.
The babysitter looks at me and mouths the words "I'm Sorry."
I turn my attention to her. My eyes narrow as I momentarily wish for a caretaker who would have plopped our children in front of the television set instead of helping them exercise their imaginations.
"Dang you, National Geographic!"
"It was a Diego book," she says protesting the questionable wisdom she sees spinning in my mind. "And Diego was going to be a fruit bat for Halloween not a Humpback whale," she says, chortling sinisterly.
I brighten momentarily. "I have an old shark costume from two years ago that he wouldn't wear … "Maybe if I …"
The babysitter's mouth twists slightly to the side. She sucks air in through her teeth and exhales the words that describe what I already know to be true: "That probably isn't going to work. He knows the difference between a shark and a whale."
I imagine she's picturing me as I am picturing myself in the not-too-distant future: sitting behind the sewing machine, pulling my hair out strand by strand as I try to make a humpback whale out of a backpack and a few old bath towels.
"I may have been able to make a bat costume … but a humpback whale?"
"Well, if any one can do it, you can," she says, adding the perfect backhanded complement: "You are amazing."
She's mocking me, of course. Sweatshop laboring last summer to make a few dozen superhero bath capes for birthday party gift bags doesn't really amount to "amazing." In fact, at the time, I think she referred to me as "insane."
Ideas roll around in my head like square marbles, akwardly and with audible effort.
She pats my back as I turn to leave. "Don't worry. You will think of something."
In that instant, I thought of it: "I know what to do! YOU will convince him to be a fruit bat," I tell her.
She starts blinking.
It was my turn to smile. Sometimes tricks really are treats.
I bend to gather his things; a backpack, a jacket, his lunchbox, some drawings …
But there wasn't the expected clatter of movement toward the door. There wasn't much sound at all.
The silence was eerie.
Our babysitter stared at me with her head cocked and lips pressed to almost disappearing. Her expression was apologetic and awkward in the way that usually precedes bad news. It reminded me of the time when the kids had accidentally seen a shopping supplement and had used it to create the ultimate Christmas wish list — stuff so rare that Santa himself couldn't procure.
"He knows what he wants to be for Halloween," she tells me sheepishly.
"Didn't you tell her what you wanted to be for Halloween?" she called after my son, who was back in the playroom pretending the toys would reassemble themselves into the boxes from which they came.
More silence.
"That would be a 'No.'"
She speaks to him again, quelling a laugh.
"Go ahead, tell her. … Tell your mom what you want to be for Halloween."
He darts into the room and stands at my feet. His stance is wide and his hands are at his hips.
"I'm going to be a humpback whale," he blurts out proudly.
I just stare at him, blinking. The first year that he has had any interest in dressing up … and he's fishing for something I will never be able to land, no matter how much web surfing I do.
The babysitter looks at me and mouths the words "I'm Sorry."
I turn my attention to her. My eyes narrow as I momentarily wish for a caretaker who would have plopped our children in front of the television set instead of helping them exercise their imaginations.
"Dang you, National Geographic!"
"It was a Diego book," she says protesting the questionable wisdom she sees spinning in my mind. "And Diego was going to be a fruit bat for Halloween not a Humpback whale," she says, chortling sinisterly.
I brighten momentarily. "I have an old shark costume from two years ago that he wouldn't wear … "Maybe if I …"
The babysitter's mouth twists slightly to the side. She sucks air in through her teeth and exhales the words that describe what I already know to be true: "That probably isn't going to work. He knows the difference between a shark and a whale."
I imagine she's picturing me as I am picturing myself in the not-too-distant future: sitting behind the sewing machine, pulling my hair out strand by strand as I try to make a humpback whale out of a backpack and a few old bath towels.
"I may have been able to make a bat costume … but a humpback whale?"
"Well, if any one can do it, you can," she says, adding the perfect backhanded complement: "You are amazing."
She's mocking me, of course. Sweatshop laboring last summer to make a few dozen superhero bath capes for birthday party gift bags doesn't really amount to "amazing." In fact, at the time, I think she referred to me as "insane."
Ideas roll around in my head like square marbles, akwardly and with audible effort.
She pats my back as I turn to leave. "Don't worry. You will think of something."
In that instant, I thought of it: "I know what to do! YOU will convince him to be a fruit bat," I tell her.
She starts blinking.
It was my turn to smile. Sometimes tricks really are treats.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
What’s wrong with getting it all wrong?
Most parents look forward to the opening of the school year.
Their kids, who have been sitting around all summer begging for something to do (because they have been SOOOOOOOOOOOO Bore-DAH!) traipse happily back to school with their fresh supplies and snappy new clothes. They can't wait to meet up with friends and have their experiences structured in neat, 42-minute intervals.
As soon as the doors close on the Yellow Bus that first day, parents generally dust their hands and breathe a sigh of relief into their morning coffee. As their kids go back to school, they soak in those first peaceful hours and feel back to normal.
I wish that were me.
School, in my anxiety-addled mind, presents a huge opportunity to fail as a parent in embarrassing and potentially devastating ways. Collectively, we think these missteps are destined to ensure that Harvard and Yale have already heard of our children and are in the process of hiring security. The way we're mucking up their lives, they scoff, it will be amazing if Astoria Trucking will accept their transcripts.
Everyone says the early years are most important. I sure hope that's not the case ...
Hmmm. … Who was it who forgot to attend their daughter's first school Birthday Party? Forgot to bring a birthday snack? Oh right, that was me.
Bad mom.
There are so many dates in the calendar destined to be forgotten: When does school start? An orientation? Which day was that?
Bad mom.
Parenthood feels like a state of life in which no amount of preparation is enough, and not enough preparation sets your kids on the road to an address under a bridge.
Did we do enough reading over the summer? Did we practice any numbers? Holy mackerel, she can't tie her shoes.
Shoulders up to my ears, I endure the long days with a thousand what ifs.
What if she doesn't like her new teacher? What if her teacher doesn't like her? What if she doesn't like the after-school program? What happens then?
Worry, worry, worry.
Looking at opportunity from the wrong direction is exactly how anxiety distorts a person's outlook. Backward thinking. It keeps us from having faith or hope. So I force myself to think past my fears.
It doesn't hurt that you get a "do-over" with your second child ... or a doing it all wrong again, but I'm not going there.
When I dropped off The Champ for his first day of preschool this year I felt a little of both. He was wearing pajamas and a smudge of breakfast on his face. He said goodbye, I kissed his cheek and pasted a smile on my face as I walked past the teachers.
There were no tears, no 'mommy stays.' There was just him, playing, sleepwear and all.
Still, I felt as if I were holding my breath for the rest of the day.
More what ifs crowd out any happy thoughts. … What if he growls at other children who want to play? What if he won't share toys? What if he sits in the corner and sulks?
I've seen so many sides of my children I'm never quite sure which will come out or when. I worry that first impressions will imprint themselves incorrectly ... and that the judgment will follow them forever.
Will he be needy or clingy or difficult? Will he be charming and social and funny?
I feel disloyal as I wait for the teacher to give her verdict.
When she tells me "He's so great!" I relax a little. I know it's true, he is great. And it occurs to me that maybe the only thing wrong about "getting it all wrong" is worrying about it.
Their kids, who have been sitting around all summer begging for something to do (because they have been SOOOOOOOOOOOO Bore-DAH!) traipse happily back to school with their fresh supplies and snappy new clothes. They can't wait to meet up with friends and have their experiences structured in neat, 42-minute intervals.
As soon as the doors close on the Yellow Bus that first day, parents generally dust their hands and breathe a sigh of relief into their morning coffee. As their kids go back to school, they soak in those first peaceful hours and feel back to normal.
I wish that were me.
School, in my anxiety-addled mind, presents a huge opportunity to fail as a parent in embarrassing and potentially devastating ways. Collectively, we think these missteps are destined to ensure that Harvard and Yale have already heard of our children and are in the process of hiring security. The way we're mucking up their lives, they scoff, it will be amazing if Astoria Trucking will accept their transcripts.
Everyone says the early years are most important. I sure hope that's not the case ...
Hmmm. … Who was it who forgot to attend their daughter's first school Birthday Party? Forgot to bring a birthday snack? Oh right, that was me.
Bad mom.
There are so many dates in the calendar destined to be forgotten: When does school start? An orientation? Which day was that?
Bad mom.
Parenthood feels like a state of life in which no amount of preparation is enough, and not enough preparation sets your kids on the road to an address under a bridge.
Did we do enough reading over the summer? Did we practice any numbers? Holy mackerel, she can't tie her shoes.
Shoulders up to my ears, I endure the long days with a thousand what ifs.
What if she doesn't like her new teacher? What if her teacher doesn't like her? What if she doesn't like the after-school program? What happens then?
Worry, worry, worry.
Looking at opportunity from the wrong direction is exactly how anxiety distorts a person's outlook. Backward thinking. It keeps us from having faith or hope. So I force myself to think past my fears.
It doesn't hurt that you get a "do-over" with your second child ... or a doing it all wrong again, but I'm not going there.
When I dropped off The Champ for his first day of preschool this year I felt a little of both. He was wearing pajamas and a smudge of breakfast on his face. He said goodbye, I kissed his cheek and pasted a smile on my face as I walked past the teachers.
There were no tears, no 'mommy stays.' There was just him, playing, sleepwear and all.
Still, I felt as if I were holding my breath for the rest of the day.
More what ifs crowd out any happy thoughts. … What if he growls at other children who want to play? What if he won't share toys? What if he sits in the corner and sulks?
I've seen so many sides of my children I'm never quite sure which will come out or when. I worry that first impressions will imprint themselves incorrectly ... and that the judgment will follow them forever.
Will he be needy or clingy or difficult? Will he be charming and social and funny?
I feel disloyal as I wait for the teacher to give her verdict.
When she tells me "He's so great!" I relax a little. I know it's true, he is great. And it occurs to me that maybe the only thing wrong about "getting it all wrong" is worrying about it.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Can’t hear the noise for all the decibels
"How long has it been making THAT noise?" my husband asked in alarm.
"Huh?" I hesitated. "What noise?"
"THAT noise," he repeated, flicking off the radio so I could hear the rev of the engine as it cleared its mechanical throat of some kind of gear or gasket. "Pretty soon it will sound like a tank. It's probably the manifold."
"Oh … that. I don't know when it began exactly. Probably the same time I turned up the radio to try and drowned it out. Really. Not long."
It wasn't a lie but it was hiding an inconvenient truth: I didn't want to think about the potential need for a new car. I had been keeping this one rolling along for more years than any other car in the neighborhood, and it had become a source of pride. Drowning out each new noise with circa '90s rock rebellion was so much more satisfying than worrying about repairs.
I didn't mention the dance - a sort of shaking shimmy - the car convulses with at unpredictable times. That can't be good. But it's not happening at the moment. Out of sight … out of my mind.
He shakes his head. He knows the drill. Someday soon … hopefully on a warm, non-precipitous day, preferably once the kids are in school or at the sitter's … he'll be summoned to meet me wherever the old girl has decided to conk out. I'm hoping the rendezvous will be nearby a coffee shop with toothsome treats. He's hoping he won't be along a highway at rush hour.
Either way, it's more than likely my cell phone will be out of juice or sitting in its charger at home.
I keep chugging along as the car steps up its noisy commute. Clunkety, clunk, clunk. Lately it feels as if I'm pushing the car uphill with the sheer force of will and my foot pressed firmly to the floorboard. Still, I feel the heat of the scorn from the cars behind me … unable to drive faster than 30 miles per hour … and unable to pass on the upward curve.
I'm sure they are surprised, when they get a chance to pass, that the woman behind the wheel doesn't have blue hair or bifocals … yet.
Procrastination, at least when it comes to visiting the mechanic, is all the ratio of risk and reward. If you are risking your life savings for two months of smooth sailing in a land yacht there's more reason to take your chances on a long-distance tow.
Strange how things change.
I used to be so conscientious about the car. But so many other things have usurped its importance. It's been quite a while since tune ups and scheduled maintenance had actually been scheduled.
It used to be a running joke that "nothing" was ever wrong with a car until the man of the house experienced the symptoms while he was driving it.
You could tell him all about how the brakes that locked up or replicate the squeal that escaped from under the hood until you were blue in the face. These strange and disturbing occurrences were the mechanical equivalent of the proverbial tree falling in the forest with no one around to hear it.
But now the joke is on me.
Trees could be falling all around me and I'd just turn up the radio.
Write to Siobhan Connally at sconnally@troyrecord.com or read more online at www.troyrecord.com, click on “Blogs.”
"Huh?" I hesitated. "What noise?"
"THAT noise," he repeated, flicking off the radio so I could hear the rev of the engine as it cleared its mechanical throat of some kind of gear or gasket. "Pretty soon it will sound like a tank. It's probably the manifold."
"Oh … that. I don't know when it began exactly. Probably the same time I turned up the radio to try and drowned it out. Really. Not long."
It wasn't a lie but it was hiding an inconvenient truth: I didn't want to think about the potential need for a new car. I had been keeping this one rolling along for more years than any other car in the neighborhood, and it had become a source of pride. Drowning out each new noise with circa '90s rock rebellion was so much more satisfying than worrying about repairs.
I didn't mention the dance - a sort of shaking shimmy - the car convulses with at unpredictable times. That can't be good. But it's not happening at the moment. Out of sight … out of my mind.
He shakes his head. He knows the drill. Someday soon … hopefully on a warm, non-precipitous day, preferably once the kids are in school or at the sitter's … he'll be summoned to meet me wherever the old girl has decided to conk out. I'm hoping the rendezvous will be nearby a coffee shop with toothsome treats. He's hoping he won't be along a highway at rush hour.
Either way, it's more than likely my cell phone will be out of juice or sitting in its charger at home.
I keep chugging along as the car steps up its noisy commute. Clunkety, clunk, clunk. Lately it feels as if I'm pushing the car uphill with the sheer force of will and my foot pressed firmly to the floorboard. Still, I feel the heat of the scorn from the cars behind me … unable to drive faster than 30 miles per hour … and unable to pass on the upward curve.
I'm sure they are surprised, when they get a chance to pass, that the woman behind the wheel doesn't have blue hair or bifocals … yet.
Procrastination, at least when it comes to visiting the mechanic, is all the ratio of risk and reward. If you are risking your life savings for two months of smooth sailing in a land yacht there's more reason to take your chances on a long-distance tow.
Strange how things change.
I used to be so conscientious about the car. But so many other things have usurped its importance. It's been quite a while since tune ups and scheduled maintenance had actually been scheduled.
It used to be a running joke that "nothing" was ever wrong with a car until the man of the house experienced the symptoms while he was driving it.
You could tell him all about how the brakes that locked up or replicate the squeal that escaped from under the hood until you were blue in the face. These strange and disturbing occurrences were the mechanical equivalent of the proverbial tree falling in the forest with no one around to hear it.
But now the joke is on me.
Trees could be falling all around me and I'd just turn up the radio.
Write to Siobhan Connally at sconnally@troyrecord.com or read more online at www.troyrecord.com, click on “Blogs.”
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Just a sec ... Mommy's iPhoning it in
Hello. My name is Siobhan. And I’m addicted to TapFish.
I stupidly downloaded the virtual aquarium game onto my "smart phone" thinking it would give the kids something to do while we were driving (besides pestering me about going the wrong way or being lost all together).
However, my virtual conscience kept me up late at night, feeding the kids’ "fish" so they wouldn’t go belly up. I even found myself just visiting neighboring "tanks" to see how the other wannabe pisciculturalists are fairing. Sometimes I feed their fish, too.
"Did ya see me?" she squeals, the excitement of whatever it was I missed bubbling into a froth. "Did ya see? Did ya see?"
No, honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t see, I was feeding your fish. Can you do it again?
But the magic is over. No matter how she sits or spins or contorts, it’s obvious from her expression there is no recreation possible.
"Oh!" She says with disappointed tone. "That’s too bad."
I wish I was making up what she said next. Without a hint of malice and without ever having heard a single stanza, she channeled the spirit of Harry Chapin to lecture me …
"You’re missing everything. And you know, someday, when I’m a grown woman and you want my attention, I probably will be too busy for you. That’s how it is you know."
The words sting.
I flip through the journal she’s been keeping for summer homework. She’s drawn colorful pictures and written mostly legible entries about her activities over the past two months:
"We went to the park … I climbed the BIG jungle gym."
"I went to the pool and swam underwater!"
"I made snow angels in the sand. It was funny."
"I saw bees at the beekeeper’s house! I didn’t even get stung."
None of the entries were things she’d done with me. All the really memorable stuff she experienced over her summer vacation she did with friends and baby sitters and grandparents while I was working.
That stung, too.
I have to admit, however painful, that as a working mom whose desk has magically teleported to her cell phone, distractions are ever-present. I spend so much more of my time with my head bowed to a hand-held device. Even when I turn it off, it’s never truly disconnected.
The fact is, whenever it’s in my hand, I feel compelled to check on it more than I’ve ever felt compelled to check on the kids. So even when I’m here, I’m not really there.
I know I’m not alone. Research consistently being churned out rubs our noses in the mess we’re creating with technology overload. Technological addiction isn’t debated as much as it is denied: “I’m not ignoring my kids. I’m just not bending to their whims. I can stop anytime I like.”
Yet it just seems like a sign of the apocalypse how video games are being designed to help us get our expanding rear-ends off the couch.
I’m not casting the first stone but I certainly know that if I don’t do something soon, I’ll be facing a chip off the old block.
"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."
"Wha?"
"Didn’t you hear me? I’ve been calling your name for like a hundred years."
"I’m sorry. I was reading an email. What did you say?"
"Can I play with your iPhone now? I have to feed my fish."
I stupidly downloaded the virtual aquarium game onto my "smart phone" thinking it would give the kids something to do while we were driving (besides pestering me about going the wrong way or being lost all together).
However, my virtual conscience kept me up late at night, feeding the kids’ "fish" so they wouldn’t go belly up. I even found myself just visiting neighboring "tanks" to see how the other wannabe pisciculturalists are fairing. Sometimes I feed their fish, too.
"Did ya see me?" she squeals, the excitement of whatever it was I missed bubbling into a froth. "Did ya see? Did ya see?"
No, honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t see, I was feeding your fish. Can you do it again?
But the magic is over. No matter how she sits or spins or contorts, it’s obvious from her expression there is no recreation possible.
"Oh!" She says with disappointed tone. "That’s too bad."
I wish I was making up what she said next. Without a hint of malice and without ever having heard a single stanza, she channeled the spirit of Harry Chapin to lecture me …
"You’re missing everything. And you know, someday, when I’m a grown woman and you want my attention, I probably will be too busy for you. That’s how it is you know."
The words sting.
I flip through the journal she’s been keeping for summer homework. She’s drawn colorful pictures and written mostly legible entries about her activities over the past two months:
"We went to the park … I climbed the BIG jungle gym."
"I went to the pool and swam underwater!"
"I made snow angels in the sand. It was funny."
"I saw bees at the beekeeper’s house! I didn’t even get stung."
None of the entries were things she’d done with me. All the really memorable stuff she experienced over her summer vacation she did with friends and baby sitters and grandparents while I was working.
That stung, too.
I have to admit, however painful, that as a working mom whose desk has magically teleported to her cell phone, distractions are ever-present. I spend so much more of my time with my head bowed to a hand-held device. Even when I turn it off, it’s never truly disconnected.
The fact is, whenever it’s in my hand, I feel compelled to check on it more than I’ve ever felt compelled to check on the kids. So even when I’m here, I’m not really there.
I know I’m not alone. Research consistently being churned out rubs our noses in the mess we’re creating with technology overload. Technological addiction isn’t debated as much as it is denied: “I’m not ignoring my kids. I’m just not bending to their whims. I can stop anytime I like.”
Yet it just seems like a sign of the apocalypse how video games are being designed to help us get our expanding rear-ends off the couch.
I’m not casting the first stone but I certainly know that if I don’t do something soon, I’ll be facing a chip off the old block.
"Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa."
"Wha?"
"Didn’t you hear me? I’ve been calling your name for like a hundred years."
"I’m sorry. I was reading an email. What did you say?"
"Can I play with your iPhone now? I have to feed my fish."
Sunday, September 05, 2010
Photoshop, not a diamond, is a girl’s best friend
Did I ever tell you that I once had the job title "Wedding Consultant?" for a formerly local-ish studio photography company?
No?
It was way back when I was the girl who never wanted to get married, never wanted to have children. ... just wanted to roam around with a camera and see new things.
Tragically clichéd, I realize now.
I was perhaps (depending on your position on sales) the worst wedding consultant in the history of wedding consultants. I'd routinely tell folks to buy the least expensive package ... and save their money for a down payment on a house … or a car … or the honeymoon.
I reckoned there would be the same amount of photos to choose from the finished album would just be bigger. "You can always upgrade," is what I’d advise.
That was a fun job.
There were a lot of hilariously imaginative requests.
"Can you make the wall green? I meant to have that room painted before the wedding but never got to do it."
"I am not speaking to my sister anymore. Can you crop her out of the photos?"
"My husband had too much to drink at the cocktail hour and then hung out with his friends all night in the bar. Can you work some magic and put him in some pictures with me at the reception?"
Ah … true love. …
As entertaining as sales can be, nothing compares to my early days in newspapers, where I learned wedding and engagement announcements have their own hidden appeal. You not only get to peek into the lives of different kinds of folks who are all doing the same thing — getting married — you also get to laugh a little at what the hype and hoopla makes them do.
Such as the woman whose engagement photo was a photocopy of a snapshot that had another photocopy of the groom-to-be's head taped next to the bride-to-be. At first I laughed, thinking the unprintable art project was the result of timing and desperation. Maybe they didn't have any good photos together yet?
Yeah ... No.
I later learned the bride-to-be didn't like her intended's physique so she taped a picture of her beloved's head onto her ex-boyfriend's body. She had a nice smile in that old picture, too, and thought it was a shame to waste it.
I will not tell you what odds I placed on the longevity of that marriage, but I imagined the wedding proofs should be speedy if the photographer wanted to get paid.
Sure, I laughed … but I never really understood how much I had in common with that vain bride until I had an engagement of my own to announce.
I set up my tripod and my Yashicamat twin lens reflex in a make-shift studio and demanded my intended smile for the camera.
I set the timer and ran to his side a dozen times.
When the roll was developed it seemed apparent to me that while there were frames that flattered us both, there were none that flatter us together.
So I did what any self-respecting Bridezilla would do. I picked photograph that flattered me best and I pasted his head from another into the frame.
Turns out Photoshop, more than diamonds, is a girl's best friend.
No?
It was way back when I was the girl who never wanted to get married, never wanted to have children. ... just wanted to roam around with a camera and see new things.
Tragically clichéd, I realize now.
I was perhaps (depending on your position on sales) the worst wedding consultant in the history of wedding consultants. I'd routinely tell folks to buy the least expensive package ... and save their money for a down payment on a house … or a car … or the honeymoon.
I reckoned there would be the same amount of photos to choose from the finished album would just be bigger. "You can always upgrade," is what I’d advise.
That was a fun job.
There were a lot of hilariously imaginative requests.
"Can you make the wall green? I meant to have that room painted before the wedding but never got to do it."
"I am not speaking to my sister anymore. Can you crop her out of the photos?"
"My husband had too much to drink at the cocktail hour and then hung out with his friends all night in the bar. Can you work some magic and put him in some pictures with me at the reception?"
Ah … true love. …
As entertaining as sales can be, nothing compares to my early days in newspapers, where I learned wedding and engagement announcements have their own hidden appeal. You not only get to peek into the lives of different kinds of folks who are all doing the same thing — getting married — you also get to laugh a little at what the hype and hoopla makes them do.
Such as the woman whose engagement photo was a photocopy of a snapshot that had another photocopy of the groom-to-be's head taped next to the bride-to-be. At first I laughed, thinking the unprintable art project was the result of timing and desperation. Maybe they didn't have any good photos together yet?
Yeah ... No.
I later learned the bride-to-be didn't like her intended's physique so she taped a picture of her beloved's head onto her ex-boyfriend's body. She had a nice smile in that old picture, too, and thought it was a shame to waste it.
I will not tell you what odds I placed on the longevity of that marriage, but I imagined the wedding proofs should be speedy if the photographer wanted to get paid.
Sure, I laughed … but I never really understood how much I had in common with that vain bride until I had an engagement of my own to announce.
I set up my tripod and my Yashicamat twin lens reflex in a make-shift studio and demanded my intended smile for the camera.
I set the timer and ran to his side a dozen times.
When the roll was developed it seemed apparent to me that while there were frames that flattered us both, there were none that flatter us together.
So I did what any self-respecting Bridezilla would do. I picked photograph that flattered me best and I pasted his head from another into the frame.
Turns out Photoshop, more than diamonds, is a girl's best friend.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
They don’t call ’em ‘action figures’ for nothing
"Mama! I can't find Monkey Baby," said my teary little boy, his grip on my slacks threatening embarrassment.
"He must be here," I soothed, uncurling his little vice grips from my legs and hiking up my pants. "You just had him a minute ago. I just saw him."
But lo … Monkey Baby — a recent purchase and identical to a Monkey Baby his sister adopted the week prior — was nowhere to behold.
Three weeks of sifting through garbage, moving furniture and scuttling through toy boxes proved fruitless.
It's a little more than creepy if you ask me.
The phenomenon of the sock missing from the dryer is nothing compared to the mystery of the black hole that has apparently formed somewhere in our home. It absconds with toys.
And not just broken playthings, or old, unused or annoying things that some nefarious parent-like person might store away in a cardboard box in the garage for a two-week trial period.
Typically, in such toy abductions, if the disappearance goes unnoticed, the plastic hostages are sent on vacation to the lovely and exciting lands of Salvation and Goodwill.
Ahem. Not that I would know anything about such things. …
This toy black hole sucks in some of our new and more expensive toys, never to be seen nor heard from again. Like Monkey Baby, whose replacement was engineered by a special shopping expedition.
I mentioned the plight to our babysitter, and her eyes widened.
"You're KIDDING me!" she exclaims in a way that made the hair on my neck stand up. "Buzz Lightyear and the Batman Cape have disappeared from my house, too. They were there and then they were gone. I've even moved the furniture. Poof, gone."
I didn't know what to say. My mind was spinning out of control. "Is there a hole in the universe that takes toys? Because, really, this stuff is just GONE. It would totally explain why the Toy Story trilogy is so compelling: it's partly based in fact …"
Blank. Stare.
I'd gone over the edge of Reality into the chasm of Just Plain Silly.
"It must be here," she said in a calm, measured voice. "Eventually this stuff will turn up."
She's right, I tell myself. Our houses are warrens of nooks and crannies. There are any number of places toys might be deposited and overlooked. …
But I don't really believe. …
The phone rings. It is Ittybit asking if I will bring "Amy," the expensive dolly her Amah gave her. She forgot it and Amah has splurged on new clothes.
I think nothing of the request until after I search her bedroom, the toy bins and even my closet where Ittybit has been known to play with her plastic doppelganger.
She's gone.
I ask my husband to check the house … he comes up with nothing either.
I call the babysitter, it's a long shot but I have to try.
"Have you seen Amy, Ittybit's super-expensive-grandma-doll? I can't find it anywhere. She didn't take it to your house, did she?"
"Honestly, I don't think I've ever seen that doll," she replied.
And then there was that eerie silence.
"There has to be a simple explanation," she says, hopefully.
"Yeah. I'm sure you're right. I bet Amy's just off some place playing Super Heroes with Monkey Baby and Buzz."
"He must be here," I soothed, uncurling his little vice grips from my legs and hiking up my pants. "You just had him a minute ago. I just saw him."
But lo … Monkey Baby — a recent purchase and identical to a Monkey Baby his sister adopted the week prior — was nowhere to behold.
Three weeks of sifting through garbage, moving furniture and scuttling through toy boxes proved fruitless.
It's a little more than creepy if you ask me.
The phenomenon of the sock missing from the dryer is nothing compared to the mystery of the black hole that has apparently formed somewhere in our home. It absconds with toys.
And not just broken playthings, or old, unused or annoying things that some nefarious parent-like person might store away in a cardboard box in the garage for a two-week trial period.
Typically, in such toy abductions, if the disappearance goes unnoticed, the plastic hostages are sent on vacation to the lovely and exciting lands of Salvation and Goodwill.
Ahem. Not that I would know anything about such things. …
This toy black hole sucks in some of our new and more expensive toys, never to be seen nor heard from again. Like Monkey Baby, whose replacement was engineered by a special shopping expedition.
I mentioned the plight to our babysitter, and her eyes widened.
"You're KIDDING me!" she exclaims in a way that made the hair on my neck stand up. "Buzz Lightyear and the Batman Cape have disappeared from my house, too. They were there and then they were gone. I've even moved the furniture. Poof, gone."
I didn't know what to say. My mind was spinning out of control. "Is there a hole in the universe that takes toys? Because, really, this stuff is just GONE. It would totally explain why the Toy Story trilogy is so compelling: it's partly based in fact …"
Blank. Stare.
I'd gone over the edge of Reality into the chasm of Just Plain Silly.
"It must be here," she said in a calm, measured voice. "Eventually this stuff will turn up."
She's right, I tell myself. Our houses are warrens of nooks and crannies. There are any number of places toys might be deposited and overlooked. …
But I don't really believe. …
The phone rings. It is Ittybit asking if I will bring "Amy," the expensive dolly her Amah gave her. She forgot it and Amah has splurged on new clothes.
I think nothing of the request until after I search her bedroom, the toy bins and even my closet where Ittybit has been known to play with her plastic doppelganger.
She's gone.
I ask my husband to check the house … he comes up with nothing either.
I call the babysitter, it's a long shot but I have to try.
"Have you seen Amy, Ittybit's super-expensive-grandma-doll? I can't find it anywhere. She didn't take it to your house, did she?"
"Honestly, I don't think I've ever seen that doll," she replied.
And then there was that eerie silence.
"There has to be a simple explanation," she says, hopefully.
"Yeah. I'm sure you're right. I bet Amy's just off some place playing Super Heroes with Monkey Baby and Buzz."
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Facing life’s flow, ebb in the dog days of summer
"I remember the first time I ever saw mommy cry," Ittybit announced as I opened the car door, officially ending a tiresome five-hour drive and our two-week New England vacation. The car was ripe with the smell of damp bathing suits and wet dog.
She was still sitting in her car seat, surrounded by the necessities of travel and the trinkets of tourism, as I tried to catch empty bottles rolling out onto our driveway.
"What did you say?" I asked, catching the words but dropping their meaning.
"I remember the first time I ever saw you cry," she said directly and with careful enunciation, as if I had recently stopped understanding English.
I cocked my head, interested.
She stopped smiling and said "it was when Maggie …" Her voice trailed off.
We both looked down at Maddy, the surviving member of our canine duo, now 105 in dog years. The champ never met Maggie, her older sister. She left us a few months before he was born.
Maddy just lay there waiting for help down. She was tired from two weeks in vaguely familiar places just outside the ordinary routine of "eat, sleep and eat some more."
My husband helped her down from the car he had helped her into. No one said anything as we hauled the bags from the trunk and carried them inside, but we were all thinking "It won’t be long now…"
That sentence always seems to float around unfinished and unspoken when conversations lead to our furry friend.
It’s what I thought last summer at the beach, and in the fall when her incontinence seemed unmanageable, and at Christmas when she stopped going up stairs. It’s what I think with the increasing dosages and decreasing agility. "It won’t be long now …"
I’m never able to complete the thought, however, despite having spoken aloud that "I can’t wait for her to go."
It’s not true. It’s just gallows humor. Fear talking.
I even hate bringing her to the vet because I know one day she won’t be coming home. I hold my breath until the moment the vet gives his diagnosis. I wonder what expression he sees on my face as he tells me the news: "Other than the incontinence, she seems really healthy," his voice apologetic, as if my suffering was worse than hers.
I didn’t wonder why Ittybit chose that moment to bring back the memory of Maggie or my sadness in saying ‘Goodbye‘ to her, although I imagine she’s turning the same thought over in her fertile mind about Maddy's slow but steady decline. I just assume she can read my expressions better than our veterinarian can.
She was in swim class when I took Maddy for a morning walk the last day at the beach. Our morning walks with the dogs (now singular) have been a summer ritual more than a decade old. Ittybit didn’t see the tears the wind dried as my dog – my first non-human child – stumbled in the sand trying to keep up with me. Ittybit doesn’t have clear memories of her bounding into the surf, oblivious of the pounding waves. Those are pictures that play over and over in my mind.
The playful puppy is gone as are her more troublesome behaviors … the pulling and barking and running away seem like distant memories. On this day, as we walk, Maddy barely touches the moist sand and stops often to rest. She no longer needs a leash.
"It won’t be long now …" I think as I bend to pet her flank and she appears to smile.
I suppose it wouldn't hurt to hope for one more summer.
She was still sitting in her car seat, surrounded by the necessities of travel and the trinkets of tourism, as I tried to catch empty bottles rolling out onto our driveway.
"What did you say?" I asked, catching the words but dropping their meaning.
"I remember the first time I ever saw you cry," she said directly and with careful enunciation, as if I had recently stopped understanding English.
I cocked my head, interested.
She stopped smiling and said "it was when Maggie …" Her voice trailed off.
We both looked down at Maddy, the surviving member of our canine duo, now 105 in dog years. The champ never met Maggie, her older sister. She left us a few months before he was born.
Maddy just lay there waiting for help down. She was tired from two weeks in vaguely familiar places just outside the ordinary routine of "eat, sleep and eat some more."
My husband helped her down from the car he had helped her into. No one said anything as we hauled the bags from the trunk and carried them inside, but we were all thinking "It won’t be long now…"
That sentence always seems to float around unfinished and unspoken when conversations lead to our furry friend.
It’s what I thought last summer at the beach, and in the fall when her incontinence seemed unmanageable, and at Christmas when she stopped going up stairs. It’s what I think with the increasing dosages and decreasing agility. "It won’t be long now …"
I’m never able to complete the thought, however, despite having spoken aloud that "I can’t wait for her to go."
It’s not true. It’s just gallows humor. Fear talking.
I even hate bringing her to the vet because I know one day she won’t be coming home. I hold my breath until the moment the vet gives his diagnosis. I wonder what expression he sees on my face as he tells me the news: "Other than the incontinence, she seems really healthy," his voice apologetic, as if my suffering was worse than hers.
I didn’t wonder why Ittybit chose that moment to bring back the memory of Maggie or my sadness in saying ‘Goodbye‘ to her, although I imagine she’s turning the same thought over in her fertile mind about Maddy's slow but steady decline. I just assume she can read my expressions better than our veterinarian can.
She was in swim class when I took Maddy for a morning walk the last day at the beach. Our morning walks with the dogs (now singular) have been a summer ritual more than a decade old. Ittybit didn’t see the tears the wind dried as my dog – my first non-human child – stumbled in the sand trying to keep up with me. Ittybit doesn’t have clear memories of her bounding into the surf, oblivious of the pounding waves. Those are pictures that play over and over in my mind.
The playful puppy is gone as are her more troublesome behaviors … the pulling and barking and running away seem like distant memories. On this day, as we walk, Maddy barely touches the moist sand and stops often to rest. She no longer needs a leash.
"It won’t be long now …" I think as I bend to pet her flank and she appears to smile.
I suppose it wouldn't hurt to hope for one more summer.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Oh, snap
Her hands moved quickly and efficiently through the paperwork. School rules can be so complicated. Had I filled everything out correctly? Her eyebrows stayed at a steady angle. Never raising, never lowering. Everything must be fine.
She was older, a grandmother perhaps. My attention was drawn from the task to the colorful elastics she wore on her wrist. I knew them immediately as Silly Bandz, the silicone rubber bands molded to look like just about anything. They had become notorious during the last months of the previous school year.
Kids ringed their arms with them until not a smidgen of skin was left showing. Teachers and administrators scorned them, since the effect of their existence may be cause for disruption. They had even made their way on to my own wrist, plucked - as I imagine this woman came by hers - from the floor while sweeping.
Innocuous and yet infuriating.
Ittybit came home from school with one of the demon bands a few days after news flooded the world about these dastardly abominations of office supply. Her school bus driver had given it to her. It might as well have been a band of gold for all her gloat.
"Isn’t it beautiful?" she asked, not at all like a question.
"It sure is," I laughed, thinking of the half-dozen rubber bands – virtually identical -- I'd bought on impulse at a museum shop four years ago … a pink pig, a yellow goose, a green goat. … I don’t remember what else, beside the original set having a much higher price tag and a lower rate of interest. They disappeared into the crevices of our home within a matter of days.
They were rubber bands, after all, and in addition to being easily forgotten were also prone to higher mammals (such as my husband) launching them toward small objects in an effort to knock them over for imaginary points. "Pig goes in for the pepper, but Goose gets in there for an upset. And the crowd goes wild … HARR."
Not everyone has such an imagination.
Certainly not the mother waiting in line behind us with paperwork of her own, who gave Ittybit the stink-eye the moment she saw the band wrapped around her wrist. I was smiling when she rushed over to me with an accusingly helpful tone of alarm: "You do realize her teachers don't allow those in the classrooms," she hissed. "I don't even let my daughter have them. Such a distraction, you know. Awful, awful distraction."
I just laughed and said I thought it was silly.
"They are not the devil incarnate. They are just rubber bands. Silly, clever little elastics that serve any number of purposes. Admiration, in the form of collectible shapes and phosphorescent shades, is probably long overdue."
I can't say as I blame her for keeping her distance after that. The cardinal rule in parenting has always been to disavow whatever it is that Kids Today are into. Short dresses, fast cars, long hair, rock music, pierced body parts, rubber bands that look like cows … All that stuff leads to sex and drugs and civil disobedience. There are rules. They must be followed.
Silly Bandz must be stopped.
Admittedly, I didn't care much about the Silly Bandz protests when the media plucked them off of Twitter one slow news day. I was more concerned about schools requiring doctors' orders and med-certified staff members to apply sunscreen to my kid before going outside mid-day.
And yes, I did make a pest of myself trying to get a reason why the administration would adopt a sun policy that undermined health curriculum, which stresses the use of protective clothing and sunscreen.
The first answer I got was an administrative one: There’s a tremendous increase in the number of children with allergies. I didn’t buy it. One child that the nurse knew of didn’t seem to me to be an overwhelming increase.
I asked again. "Teachers take the time to have children wash their hands before they eat. They require hats, boots and snow pants for winter weather. Why not practice the importance of wearing of hats in the sun and the use of sunscreen?"
The second answer was more honest at least: It's not fair to expect teachers to do a parent's job. If a parent wants their child to have sunscreen, they should apply it before school. The End. Thank you for calling.
I asked other parents but found few interested in raising any eyebrows let alone pitchforks. Sun damage doesn’t seem high on anyone’s radar. It’s definitely not as fun as ranting on Silly Bandz. Twenty years down the road, after all, isn't as pressing as right this very minute.
I shrugged my shoulders and let it drop. I decided to pick up a package of fruit-shaped elastics instead.
She was older, a grandmother perhaps. My attention was drawn from the task to the colorful elastics she wore on her wrist. I knew them immediately as Silly Bandz, the silicone rubber bands molded to look like just about anything. They had become notorious during the last months of the previous school year.
Kids ringed their arms with them until not a smidgen of skin was left showing. Teachers and administrators scorned them, since the effect of their existence may be cause for disruption. They had even made their way on to my own wrist, plucked - as I imagine this woman came by hers - from the floor while sweeping.
Innocuous and yet infuriating.
Ittybit came home from school with one of the demon bands a few days after news flooded the world about these dastardly abominations of office supply. Her school bus driver had given it to her. It might as well have been a band of gold for all her gloat.
"Isn’t it beautiful?" she asked, not at all like a question.
"It sure is," I laughed, thinking of the half-dozen rubber bands – virtually identical -- I'd bought on impulse at a museum shop four years ago … a pink pig, a yellow goose, a green goat. … I don’t remember what else, beside the original set having a much higher price tag and a lower rate of interest. They disappeared into the crevices of our home within a matter of days.
They were rubber bands, after all, and in addition to being easily forgotten were also prone to higher mammals (such as my husband) launching them toward small objects in an effort to knock them over for imaginary points. "Pig goes in for the pepper, but Goose gets in there for an upset. And the crowd goes wild … HARR."
Not everyone has such an imagination.
Certainly not the mother waiting in line behind us with paperwork of her own, who gave Ittybit the stink-eye the moment she saw the band wrapped around her wrist. I was smiling when she rushed over to me with an accusingly helpful tone of alarm: "You do realize her teachers don't allow those in the classrooms," she hissed. "I don't even let my daughter have them. Such a distraction, you know. Awful, awful distraction."
I just laughed and said I thought it was silly.
"They are not the devil incarnate. They are just rubber bands. Silly, clever little elastics that serve any number of purposes. Admiration, in the form of collectible shapes and phosphorescent shades, is probably long overdue."
I can't say as I blame her for keeping her distance after that. The cardinal rule in parenting has always been to disavow whatever it is that Kids Today are into. Short dresses, fast cars, long hair, rock music, pierced body parts, rubber bands that look like cows … All that stuff leads to sex and drugs and civil disobedience. There are rules. They must be followed.
Silly Bandz must be stopped.
Admittedly, I didn't care much about the Silly Bandz protests when the media plucked them off of Twitter one slow news day. I was more concerned about schools requiring doctors' orders and med-certified staff members to apply sunscreen to my kid before going outside mid-day.
And yes, I did make a pest of myself trying to get a reason why the administration would adopt a sun policy that undermined health curriculum, which stresses the use of protective clothing and sunscreen.
The first answer I got was an administrative one: There’s a tremendous increase in the number of children with allergies. I didn’t buy it. One child that the nurse knew of didn’t seem to me to be an overwhelming increase.
I asked again. "Teachers take the time to have children wash their hands before they eat. They require hats, boots and snow pants for winter weather. Why not practice the importance of wearing of hats in the sun and the use of sunscreen?"
The second answer was more honest at least: It's not fair to expect teachers to do a parent's job. If a parent wants their child to have sunscreen, they should apply it before school. The End. Thank you for calling.
I asked other parents but found few interested in raising any eyebrows let alone pitchforks. Sun damage doesn’t seem high on anyone’s radar. It’s definitely not as fun as ranting on Silly Bandz. Twenty years down the road, after all, isn't as pressing as right this very minute.
I shrugged my shoulders and let it drop. I decided to pick up a package of fruit-shaped elastics instead.
Sunday, August 08, 2010
Listening to your own Inside Voice
"Where is he now?" I groaned, tired of trying to cast my attention over three places at once. "He was just here." … I'm struck by my own voice as I called his name. Louder than I intended. I sound like a prickly teenager told she must mind her baby brother.
Ittybit sounds more like the mom.
"Shush," she hissed at me. "We're supposed to be quiet in here."
We were in Barnes and Nobel.
Bookstore … Library … Makes no difference to Ittybit, the ad hoc librarian. Books in stacks or shelves, in any place other than our home, require the reverence of clean hands and hushed tones.
Library Voice, in her mind, is different than Inside Voice. The former is just a click or two above Silent, whereas the latter is always a few decibels too close to Playground.
It was obvious I was the one in violation.
"Shhhhh," she admonished again when I called for her brother to come out from wherever he was hiding.
She wasn't worried about him. She knew he'd not gone far. He was probably watching us, giggling. She was worried about me, and that my obvious disregard for library etiquette would get us banned from books.
Oh how the tables have turned.
Going shopping with children in tow can make a parent feel as boneless as the limp child they're trying to coax off the floor or away from the Dora the Explorer yogurt. It's why we take every opportunity to shop while we're temporarily childless.
On my way to work I stop for toiletries. On my way home I stop at the grocery store. I browse online, happily paying outrageous shipping fees just so I don't have to deal with corralling my roaming minions as I compare ingredients and prices.
I chuckle to myself sometimes as I linger in cosmetics taking a little more time than needed to decide on New and Improved or Trusted for Generations. These days being alone anywhere – even the bathroom of my own home – feels like a miniature vacation. "I'll take a load off AND a gooey blender drink in Aisle Six," I think as I picture a chaise lounge and pulp fiction waiting for me at the check-out counter.
But I'm not one of those people who needs a vacation from my children. I really don't see them enough. A few hours in the morning and at night on weekdays is something most parents get a taste of in the teen years when interactions include mostly blank stares, eye-rolls and unanswered questions. By then the limited face time extends to weekends as well.
"It all goes by so quickly," everyone – including our own Inner Voice – is prone to advise. "Drink it all in. Don't waste a drop. Savor every moment."
I know all too well. I'm a witness to this time-space continuum. Just yesterday he was born. Now he's gone. Gone momentarily, maybe, but still able to go.
"Where is he?" I say, more playfully this time. "Where is my boy?"
"Here I am," he yells in his best Playground Voice. He darts from under the bargain bin with his squint-eyed grin about to burst into laughter.
"He really is cute," she says, forgetting for a moment her role as sibling arbiter of appropriate behavior.
"But we really should use our Inside Voices," I whisper, remembering my maternal one.
Ittybit sounds more like the mom.
"Shush," she hissed at me. "We're supposed to be quiet in here."
We were in Barnes and Nobel.
Bookstore … Library … Makes no difference to Ittybit, the ad hoc librarian. Books in stacks or shelves, in any place other than our home, require the reverence of clean hands and hushed tones.
Library Voice, in her mind, is different than Inside Voice. The former is just a click or two above Silent, whereas the latter is always a few decibels too close to Playground.
It was obvious I was the one in violation.
"Shhhhh," she admonished again when I called for her brother to come out from wherever he was hiding.
She wasn't worried about him. She knew he'd not gone far. He was probably watching us, giggling. She was worried about me, and that my obvious disregard for library etiquette would get us banned from books.
Oh how the tables have turned.
Going shopping with children in tow can make a parent feel as boneless as the limp child they're trying to coax off the floor or away from the Dora the Explorer yogurt. It's why we take every opportunity to shop while we're temporarily childless.
On my way to work I stop for toiletries. On my way home I stop at the grocery store. I browse online, happily paying outrageous shipping fees just so I don't have to deal with corralling my roaming minions as I compare ingredients and prices.
I chuckle to myself sometimes as I linger in cosmetics taking a little more time than needed to decide on New and Improved or Trusted for Generations. These days being alone anywhere – even the bathroom of my own home – feels like a miniature vacation. "I'll take a load off AND a gooey blender drink in Aisle Six," I think as I picture a chaise lounge and pulp fiction waiting for me at the check-out counter.
But I'm not one of those people who needs a vacation from my children. I really don't see them enough. A few hours in the morning and at night on weekdays is something most parents get a taste of in the teen years when interactions include mostly blank stares, eye-rolls and unanswered questions. By then the limited face time extends to weekends as well.
"It all goes by so quickly," everyone – including our own Inner Voice – is prone to advise. "Drink it all in. Don't waste a drop. Savor every moment."
I know all too well. I'm a witness to this time-space continuum. Just yesterday he was born. Now he's gone. Gone momentarily, maybe, but still able to go.
"Where is he?" I say, more playfully this time. "Where is my boy?"
"Here I am," he yells in his best Playground Voice. He darts from under the bargain bin with his squint-eyed grin about to burst into laughter.
"He really is cute," she says, forgetting for a moment her role as sibling arbiter of appropriate behavior.
"But we really should use our Inside Voices," I whisper, remembering my maternal one.
Sunday, August 01, 2010
‘Don’t worry, mom’ just another oxymoron
She doesn’t want me to talk about it, and I can’t say as I blame her. The physical manifestations of tummy troubles are personal and often unpleasant. I get that.
Most people don’t want to know about the cut, color and clarity of the inner workings of the intestines, either. We’re not making diamonds after all. I get that, too.
Still, I was worried.
She’d run to the bathroom so many times. … More than usual anyway. Urgency with her isn’t new.
I’d always chalked it up to a combination of being lost in play and not being fully literate in her body’s cues. But, this was different. It had been days. It wasn’t getting any better and I was rethinking my assumptions. Maybe it’s something worse.
Worry, worry, worry.
A family history of tummy trouble coupled with the feeling that the entire world is on the edge of an immune-compromised cliff had me on the brink of panic.
Think, think, think. …
“Remember you were drinking from the garden hose … when was that?”
“Mom, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh, you were swimming in the creek Sunday. Maybe …”
“MOM!”
Pester, pester, pester.
"When did this start?"
"Stop."
"What have you eaten today?"
"Please, stop."
"Are you drinking enough?"
"Enough, mom! Enough."
She didn’t want to show me anything. She didn’t want me following her. She’d begun looking for my location, and then sneaking into the bathroom furthest from me. She was hiding evidence of accidents. She was tired of my questions and increasing alarm. I was scaring her, too.
But as a parent, I believe I prove the point that "Don’t Worry, Mom" is an oxymoron.
She didn’t want to go to the doctor, I didn’t either, but I was sitting on my hands trying to keep from consulting Dr. Google. It was probably just a virus, but Dr. Quackdotcom was bound to take me someplace even more dark and frightening than my mind was already heading. Her real doctor, I hoped, would be more reassuring.
I convince her (and myself) going to the doctor will be the best thing. She’s not so sure, especially when we return home with instructions for a bland diet and a "hat" in which she should … never mind.
She was curious as to how the whole testing matter would work, and therefore positively gleeful when her stomach started its nightly rumble. It wasn’t pleasant, for sure. But oddly enough, having a scientific purpose for poking around in her private affairs made my interest less awkward for her. And it gave my fears something to do beside wring their hands and pace.
In the morning I was somewhat relieved see a little improvement. She wasn’t right as rain, but at least it was no longer thundering. I took the samples to the lab and crossed my fingers hoping the improvement was as sign, and getting the results would force my worries to rest.
I’m sure my fears would have rather been sitting in a beach chair with a mystery novel and a fruity drink instead of on a counter marked "biohazard," but who are they to complain? A holiday is a holiday.
Most people don’t want to know about the cut, color and clarity of the inner workings of the intestines, either. We’re not making diamonds after all. I get that, too.
Still, I was worried.
She’d run to the bathroom so many times. … More than usual anyway. Urgency with her isn’t new.
I’d always chalked it up to a combination of being lost in play and not being fully literate in her body’s cues. But, this was different. It had been days. It wasn’t getting any better and I was rethinking my assumptions. Maybe it’s something worse.
Worry, worry, worry.
A family history of tummy trouble coupled with the feeling that the entire world is on the edge of an immune-compromised cliff had me on the brink of panic.
Think, think, think. …
“Remember you were drinking from the garden hose … when was that?”
“Mom, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Oh, you were swimming in the creek Sunday. Maybe …”
“MOM!”
Pester, pester, pester.
"When did this start?"
"Stop."
"What have you eaten today?"
"Please, stop."
"Are you drinking enough?"
"Enough, mom! Enough."
She didn’t want to show me anything. She didn’t want me following her. She’d begun looking for my location, and then sneaking into the bathroom furthest from me. She was hiding evidence of accidents. She was tired of my questions and increasing alarm. I was scaring her, too.
But as a parent, I believe I prove the point that "Don’t Worry, Mom" is an oxymoron.
She didn’t want to go to the doctor, I didn’t either, but I was sitting on my hands trying to keep from consulting Dr. Google. It was probably just a virus, but Dr. Quackdotcom was bound to take me someplace even more dark and frightening than my mind was already heading. Her real doctor, I hoped, would be more reassuring.
I convince her (and myself) going to the doctor will be the best thing. She’s not so sure, especially when we return home with instructions for a bland diet and a "hat" in which she should … never mind.
She was curious as to how the whole testing matter would work, and therefore positively gleeful when her stomach started its nightly rumble. It wasn’t pleasant, for sure. But oddly enough, having a scientific purpose for poking around in her private affairs made my interest less awkward for her. And it gave my fears something to do beside wring their hands and pace.
In the morning I was somewhat relieved see a little improvement. She wasn’t right as rain, but at least it was no longer thundering. I took the samples to the lab and crossed my fingers hoping the improvement was as sign, and getting the results would force my worries to rest.
I’m sure my fears would have rather been sitting in a beach chair with a mystery novel and a fruity drink instead of on a counter marked "biohazard," but who are they to complain? A holiday is a holiday.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The world looks different at five a.m.
The house is sleeping, however I am awake.
I extract myself from the blankets, which have tangled during the night with the unconscious acrobatics of every living thing that inhabits our home. As if I were removing a shawl, I lift The Champ's legs from my arm and unfurl the cat from around my shoulders. I only vaguely remember when they became part of my sleepwear during the night.
I slide out of bed with the stiffness of a cardboard cutout but feel more like myself as I move around the room trying to dress without opening drawers or making noise. I avoid the third floorboard from the doorway as I walk through it, holding my shoes in my hands as I tiptoe down the stairs. I forget the second step down creaks, however, and freeze the moment the silence is broken by its protest of my stepping there.
Silence — or what there is of it amid the whirring of fans and other mechanical sleep soothers — mends itself and I continue to creep down the staircase to the porch.
It is a perfect morning for a walk. The sun is still low and covered in clouds. It is humid but there is a breeze a few gusts beyond gentle that, if you close your eyes, could trick a person into believing they were by the seashore.
The traffic is light and no one else is in sight as I close the door and set off toward the street. Though my destination is to return to where I started, how long it will take me to get back home will determine the route. A half hour? An hour? Shall I be efficient, direct … or shall I meander?
I walk a few blocks toward the center of town with neither hesitation nor contemplation. The cardboard cutout, now in need of caffeine, has returned to be my navigator. There are people waiting for the Surly Drip to open, and I momentarily think about stopping for a to-go cup.
Shrugging my shoulders and smiling to myself, I continue walking as I remember all the modern necessities in life - including cash and cell phone - are at home with my snoring family.
I think of the last time I did this — just go for a walk. It has been quite a while. The boy was a baby, still small enough to schlep around in a sling. He was a silent, sleeping, partner. Walks since then have seemed more like Stops … Many, many, stops: Tantrums, stop; Farmers' Market, stop; stick on the sidewalk, stop.
Mostly, I've not bothered to start.
I shake off the stiffness and change direction, taking a left when I usually take a right. As I walk I see things I've never noticed before: two houses in the same shade of pink; chickens running around a farmyard, chasing each other in a playful way I've never imagined chickens could display; a dog's footprints are sealed in the cement sidewalk and a name, in a child's handwriting, appears a few blocks farther. Hammocks, almost identical in appearance, mirror each other in two postage stamp-sized front yards. I wonder whether the neighbors are head to head or feet to feet when they are reclining there.
"Such odd things to notice," I think to myself as I keep walking. I am Alice. This morning is Wonderland.
Lights are starting to blaze in houses, now. The clang of pots and pans ring out from the open kitchen windows. Breakfast will soon be ready.
In another mile I'll be back to where I began.
It is six a.m. when I return.
The house is awake now and struggling to find acceptance in my absence. The smells of coffee and bacon - maybe even blueberry waffles - greet me, along with the tear-stained face of my son, as I open the door and kick off my shoes.
"See, I told you she'd be home soon. She just went for a walk."
I extract myself from the blankets, which have tangled during the night with the unconscious acrobatics of every living thing that inhabits our home. As if I were removing a shawl, I lift The Champ's legs from my arm and unfurl the cat from around my shoulders. I only vaguely remember when they became part of my sleepwear during the night.
I slide out of bed with the stiffness of a cardboard cutout but feel more like myself as I move around the room trying to dress without opening drawers or making noise. I avoid the third floorboard from the doorway as I walk through it, holding my shoes in my hands as I tiptoe down the stairs. I forget the second step down creaks, however, and freeze the moment the silence is broken by its protest of my stepping there.
Silence — or what there is of it amid the whirring of fans and other mechanical sleep soothers — mends itself and I continue to creep down the staircase to the porch.
It is a perfect morning for a walk. The sun is still low and covered in clouds. It is humid but there is a breeze a few gusts beyond gentle that, if you close your eyes, could trick a person into believing they were by the seashore.
The traffic is light and no one else is in sight as I close the door and set off toward the street. Though my destination is to return to where I started, how long it will take me to get back home will determine the route. A half hour? An hour? Shall I be efficient, direct … or shall I meander?
I walk a few blocks toward the center of town with neither hesitation nor contemplation. The cardboard cutout, now in need of caffeine, has returned to be my navigator. There are people waiting for the Surly Drip to open, and I momentarily think about stopping for a to-go cup.
Shrugging my shoulders and smiling to myself, I continue walking as I remember all the modern necessities in life - including cash and cell phone - are at home with my snoring family.
I think of the last time I did this — just go for a walk. It has been quite a while. The boy was a baby, still small enough to schlep around in a sling. He was a silent, sleeping, partner. Walks since then have seemed more like Stops … Many, many, stops: Tantrums, stop; Farmers' Market, stop; stick on the sidewalk, stop.
Mostly, I've not bothered to start.
I shake off the stiffness and change direction, taking a left when I usually take a right. As I walk I see things I've never noticed before: two houses in the same shade of pink; chickens running around a farmyard, chasing each other in a playful way I've never imagined chickens could display; a dog's footprints are sealed in the cement sidewalk and a name, in a child's handwriting, appears a few blocks farther. Hammocks, almost identical in appearance, mirror each other in two postage stamp-sized front yards. I wonder whether the neighbors are head to head or feet to feet when they are reclining there.
"Such odd things to notice," I think to myself as I keep walking. I am Alice. This morning is Wonderland.
Lights are starting to blaze in houses, now. The clang of pots and pans ring out from the open kitchen windows. Breakfast will soon be ready.
In another mile I'll be back to where I began.
It is six a.m. when I return.
The house is awake now and struggling to find acceptance in my absence. The smells of coffee and bacon - maybe even blueberry waffles - greet me, along with the tear-stained face of my son, as I open the door and kick off my shoes.
"See, I told you she'd be home soon. She just went for a walk."
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Having too much fun? You may be over joyed
"Not another red light! That's the third one in a row. It will take six hundred years to get there," she smiles, adding a dramatic fainting droop for effect.
I'm looking at her face, a reflection in the rearview mirror, as she's asking me a variation of: "When we get there can I …?" for the sixteenth-thousand time. She is a gushing stream of non-stop talk.
Sometimes she finishes her sentence with "get popcorn AND candy?" Other times it’s "pick the seats?" or "buy … hold … hand over the tickets?"
All I want is a moment's silence as I drive to the theater, lest I wind up in a place far from our destination. These days it doesn't take much to drive me to distraction.
Instead, she's dancing around like a whirling dervish. Hair flying, dress flouncing, body hopping like a baby chick. She stops just long enough to flash a beamish grin and bat her eyes.
Even bound to a car seat she's an uncommon force of nature.
I squint a little, thinking about how her expression might change if I were to suddenly thrust my forehead toward the steering column and commence banging.
"Better not," I tell myself, as if beating one's head against a dashboard were a valid response to kinetic excitement. Not to mention that the horn still works even if the air conditioning doesn't. With my luck, it's bound to stick and be cause for even more excitement.
More questions fire toward the front seat as she sets off twirling again. This time, however, she pairs her questions to a classic melody she's heard on Nickelodeon's Wonder Pets.
"Later … Will there be fireworks?
Can we make s'mores?
Can we go swimming? Remember that bowling place? Can we go there sometime?
How about
‘More Flags More Fun’?
I've. never.
been-there-before."
She takes a breath and starts another chorus:
"Have the blueberries bloomed? Do you think the birds have eaten all the
raspberries?
Am I going to go to summer camp? When can I have a sleepover? Did you bring any water? … When will we get there? When. Will. We. Get. There?
Which is when her brother takes his hands from his ears (he despises singing even more than I do) and joins in the cacophony: "Are we there yet?"
I am too old for this. We're only going to the movies, but we may as well be going on vacation for all the excitement bouncing around in the car. I need a nap.
The Champ is losing the plot. "MAAAA! Maybe I said 'Are we THERE yet'?" he yells using THE BIG VOICE. "Maybe I don't want to know are we THERE YET!"
I laugh. He's so contrary these days he contradicts himself.
"We are very nearly almost red hot, but not quite there yet," I answer, thinking if I can't really join them maybe I can beat them at their own game.
"This is See-wee-us," he chastises me using the voice of the Wonder Pets duck.
"I know," I say, reinforcing the educational TV speech impediment with a smattering of Spanish, "I am muy, muy see-wee-us!
"Now all I have to do is find the street …”
"You went past it didn't you mom?"
"I might have … Being over joyed sure is a distraction."
I'm looking at her face, a reflection in the rearview mirror, as she's asking me a variation of: "When we get there can I …?" for the sixteenth-thousand time. She is a gushing stream of non-stop talk.
Sometimes she finishes her sentence with "get popcorn AND candy?" Other times it’s "pick the seats?" or "buy … hold … hand over the tickets?"
All I want is a moment's silence as I drive to the theater, lest I wind up in a place far from our destination. These days it doesn't take much to drive me to distraction.
Instead, she's dancing around like a whirling dervish. Hair flying, dress flouncing, body hopping like a baby chick. She stops just long enough to flash a beamish grin and bat her eyes.
Even bound to a car seat she's an uncommon force of nature.
I squint a little, thinking about how her expression might change if I were to suddenly thrust my forehead toward the steering column and commence banging.
"Better not," I tell myself, as if beating one's head against a dashboard were a valid response to kinetic excitement. Not to mention that the horn still works even if the air conditioning doesn't. With my luck, it's bound to stick and be cause for even more excitement.
More questions fire toward the front seat as she sets off twirling again. This time, however, she pairs her questions to a classic melody she's heard on Nickelodeon's Wonder Pets.
"Later … Will there be fireworks?
Can we make s'mores?
Can we go swimming? Remember that bowling place? Can we go there sometime?
How about
‘More Flags More Fun’?
I've. never.
been-there-before."
She takes a breath and starts another chorus:
"Have the blueberries bloomed? Do you think the birds have eaten all the
raspberries?
Am I going to go to summer camp? When can I have a sleepover? Did you bring any water? … When will we get there? When. Will. We. Get. There?
Which is when her brother takes his hands from his ears (he despises singing even more than I do) and joins in the cacophony: "Are we there yet?"
I am too old for this. We're only going to the movies, but we may as well be going on vacation for all the excitement bouncing around in the car. I need a nap.
The Champ is losing the plot. "MAAAA! Maybe I said 'Are we THERE yet'?" he yells using THE BIG VOICE. "Maybe I don't want to know are we THERE YET!"
I laugh. He's so contrary these days he contradicts himself.
"We are very nearly almost red hot, but not quite there yet," I answer, thinking if I can't really join them maybe I can beat them at their own game.
"This is See-wee-us," he chastises me using the voice of the Wonder Pets duck.
"I know," I say, reinforcing the educational TV speech impediment with a smattering of Spanish, "I am muy, muy see-wee-us!
"Now all I have to do is find the street …”
"You went past it didn't you mom?"
"I might have … Being over joyed sure is a distraction."
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Unmasking the myth
It was midnight. The cat was circling my legs. And the only noise in the house beside the occasional feline roar was the whirring of my sewing machine.
Scratch that. Ittybit's sewing machine. The one I'd bought her for Christmas. Wait. What am I talking about? The sewing machine SANTA had gotten her for Christmas.
See what I mean? I don't think straight these days … It must be the heat … or the job … or worries stacked on top of stress, balancing on a thin wire of I-don’t-know-what.
Or maybe it’s just the myth of parenthood as a selfless act.
Why else would I think it would be fun to make superhero cape towels for every kid that attended The Champ's summer birthday sprinkler party?
Another lie. I knew exactly what I was thinking.
I am Super-ego Mom.
I was thinking monogrammed cape towels – half a bath towel, a few inches of ribbon, a hem, a washcloth for a shield and some letters sloppily snipped from scraps of fleece – would REALLY impress our guests.
I was thinking ours would be THE party of the summer, the stuff of legend, my ticket to popularity. People would be talking about me - more specifically the creative Supermom I always wanted to be - for years. Moms everywhere would say my name in hushed and reverent tones.
WHIRR, WHIRR, WHIRR, WHIRR … Clunk.
I don't really know how to sew.
Moreover, I don't know how to fix a sewing machine that all of a sudden, a mere 14 hours before The Legendary Party of the Century, decides it can't sew another stitch either.
"Honey?" (I call him "Honey" when I want him to do something unpleasant, such as cleaning up the dog yard or dragging the recycling to the curb.)
"What Dear?" (He calls me "Dear" when he plans to ask for something unpleasant in return, such as burying whatever the cat killed or dragging the recycling rejects back to the house).
"Can you take a look at my … uh, Ittybit’s … sewing machine. It stopped working completely and there's one towel left. …"
I can practically hear is left eyebrow raise. He can't really say no. He kept telling people to "just stop on by" long after the invitations had been sent. Yet he's not above trying to stay right where he planted himself after a long, hard day. He doesn't want to peel himself away from the couch and cable TV.
"But you don't have to make THEM towels … They might not even come," he says in protest.
"Fine," I say with all the inflection of the opposite. "I'm sure they won't feel left out. … ‘Everyone at the party has a super cape except for YOU little heartbroken boy and his tear-stained sister. … I'll just put some marker on a tissue and Scotch tape it to your shoulders'."
"OK. I'll get my screwdriver."
He's a good guy, my husband, for managing a smile as he trades mindless TV for a few more stitches of my insanity. In the morning he even tries to make this midnight crafting madness seem as if it were a redeeming quality.
"Your mom really is Supermom," he announces to The Champ over bagels.
"No she's not," the birthday boy answers between bites, "she's Super-ego Mom."
Reach Siobhan Connally at sconnally@troyrecord.com
Sunday, July 04, 2010
Celebrating 'Interdependence Day' instead
- George Bernard Shaw
I've been thinking a lot about independence recently.
I find it strange and contradicting how our society craves and covets it; we seek it for ourselves, we demand it of others, we hope to instill it in our children, we even toy with the possibility we can squeeze it out of oil.
As a group, we define Independence as freedom.
Dependency, on the otherhand, is little more than loathesome. Yet in trying to avoid it we tend to forget what it is that really makes us strong -- the fibers that weave us together.
Maybe I am focused on this line of thought because I am a mother, and as a mother my success is largely based on my ability to raise children who are capable of making their own way in the world. Without me.
From the moment they take their first steps, they are essentially walking away from us.
Maybe I'm angry at Disney for always killing the mother (or in rare instances, the dad).
Maybe I'm just jaded, thinking the real desire for independence is all about money.
We are so focused on money - acquiring wealth and accumulating stuff - we don't see what this "savings" cost us.
Maybe it's as simple as realizing one person's independence is another person's lack of purpose. Planned obsolescence engineered by progress. We are all just one modifier away from becoming a dangling participle.
It's not as if I want my children to need me to tie their shoes or balance their checkbooks when they return from college to live with me for the requisite 2.75 years until a low-wage job or ill-advised significant other takes them three states away. But I don't want them to forget they are part of something bigger.
I'm just not sure that independence has anything to do with capability or capacity for success. Ultimately, I wonder if this passion for independence has more to do with the erosion of those qualities. I wonder if in trying to set ourselves apart we are tearing ourselves asunder.
Standing on our own two feet gives us the courage and the strength to do amazing things. Yet, we fool ourselves if we think we're untethered. It has been through the strenth of groups, such as unions fighting for fair labor practices, that has made it possible for individuals to experience independence.
Yet we declare independence from the drudgery of everyday life with the same convictions. … We declared independence from agrarian society and got factory farms; we declared independence from caring for grandmother in her old age and got squalid nursing homes. We declared independence from the cost of someone else's efforts and we end up finding ourselves unable to support our way of life. We declared independence from paying a living wage and found our jobs outsourced.
We demanded automation and declared independence from thing from which we can never be free: Each other.
Freedom has a price, and it's steep.
Red states. Blues states. Me states. You states.
Maybe, on this day, it's time we celebrate our Interdependence for a change.
Because in the end, perhaps now more than ever, we are all connected. We're all in this together.
I think about all of this as I watch my kids grow into themselves. They may walk away, they may run, but I will always be a part of them. And the fact that I am in their DNA will dawn on them when they least expect it. They will have their "Oh My God, I sound like my mother" moment one day, too.
Wherever I am at that moment, you can bet I'll be taking some of the credit
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Places, like newspapers, need people
I found this picture recently as I was searching for a travel photograph to call my favorite.
It was Ittybit's first plane ride. The year was 2004, and we were going to Boulder, Colo. to meet her new cousin. The young man in the picture was traveling alone and had what some might describe as the misfortune of sitting next to a baby on the plane. Now, I could be mistaken … it was a long flight, but I don't think he minded.
People can surprise you if you let them.
I have to admit, even to myself, travel photography isn't my favorite. No matter where I go or what I do, the pictures I take might have been taken anywhere: A street scene in New Zealand could be one in New York City for all the details my lens leaves out.
There are brief moments of awe, of course, just as there are an infinite number of interesting places we can go, and people we can meet once we get to our destinations.
But once we return home, unpack and get around to organizing and printing photos, the results never seem as brilliant as the memories we were intending to capture.
Trees aren't as lush. Mountains aren't as majestic. Oceans aren't as deep.
For me, family always ends up the focus, while the travel becomes a prop or just a blurry backdrop. Places, I think, need people.
So, here's where you come in ...
As some of you may know, The Record is embarking on an interesting exercise to create a newspaper — both in print and online — that is meaningful to the community but that uses little or no proprietary software.
None of that really means much to you, I imagine, since what we do behind the scenes is hard to picture, let alone explain.
The part we are more excited about, however, is the part that harnesses the power of the collective voice — you, the readers.
My piece in the initiative is to entice you fine people to send me photographs and thoughts about your travels in life from the literal to the figurative.
Through Flickr, Facebook and Twitter, I've asked folks to send me photographs from the places they’ve seen, as well as photographs from their weddings. I've asked for brief accounts of memorable moments from each event to share with our readership.
I've been honored with a small but healthy response. I admit, reading what’s come in so far has been a treat.
I hope for more. There is still a week left and I want to ask you a favor.
I want you to become part of the story I've been telling here these past few years. Please send me your photographs and thoughts. If you need assistance — scanning old photographs or even putting your thoughts into words — I humbly offer my help.
I promise to treat your memories with even more care than I give my own.
To participate, e-mail Siobhan Connally at siobhanconnally@gmail.com or call 518.270.1285
Sunday, June 20, 2010
No dancing around it, the devil’s in the details
I unzipped the garment bag and released an explosion of white, feathery fluff.
"Is this it?" I wondered trying to recall the catalog photograph the dance instructor had shown us months ago when she’d decided on a costume. This puff of polyester seems a little too small, a little too sheer, a little too … risqué for a student recital.
As Ittybit stepped into the bodice, I helped work its straps over her shoulders, trying to figure out where the feathers are supposed to go. I was about to give up when another parent motioned in pantomime … 'Oh … over her head.' ..
Tongue out and holding my breath, I struggle to get the thing into place.
When I step back to check my work it just seems … wrong. Had she really grown that much? I wondered, trying to tease out a little more length from the tiny dance costume.
The mental picture I ended up with was from a different sort of catalog.
Immediately, I close my eyes, blotting out the light.
"Don’t go there," I tell myself. "Just let it go."
Think "happy," think "pretty," think "they are just having fun" thoughts.
Truly, it has been difficult for me to think happy thoughts when it comes to dance class.
I try to be positive but I stumble over the business model and the months-long preparation for recital.
I don’t really care about the details and I make no pretense of hiding my disinterest. In not caring, though, I know I am as bad as the mom hissing angrily to her child from backstage: "Pay closer attention to what you’re doing."
Have I learned nothing in these years? I don’t care about dance, but I don’t want her to think I don’t care about her.
"She is what matters," I think to myself as I write a check for the studio … and the costume … and the photographs … and the $12 per ticket for the recital … we need six, I think.
On this particular day, however, the torture for me is standing by as she has her pictures taken by someone else. Because I know when it arrives in our mailbox in four to six weeks, I will barely recognize the girl in the photograph. She will be wearing a smile I only see through the glassine windows of large envelopes. They are smiles she gives to other people.
But I’m not jealous.
It’s just a mindset. It’s just money. It doesn’t matter if you don’t let it. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I tell myself those things, too, before I open my eyes again.
She is twirling, flicking her legs from one side to another. Jumping up and down.
She happily dances to the beat of their drummer, but I know she’s more likely to get lasting joy from the tunes playing in her own head.
I don’t need to worry.
She may have gotten taller, more muscular, but inside she hasn’t changed. Ittybit is still the sweet and curious, little girl with wildly mismatched clothes and hair like an unmade bed. She’s still asking questions and figuring it all out for herself.
When it’s her turn to go before the camera, she tells me she feels silly in the dress.
I wonder whether she’s seeking reassurance or trying to reassure me.
"Well you don’t look silly," I tell her. "You look like an angel with wings."
"Is this it?" I wondered trying to recall the catalog photograph the dance instructor had shown us months ago when she’d decided on a costume. This puff of polyester seems a little too small, a little too sheer, a little too … risqué for a student recital.
As Ittybit stepped into the bodice, I helped work its straps over her shoulders, trying to figure out where the feathers are supposed to go. I was about to give up when another parent motioned in pantomime … 'Oh … over her head.' ..
Tongue out and holding my breath, I struggle to get the thing into place.
When I step back to check my work it just seems … wrong. Had she really grown that much? I wondered, trying to tease out a little more length from the tiny dance costume.
The mental picture I ended up with was from a different sort of catalog.
Immediately, I close my eyes, blotting out the light.
"Don’t go there," I tell myself. "Just let it go."
Think "happy," think "pretty," think "they are just having fun" thoughts.
Truly, it has been difficult for me to think happy thoughts when it comes to dance class.
I try to be positive but I stumble over the business model and the months-long preparation for recital.
I don’t really care about the details and I make no pretense of hiding my disinterest. In not caring, though, I know I am as bad as the mom hissing angrily to her child from backstage: "Pay closer attention to what you’re doing."
Have I learned nothing in these years? I don’t care about dance, but I don’t want her to think I don’t care about her.
"She is what matters," I think to myself as I write a check for the studio … and the costume … and the photographs … and the $12 per ticket for the recital … we need six, I think.
On this particular day, however, the torture for me is standing by as she has her pictures taken by someone else. Because I know when it arrives in our mailbox in four to six weeks, I will barely recognize the girl in the photograph. She will be wearing a smile I only see through the glassine windows of large envelopes. They are smiles she gives to other people.
But I’m not jealous.
It’s just a mindset. It’s just money. It doesn’t matter if you don’t let it. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I tell myself those things, too, before I open my eyes again.
She is twirling, flicking her legs from one side to another. Jumping up and down.
She happily dances to the beat of their drummer, but I know she’s more likely to get lasting joy from the tunes playing in her own head.
I don’t need to worry.
She may have gotten taller, more muscular, but inside she hasn’t changed. Ittybit is still the sweet and curious, little girl with wildly mismatched clothes and hair like an unmade bed. She’s still asking questions and figuring it all out for herself.
When it’s her turn to go before the camera, she tells me she feels silly in the dress.
I wonder whether she’s seeking reassurance or trying to reassure me.
"Well you don’t look silly," I tell her. "You look like an angel with wings."
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Begging a thousand pardons is easier
I'm not good at being right.
I don't think many of us are.
Now, I'm not talking about the kind of right that takes courage. The courageous kind of right requires fortitude and endurance. It takes a willingness to subject one's self to the majority belief that you are, in fact, not only wrong, but that you are SO wrong that you must therefore be completely and totally dangerous to all you encounter.
That kind of right is important. But being good at that kind of right isn't something a person always decides for themselves. More often than not, that kind of right gives you no choice. It latches on to you when you are praying it will find someone else and it makes you choose a direction before you even know where you are going.
No, the kind of right to which I'm referring is the kind of right that so often leads a person to being just plain wrong.
It's the kind of right that requires noisy acknowledgement from everyone who's ever met you, including the little creep from fourth grade who teased you mercilessly until you punched him in the stomach, which was also his fault. He still owes you an apology, by the way.
Yes, the kind of right I'm talking about requires those who wronged us to beg a thousand pardons and sing our praises to the rooftop. It begs the question: 'Here's my chest, where's my medal?'
It's the kind of right that leads to hurt feelings and road rage, ulsers, lost friendships and long, long silences or even estrangements between family members.
It's the kind of right that turns good people into demons and lawyers into ambulance chasers.
That kind of right is never satisfied. It just festers in the memory of being wronged and chokes out any hint of what might have been wonderful.
It's the type of right that hangs on to every thoughtless act and turns it into reasoned and intricately planned treachery.
"She did that on purpose."
"He only does what he wants to do."
"So inconsiderate."
It tarnishes both sides of the coin.
It places every word ever uttered in your general direction under a microscope for examination, where in your expert (though completely biased opinion) will be found anemic or potentially deadly.
Suspicion will fester.
"You don't want to help me," we say, "You want to do whatever it is and have me thank you for doing something you want done anyway."
That type of right keeps a running tally. Until the score is even, at which point you might apologize and go along your merry way.
It's easier to be wrong. Of course, that's not to say we're any better at being wrong, it's just easier to put our wrongs behind us.
"Oops, forgot the turn signal. Sorry, my bad. …
“I didn't see you waiting for that parking space, or crossing in the crosswalk. You Ok? …
“Were standing there waiting for me. For an hour. While I forgot I was supposed to meet you. Whoops! …
“Did I forget your birthday again? I feel terrible.”
We may feel bad about our stupidity, but we don't let being wrong haunt us for years. We hardly let it haunt us for minutes.
Maybe it’s because deep down, when we really think about it, we tend to come to the logical conclusion that it (whatever it is) really isn’t our fault.
Seriously. He should have reminded me it was his birthday. He knows how absent minded I am.
I don't think many of us are.
Now, I'm not talking about the kind of right that takes courage. The courageous kind of right requires fortitude and endurance. It takes a willingness to subject one's self to the majority belief that you are, in fact, not only wrong, but that you are SO wrong that you must therefore be completely and totally dangerous to all you encounter.
That kind of right is important. But being good at that kind of right isn't something a person always decides for themselves. More often than not, that kind of right gives you no choice. It latches on to you when you are praying it will find someone else and it makes you choose a direction before you even know where you are going.
No, the kind of right to which I'm referring is the kind of right that so often leads a person to being just plain wrong.
It's the kind of right that requires noisy acknowledgement from everyone who's ever met you, including the little creep from fourth grade who teased you mercilessly until you punched him in the stomach, which was also his fault. He still owes you an apology, by the way.
Yes, the kind of right I'm talking about requires those who wronged us to beg a thousand pardons and sing our praises to the rooftop. It begs the question: 'Here's my chest, where's my medal?'
It's the kind of right that leads to hurt feelings and road rage, ulsers, lost friendships and long, long silences or even estrangements between family members.
It's the kind of right that turns good people into demons and lawyers into ambulance chasers.
That kind of right is never satisfied. It just festers in the memory of being wronged and chokes out any hint of what might have been wonderful.
It's the type of right that hangs on to every thoughtless act and turns it into reasoned and intricately planned treachery.
"She did that on purpose."
"He only does what he wants to do."
"So inconsiderate."
It tarnishes both sides of the coin.
It places every word ever uttered in your general direction under a microscope for examination, where in your expert (though completely biased opinion) will be found anemic or potentially deadly.
Suspicion will fester.
"You don't want to help me," we say, "You want to do whatever it is and have me thank you for doing something you want done anyway."
That type of right keeps a running tally. Until the score is even, at which point you might apologize and go along your merry way.
It's easier to be wrong. Of course, that's not to say we're any better at being wrong, it's just easier to put our wrongs behind us.
"Oops, forgot the turn signal. Sorry, my bad. …
“I didn't see you waiting for that parking space, or crossing in the crosswalk. You Ok? …
“Were standing there waiting for me. For an hour. While I forgot I was supposed to meet you. Whoops! …
“Did I forget your birthday again? I feel terrible.”
We may feel bad about our stupidity, but we don't let being wrong haunt us for years. We hardly let it haunt us for minutes.
Maybe it’s because deep down, when we really think about it, we tend to come to the logical conclusion that it (whatever it is) really isn’t our fault.
Seriously. He should have reminded me it was his birthday. He knows how absent minded I am.
Sunday, June 06, 2010
Still hanging on to dog with an iron stomach
Do you know how many people don't give their pets the same consideration they would give their children when it comes to keeping them safe from potentially poisonous household products?
No?
Well, you might if you were on hold with the ASPCA's poison control hotline like I was recently.
They are happy to lecture about all the things you’re probably doing wrong as you wait for an operator to tell you whether you are going to be making a trip to doggy emergency room. But only after you hand over a major credit card, promising to pay $65 for their invaluable service, which might help keep your obviously unloved pooch from perishing.
Of course.
It all started when my husband noticed the toilet bowl was empty save for a stain of blue on the bottom.
"Did you clean the toilet," he asked sheepishly?
"Uhm ... I ... don't remember. I think I did."
Well ... I don't think you flushed.
So there I was, on the telephone holding a bottle of "natural" toilet bowl cleaner, ready to read off the ingredients to the person who would save me from the pre-recorded lecture I was getting instead of muzak.
The minutes ticked away.
Why is "WON'T HURT THE ENVIRONMENT OR YOUR FAMILY" prominently listed, in large print, on the front of the bottle and "in case of ingestion do not induce vomiting, contact poison control and your doctor immediately" in teensy-tiny print on the back?
For the same reason shampoo bottles still give instructions. The dolts among us wouldn't know whether to "wash, rinse and repeat" or "brush along gumline in a circular motion" without them.
I had called our vet, whose after-hours message instructed me to call the veterinary emergency clinic, you know ... in case of emergencies.
Which I did next.
The folks there said there was "probably" nothing to worry about, but to be sure I should "probably" call the ASPCA's emergency hotline and they would have the definitive answer.
Still on hold.
Do I let her drink clean water, flush it out?
Do I make her eat food?
Do I have to get her stomach pumped?
OK, ew. Don't want to think about that. ....
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
I'll go online and check the ingredients myself.
“Sodium Lactate” is sandwiched in between "if this is swallowed" and "call a doctor."
Let's check with the Doctor Google School of medicine on that substance, shall we?
Preservative.
Food additive.
Naturally occurring salt in fermentation process.
The dog starts to bark her usual FEED ME bark.
This is a dog who has eaten her weight in chocolate, onions and grapes in the 15 years we've known her. She has chewed through countless sneakers, eaten carrion and dead crabs off the beach. I've lost track of all the literal garbage that she's ingested.
I hang up the phone.
"What'd they say?" my husband asks.
"I was still on hold when I hung up. I found their household cleaning list on the website and I figured she'll be alright. It's diluted and she's an iron stomach. Right now I bet she'd like a dish soap chaser."
The dog wagged her tail in agreement.
I think she was trying to tell me "Mountain Fresh" is her favorite.
No?
Well, you might if you were on hold with the ASPCA's poison control hotline like I was recently.
They are happy to lecture about all the things you’re probably doing wrong as you wait for an operator to tell you whether you are going to be making a trip to doggy emergency room. But only after you hand over a major credit card, promising to pay $65 for their invaluable service, which might help keep your obviously unloved pooch from perishing.
Of course.
It all started when my husband noticed the toilet bowl was empty save for a stain of blue on the bottom.
"Did you clean the toilet," he asked sheepishly?
"Uhm ... I ... don't remember. I think I did."
Well ... I don't think you flushed.
So there I was, on the telephone holding a bottle of "natural" toilet bowl cleaner, ready to read off the ingredients to the person who would save me from the pre-recorded lecture I was getting instead of muzak.
The minutes ticked away.
Why is "WON'T HURT THE ENVIRONMENT OR YOUR FAMILY" prominently listed, in large print, on the front of the bottle and "in case of ingestion do not induce vomiting, contact poison control and your doctor immediately" in teensy-tiny print on the back?
For the same reason shampoo bottles still give instructions. The dolts among us wouldn't know whether to "wash, rinse and repeat" or "brush along gumline in a circular motion" without them.
I had called our vet, whose after-hours message instructed me to call the veterinary emergency clinic, you know ... in case of emergencies.
Which I did next.
The folks there said there was "probably" nothing to worry about, but to be sure I should "probably" call the ASPCA's emergency hotline and they would have the definitive answer.
Still on hold.
Do I let her drink clean water, flush it out?
Do I make her eat food?
Do I have to get her stomach pumped?
OK, ew. Don't want to think about that. ....
Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap.
I'll go online and check the ingredients myself.
“Sodium Lactate” is sandwiched in between "if this is swallowed" and "call a doctor."
Let's check with the Doctor Google School of medicine on that substance, shall we?
Preservative.
Food additive.
Naturally occurring salt in fermentation process.
The dog starts to bark her usual FEED ME bark.
This is a dog who has eaten her weight in chocolate, onions and grapes in the 15 years we've known her. She has chewed through countless sneakers, eaten carrion and dead crabs off the beach. I've lost track of all the literal garbage that she's ingested.
I hang up the phone.
"What'd they say?" my husband asks.
"I was still on hold when I hung up. I found their household cleaning list on the website and I figured she'll be alright. It's diluted and she's an iron stomach. Right now I bet she'd like a dish soap chaser."
The dog wagged her tail in agreement.
I think she was trying to tell me "Mountain Fresh" is her favorite.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Her bags are packed, she’s ready to go
I don’t remember what things I packed, but I remember the red plaid and black vinyl, soft-sided suitcase I’d dragged to my first ever sleepover at a friend’s house when I was in third grade.
It was the same piece of luggage I’d hauled to the mailbox the evening I ran away from home a few years earlier. The mailbox was as far as I’d gotten since I was only in Kindergarten and not allowed to cross the street.
Historic occasions, I figured, call for handbags with a history.
Nevertheless, the things I assembled and squashed into that old suitcase were probably similar to the possessions Ittybit packed into her princess backpack with the telescoping handle and rolling wheels.
I couldn’t help but smile when I unzipped the top and found the little pink mouse she calls "Mini" sitting atop two changes of clothes, a favorite night gown and about a half-dozen books. No toothpaste, no hairbrush anywhere.
Although, I must admit she’s probably more prepared than I ever was as a traveler.
She is only six, after all, and she thinks about outfits and spills and changing her mind.
I’m *cough-cough-clears-throat-much-older-than-six* and I’m patting myself on the back for checking her overnight bag and inserting the missing items for basic hygiene. Last summer we asked her to pack her own bag for a family vacation and, because I didn’t bother to check her work, I didn’t realize until we got to our destination she’d packed nothing but toys, books and winter shirts.
Sleepovers, however, always seem to be more of a kid-pestering readiness decision for parents as opposed to something that is based on chronological age.
Geography is also a likely determining factor as to whether a child is ready to drag their blankets and other lovies to some strange house and sleep there the night.
After all, no one wants to drive too far at 2 a.m. to retrieve a crying child. Likewise, no one wants to impose a lengthy period of waiting while another parent has to sooth your homesick sprog.
Parent readiness can’t really be overlooked in the decision, either.
Which brings us to where we stand now, quivering on the bank of new territory as Ittybit dips her toe into the shallow waters of independence.
(OK. That's a little dramatic, mom.)
"It's not a big deal. It's just a few hours," I tell myself.
But there's no denying this waking desire for independence is also a trickle in the river of emotion that will one day separate us.
(Again, with the drama!)
It’s not as if she’s packing for college or moving to Tibet. This is more like taking her first big-kid amusement park ride all by herself.
I could have picked some age as a benchmark that she would have to reach before she could ride this particular ride.
Yet, unlike an amusement park regulation, I know any measure I create would be arbitrary.
She's ready now.
She is brave and willing to explore — now.
She’s confident and comfortable with her friend’s people. She knows she can tell them she’d like to go home and no one with think "the worser" of her for it.
I figure the excitement of the novelty may keep them awake and giggling far longer than will be humorous to the other parents, but when she finally closes her eyes, she'll likely sleep through until morning.
If I'm wrong, it's only a few minutes of lost sleep and a few miles in the car.
But I am not wrong. When I go to pick her up the next morning she’s happy to see me … for only a moment. I recognize the expression on her face immediately as the best kind of "I can do it" pride. And then she remembers why I’ve come.
"Just five more minutes, mom … please-oh-please-oh-please-oh-please?."
"OK. Five more minutes then. I’ll get your bag."
It was the same piece of luggage I’d hauled to the mailbox the evening I ran away from home a few years earlier. The mailbox was as far as I’d gotten since I was only in Kindergarten and not allowed to cross the street.
Historic occasions, I figured, call for handbags with a history.
Nevertheless, the things I assembled and squashed into that old suitcase were probably similar to the possessions Ittybit packed into her princess backpack with the telescoping handle and rolling wheels.
I couldn’t help but smile when I unzipped the top and found the little pink mouse she calls "Mini" sitting atop two changes of clothes, a favorite night gown and about a half-dozen books. No toothpaste, no hairbrush anywhere.
Although, I must admit she’s probably more prepared than I ever was as a traveler.
She is only six, after all, and she thinks about outfits and spills and changing her mind.
I’m *cough-cough-clears-throat-much-older-than-six* and I’m patting myself on the back for checking her overnight bag and inserting the missing items for basic hygiene. Last summer we asked her to pack her own bag for a family vacation and, because I didn’t bother to check her work, I didn’t realize until we got to our destination she’d packed nothing but toys, books and winter shirts.
Sleepovers, however, always seem to be more of a kid-pestering readiness decision for parents as opposed to something that is based on chronological age.
Geography is also a likely determining factor as to whether a child is ready to drag their blankets and other lovies to some strange house and sleep there the night.
After all, no one wants to drive too far at 2 a.m. to retrieve a crying child. Likewise, no one wants to impose a lengthy period of waiting while another parent has to sooth your homesick sprog.
Parent readiness can’t really be overlooked in the decision, either.
Which brings us to where we stand now, quivering on the bank of new territory as Ittybit dips her toe into the shallow waters of independence.
(OK. That's a little dramatic, mom.)
"It's not a big deal. It's just a few hours," I tell myself.
But there's no denying this waking desire for independence is also a trickle in the river of emotion that will one day separate us.
(Again, with the drama!)
It’s not as if she’s packing for college or moving to Tibet. This is more like taking her first big-kid amusement park ride all by herself.
I could have picked some age as a benchmark that she would have to reach before she could ride this particular ride.
Yet, unlike an amusement park regulation, I know any measure I create would be arbitrary.
She's ready now.
She is brave and willing to explore — now.
She’s confident and comfortable with her friend’s people. She knows she can tell them she’d like to go home and no one with think "the worser" of her for it.
I figure the excitement of the novelty may keep them awake and giggling far longer than will be humorous to the other parents, but when she finally closes her eyes, she'll likely sleep through until morning.
If I'm wrong, it's only a few minutes of lost sleep and a few miles in the car.
But I am not wrong. When I go to pick her up the next morning she’s happy to see me … for only a moment. I recognize the expression on her face immediately as the best kind of "I can do it" pride. And then she remembers why I’ve come.
"Just five more minutes, mom … please-oh-please-oh-please-oh-please?."
"OK. Five more minutes then. I’ll get your bag."
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Leaving the future in her hands
As soon as I saw her with the paper contraption my breath caught in my chest.
Where did she get that, I wondered wordlessly when I saw the most feared thing in the history of pre-adolescent feared things — A paper “fortune teller” — twirling around in her fingers.
And here my daughter was wielding it with the skill of an expert.
"Pick a color," Ittybit said to her friend, who promptly selected pink and sat patiently as my daughter opened and closed her fingers, silently spelling P, I, N, K.
"Now choose a number."
"Seventeen."
Surprised, I looked over Ittybit’s shoulder as she started the arduous task of counting to 17, reciting the numbers faster than she could open and close the flower-like origami game.
Whoever made this particular device, which was now fuzzy and frail from use, had decided against the predictable one to eight sequence, opting instead for double digit numbers on every flap. Extended play or drawn out torture, depending on how you see these things.
"Pick another number," she continues.
Her friend obliges … this time. I can tell she has had enough of the suspense. The next time a number choice is offered she declines. "I don’t want to pick another number" a great deal more sweetly than I would have if I were in her place.
A strange de ja vu washes over me as I watch my daughter lift the flap. My whole body tenses.
Nothing has been written inside.
"Oh, It says here you have no future," she chirps gaily.
THAT was what I was afraid of.
How many times in my primary school years had someone opened one of those hateful things and told me I smelled? Or that I will be married to a garbage man, have 300 children and live under a bridge? Too many to count.
It all came rushing back.
“WHAT?! That’s a terrible thing to tell someone," I rage at my daughter as I snatch the thing from her hands. "Where did you get this?"
She is silent. Confused, probably.
She didn’t see anything wrong with the reading. She didn’t mean to hurt her friend. She was just stating the obvious.
The paper was blank. Blank meant nothing. There’s nothing wrong with nothing. It’s just … nothing.
But to me, nothing can be everything. It is why, for no logical reason, I allow an intricate series of superstitions to guide me when fate disables control … it is the ladder I walk around, the salt I toss over my shoulder, the wish I don’t say aloud and the fears I voice over and over.
Her friend’s father, who has been a good sport about it all, offers us both a way out. "You could say, ‘Your future is what you make of it’. … Or you could say, ‘Your future is wide open’."
Ittybit, as a matter of course, apologizes and hugs her friend ‘goodbye.’ She disappears for a while after we close the door.
We’re not done talking about the incident, though. As we start the journey upstairs, into her room and toward the Land of Nodd, I remind her about how easily disappointment comes and how hard it can be to smooth hurt feelings.
Later, after she is tucked in and sleeping peacefully, I realize this is just the beginning of all the secrets that will be in our future. No doubt we will be blindsided by what’s underneath our flaps, be they hurtful things or empty spaces.
With this in mind, I go searching for the paper device with half a mind to rip it to shreds. I find it in the center of the dinning room table. But instead of crumpling the thing, I am drawn to lift a flap. And then another … to find underneath each one she’s colored in crayon hearts.
Where did she get that, I wondered wordlessly when I saw the most feared thing in the history of pre-adolescent feared things — A paper “fortune teller” — twirling around in her fingers.
And here my daughter was wielding it with the skill of an expert.
"Pick a color," Ittybit said to her friend, who promptly selected pink and sat patiently as my daughter opened and closed her fingers, silently spelling P, I, N, K.
"Now choose a number."
"Seventeen."
Surprised, I looked over Ittybit’s shoulder as she started the arduous task of counting to 17, reciting the numbers faster than she could open and close the flower-like origami game.
Whoever made this particular device, which was now fuzzy and frail from use, had decided against the predictable one to eight sequence, opting instead for double digit numbers on every flap. Extended play or drawn out torture, depending on how you see these things.
"Pick another number," she continues.
Her friend obliges … this time. I can tell she has had enough of the suspense. The next time a number choice is offered she declines. "I don’t want to pick another number" a great deal more sweetly than I would have if I were in her place.
A strange de ja vu washes over me as I watch my daughter lift the flap. My whole body tenses.
Nothing has been written inside.
"Oh, It says here you have no future," she chirps gaily.
THAT was what I was afraid of.
How many times in my primary school years had someone opened one of those hateful things and told me I smelled? Or that I will be married to a garbage man, have 300 children and live under a bridge? Too many to count.
It all came rushing back.
“WHAT?! That’s a terrible thing to tell someone," I rage at my daughter as I snatch the thing from her hands. "Where did you get this?"
She is silent. Confused, probably.
She didn’t see anything wrong with the reading. She didn’t mean to hurt her friend. She was just stating the obvious.
The paper was blank. Blank meant nothing. There’s nothing wrong with nothing. It’s just … nothing.
But to me, nothing can be everything. It is why, for no logical reason, I allow an intricate series of superstitions to guide me when fate disables control … it is the ladder I walk around, the salt I toss over my shoulder, the wish I don’t say aloud and the fears I voice over and over.
Her friend’s father, who has been a good sport about it all, offers us both a way out. "You could say, ‘Your future is what you make of it’. … Or you could say, ‘Your future is wide open’."
Ittybit, as a matter of course, apologizes and hugs her friend ‘goodbye.’ She disappears for a while after we close the door.
We’re not done talking about the incident, though. As we start the journey upstairs, into her room and toward the Land of Nodd, I remind her about how easily disappointment comes and how hard it can be to smooth hurt feelings.
Later, after she is tucked in and sleeping peacefully, I realize this is just the beginning of all the secrets that will be in our future. No doubt we will be blindsided by what’s underneath our flaps, be they hurtful things or empty spaces.
With this in mind, I go searching for the paper device with half a mind to rip it to shreds. I find it in the center of the dinning room table. But instead of crumpling the thing, I am drawn to lift a flap. And then another … to find underneath each one she’s colored in crayon hearts.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
In our house, love and hate play side by side
"I don’t like you any more," he tells me without provocation one morning as I’m making lunches and trying to coax some breakfast into the kids. I look at him blankly and he quickly rephrases: "I hate you."
The way he says it is curious, "I hay-te yoooo."
I probably should feel hurt, but as he stands there with his hands on his hips the right side of his face twists into a squint of cartoon proportion and I have to force myself to swallow a choking amount of laughter.
"It’s NOT FUNNY!" he rages. "I HAY-TE YOOOO."
"You don’t hate me," I say as matter-of-factly as possible and turn back to slathering peanut butter between two slices of bread. "You don’t hate anyone."
Technically, I know that’s not true either.
He hates a lot these days: the dog who steals his food and the cat who wakes him up at night; he hates the slightly mean characters on his favorite television show, as well as the charming ones; he hates pizza when he wants pasta and pasta when he wants pizza; he hates wind and rain and glaring sunshine. He hates pretty flowers and flowers past their prime. He hates taking baths and changing his clothes and wearing socks. He hates being barefoot.
I’m not the only one who has caught his wrath, either. He hates the babysitter and his grandparents. He hates his sister, who hates him right back. He hates when people "bother" him. He tells his sister from sun-up until sun-down he wants her to leave him "a-woan" as he cheerfully goes about playing with her things.
Hate, he’s learning, can be some powerful stuff.
Hate gets a lot of attention.
Of course, he also hates being alone, which is usually what happens when the smoldering volcano of animosity erupts between siblings, spewing fiery words back and forth until mom or dad is forced to use the nuclear option of peacekeeping techniques: "Go. To. Your. Room. NOW!!!!"
Afterward - for a moment - there is silence followed, usually, by the sound of four angry feet pounding up the stairs.
And then the screaming resumes.
I can tell from the direction of the insults hurled from one to the another, what the problem is now: They’ve gone to the same room — HIS — to serve out their sentences.
"It’s my room!"
"But I sleep here, too. These are MY stuffed animals."
"Go away!"
"No, you go away!"
"ROOOOOAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"
And then it happens — giggling.
It starts slowly — I imagine it may have begun as a smirk on Ittybit’s face — but soon turns into peels of laughter, followed by dancing and bed bouncing. Elephant could have made less noise.
By the time I get up the stairs to check on them, they are holding hands and swinging them back and forth together.
Soon it will be bedtime. After I’ve wrestled them into taking a bath, brushing their teeth and putting on their pajamas, they’ll sleep together on a staggered trundle. Hers on top, his along the floor.
The arguing will start again over books, and music and the bedtime games we play.
"MY monster has pink hair and eats pink grass and wears pink pajamas," he’ll say stubbornly.
"Well, MY princess wears pink shoes and a pink dress and eats pink ice cream sandwiches."
"My Princess," he retorts, "gets eaten by a shark and has ..."
She interrupts.
“It’s my turn now. If your princess was eaten by a shark she is gone. End of story."
Oddly, he is satisfied with that explaination. He smiles.
"I missed you when you were at school," he tells her.
"I missed you, too."
"I hate you."
"I hate you, too."
The way he says it is curious, "I hay-te yoooo."
I probably should feel hurt, but as he stands there with his hands on his hips the right side of his face twists into a squint of cartoon proportion and I have to force myself to swallow a choking amount of laughter.
"It’s NOT FUNNY!" he rages. "I HAY-TE YOOOO."
"You don’t hate me," I say as matter-of-factly as possible and turn back to slathering peanut butter between two slices of bread. "You don’t hate anyone."
Technically, I know that’s not true either.
He hates a lot these days: the dog who steals his food and the cat who wakes him up at night; he hates the slightly mean characters on his favorite television show, as well as the charming ones; he hates pizza when he wants pasta and pasta when he wants pizza; he hates wind and rain and glaring sunshine. He hates pretty flowers and flowers past their prime. He hates taking baths and changing his clothes and wearing socks. He hates being barefoot.
I’m not the only one who has caught his wrath, either. He hates the babysitter and his grandparents. He hates his sister, who hates him right back. He hates when people "bother" him. He tells his sister from sun-up until sun-down he wants her to leave him "a-woan" as he cheerfully goes about playing with her things.
Hate, he’s learning, can be some powerful stuff.
Hate gets a lot of attention.
Of course, he also hates being alone, which is usually what happens when the smoldering volcano of animosity erupts between siblings, spewing fiery words back and forth until mom or dad is forced to use the nuclear option of peacekeeping techniques: "Go. To. Your. Room. NOW!!!!"
Afterward - for a moment - there is silence followed, usually, by the sound of four angry feet pounding up the stairs.
And then the screaming resumes.
I can tell from the direction of the insults hurled from one to the another, what the problem is now: They’ve gone to the same room — HIS — to serve out their sentences.
"It’s my room!"
"But I sleep here, too. These are MY stuffed animals."
"Go away!"
"No, you go away!"
"ROOOOOAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR!"
And then it happens — giggling.
It starts slowly — I imagine it may have begun as a smirk on Ittybit’s face — but soon turns into peels of laughter, followed by dancing and bed bouncing. Elephant could have made less noise.
By the time I get up the stairs to check on them, they are holding hands and swinging them back and forth together.
Soon it will be bedtime. After I’ve wrestled them into taking a bath, brushing their teeth and putting on their pajamas, they’ll sleep together on a staggered trundle. Hers on top, his along the floor.
The arguing will start again over books, and music and the bedtime games we play.
"MY monster has pink hair and eats pink grass and wears pink pajamas," he’ll say stubbornly.
"Well, MY princess wears pink shoes and a pink dress and eats pink ice cream sandwiches."
"My Princess," he retorts, "gets eaten by a shark and has ..."
She interrupts.
“It’s my turn now. If your princess was eaten by a shark she is gone. End of story."
Oddly, he is satisfied with that explaination. He smiles.
"I missed you when you were at school," he tells her.
"I missed you, too."
"I hate you."
"I hate you, too."
Sunday, May 09, 2010
What’s unsaid is what often really matters
“A mother understands what a child does not say.”
- Jewish proverb
Dear Ittybit,
I barely recognized your voice when you crept up behind me as I was unloading the supermarket haul.
"Can I help?"
"Sure," I said, happy for just the company as well as the extra hands.
I smiled as you remarked on every item you touched, taking it on its final journey from shopping tote to refrigerator shelf. It's just now dawning on me how long your reach has grown.
"I love these kind of pickles. ... This juice is heavy, I'm not sure I can lift it myself. ... Oh! You got the yogurt I like, thanks mom. You're the best mom I ever had."
I'm laughing a little as I climb on the step stool to stack boxes of pasta in the cupboard.
I begin my usual response: "I'm the only mom you've ever had, and don't confuse consumerism with competency. ...
You snort, and wave your hand in the air. "I know, I know, I know. ... You're still the best."
I wonder when you got to be so big. It wasn't a month ago that I still saw your baby face beaming at me from behind an alphabet book. Your limbs seem to have branched outward in recent days. You are long and lean, more graceful than gangly.
There are longer pauses between your words now. You understand more than you say, and with this comes a kind of power that can be frightening.
You are beginning to see that reaction bites on the heels of words in a never ending chase. You understand that ticks and twitches, not to mention tears, can give you away. Even a smile, in the wrong place, can work against you.
Your ability to hide your hurts from others comes a little more easily now. Moments of silence, pursed lips, hands tangling hair, a catch in your voice … all things a stranger might overlook.
The alarm on the refrigerator sounds. The door has been open for too long.
I turn to see what the trouble is, envisioning you wrestling a melon into the crisper drawer or trying to alphabetize the mustard jars.
But you are gone and the light from the refrigerator is shining on the empty bags, shapeless and slumped on the floor in front of it.
Your part of the task is over and you have moved on to something else.
I shut the door and begin to smooth the shopping bags. I hear your voice — the one I've known since your first words — bubbling through the kitchen doorway. It's coming from a far room that has been filtered through two other spaces, and it’s followed by the unmistakable sound of children jumping on a bed.
"Let me help you with that," I hear you say to your brother.
I am reminded how time is fleeting.
Soon you will be grown and, inevitably, the silence between us will have grown, too. This relationship of ours — mother and daughter — will not always be easy.
Even if it is a comfortable quiet, when I am gone you may still have regrets — as we humans tend to have — for that which remained unsaid.
Don’t hold on to those regrets though sweets, because we moms ... we already know.
With love and fancy yogurt,
— Mommy
Write to Siobhan Connally a sconnally@troyrecord.com
Sunday, May 02, 2010
Jumping off the deep end to be neighborly
He was up to his knees in pond scum and discarded pool toys. He'd been there for most of the day. If the windows were open I'm sure we would have heard some choice words.
Things were not going well.
I've been calling the backyard pool area "Gray Gardens" for obvious reasons.
At one time it must have been a splendid respite. Evidence of elegant landscaping is still visible in spring as a blanket of daffodils and tulips push their way through the lawn, which any other time of year is choked in weeds and neglect. A stone patio meanders around a small in-ground swimming pool, its plates, in dire need of resetting, shift at dangerous angles. Large trees lean above it all, regal though untamed. In a perfect summer the pool would get sun but the parents would get shade as they performed their lifeguard duties.
When we moved into the house last year we didn't even bother uncovering the pool, which had been derelict for who knows how long. There were rumors the pool had been in use within the last several years, and we’d have liked to believe them. At least until we were ready to see for ourselves.
There will be time enough next summer, we decided, as we worked to get ourselves settled. Other structures in need of repair in our new home required our full attention. There were so many things needing nailing down that seemed to be coming up here and there: A leaky roof, broken doors, cracked windows, the acquisition of new appliances. … The list is never ending.
I must admit the decision not to take on the pool yard made me happy. I do not particularly like the idea of owning an outdoor pool. I don't see its value in the northeast, where perhaps a scant three months of use can be extracted from its watery depths. I’d just as soon fill it with sand and call it a lawn.
Always a Cassandra, I can only see the expense of repairs and maintenance, not to mention liability. I don't even want to think about the potential for disaster with little ones still running around. So frogs frolicked in the pool last summer instead of our family. I came to admire the nature that encroached as their chirping multiplied night by night. These noisy guests were no match for the mosquitoes, however.
Chlorine would have helped. Maybe. Fewer rainy days might have helped more.
"I really want to get that pool going," my husband mused as the extra warm days of spring came early this year. It became a kind of siren song, calling him to peel back the cover of the pool to finally see what's what underneath.
So I wasn’t terribly surprised one Saturday afternoon to find my husband dangling what appeared to be a gigantic tea bag (made out of the pool cover and containing everything that had been holding it down) over the pool from the hook of his crane truck as the kids and I return from errands.
The kids clamor to the back of the couch, jumping up and down with excitement. This is a spectacle worthy of fresh popcorn and a guy selling balloons on sticks out of a shopping cart, not to mention couch jumping.
"Poor neighbors," I think, turning my attention from the kids to the folks next door who were holding an "Open House" in hopes of selling the stately, renovated home. "No sale likely today," I say to the groceries as I put them away ... "not with the Clampetts living next door, experimenting with their C-Ment Pond, anyway."
RIP! CRASH! @FLUST #ubl@chute!
More choice words flow out with the detritus from the tea bag as it rips over the deep end.
"If they're smart they'll hold their next Open House when we're away," I continue to grouse over granola. "I should probably let them know now when to expect a vacation from us."
My husband slogs into the house with a grim look on his face. "I think something may have broken the pool."
The water is expectedly murky, though, and doesn't give away the damage caused by the accident. The ring left when the water recedes two feet overnight is the canary in that coalmine.
"Maybe we should check the basement to see if it’s flooding," I say, trying not to sound alarmed as I use the royal "we."
"No, the water’s not going there," he replies, with a tone that I interpret to mean he’ll check the cellar when I’m not looking.
"We'll it's got to go somewhere. ... Let's just hope it stays away from the neighbors'."
Write to Siobhan Connally at sconnally@troyrecord.com
Things were not going well.
I've been calling the backyard pool area "Gray Gardens" for obvious reasons.
At one time it must have been a splendid respite. Evidence of elegant landscaping is still visible in spring as a blanket of daffodils and tulips push their way through the lawn, which any other time of year is choked in weeds and neglect. A stone patio meanders around a small in-ground swimming pool, its plates, in dire need of resetting, shift at dangerous angles. Large trees lean above it all, regal though untamed. In a perfect summer the pool would get sun but the parents would get shade as they performed their lifeguard duties.
When we moved into the house last year we didn't even bother uncovering the pool, which had been derelict for who knows how long. There were rumors the pool had been in use within the last several years, and we’d have liked to believe them. At least until we were ready to see for ourselves.
There will be time enough next summer, we decided, as we worked to get ourselves settled. Other structures in need of repair in our new home required our full attention. There were so many things needing nailing down that seemed to be coming up here and there: A leaky roof, broken doors, cracked windows, the acquisition of new appliances. … The list is never ending.
I must admit the decision not to take on the pool yard made me happy. I do not particularly like the idea of owning an outdoor pool. I don't see its value in the northeast, where perhaps a scant three months of use can be extracted from its watery depths. I’d just as soon fill it with sand and call it a lawn.
Always a Cassandra, I can only see the expense of repairs and maintenance, not to mention liability. I don't even want to think about the potential for disaster with little ones still running around. So frogs frolicked in the pool last summer instead of our family. I came to admire the nature that encroached as their chirping multiplied night by night. These noisy guests were no match for the mosquitoes, however.
Chlorine would have helped. Maybe. Fewer rainy days might have helped more.
"I really want to get that pool going," my husband mused as the extra warm days of spring came early this year. It became a kind of siren song, calling him to peel back the cover of the pool to finally see what's what underneath.
So I wasn’t terribly surprised one Saturday afternoon to find my husband dangling what appeared to be a gigantic tea bag (made out of the pool cover and containing everything that had been holding it down) over the pool from the hook of his crane truck as the kids and I return from errands.
The kids clamor to the back of the couch, jumping up and down with excitement. This is a spectacle worthy of fresh popcorn and a guy selling balloons on sticks out of a shopping cart, not to mention couch jumping.
"Poor neighbors," I think, turning my attention from the kids to the folks next door who were holding an "Open House" in hopes of selling the stately, renovated home. "No sale likely today," I say to the groceries as I put them away ... "not with the Clampetts living next door, experimenting with their C-Ment Pond, anyway."
RIP! CRASH! @FLUST #ubl@chute!
More choice words flow out with the detritus from the tea bag as it rips over the deep end.
"If they're smart they'll hold their next Open House when we're away," I continue to grouse over granola. "I should probably let them know now when to expect a vacation from us."
My husband slogs into the house with a grim look on his face. "I think something may have broken the pool."
The water is expectedly murky, though, and doesn't give away the damage caused by the accident. The ring left when the water recedes two feet overnight is the canary in that coalmine.
"Maybe we should check the basement to see if it’s flooding," I say, trying not to sound alarmed as I use the royal "we."
"No, the water’s not going there," he replies, with a tone that I interpret to mean he’ll check the cellar when I’m not looking.
"We'll it's got to go somewhere. ... Let's just hope it stays away from the neighbors'."
Write to Siobhan Connally at sconnally@troyrecord.com
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