Silently, stalwartly, doggedly there

Every fall, for the last few years of her life, my father took the dog of my childhood on a solemn walk.

Together they'd trudge westward on Route 20 to the veterinary clinic a half mile from home.

Ordinarily he would have driven the short distance, wrestled our fluffy, St. Bernard mix from under the front passenger seat and carried her into the office. He is a slight man but wiry and could handle the sixty-five pounds of canine resistance.

These trips, however, weren't ordinary. On these occasions, my dad would set his jaw and hold his breath, bracing for the possibility that he might return alone. He didn't want to struggle with this faithful friend on the day she wouldn't be coming home.

When the day finally arrived – when the vet listened to her chest and nodded slowly that it was time – the news took him by surprise.

She'd always come home.

This thankless, depressing job had been left to him. It never even occurred to us, or him that it should have been a shared task.

“It was awful,” he told me later. He'd stroked her fur as she lay on the cold, stainless table. He described how they swabbed her forearm and administered the final medication. She never made a sound, he said, she just closed her eyes and went to sleep.

He walked the half mile home with just her collar and leash.

And then there was silence.

His limbs still braced for the onslaught of escaping dog as he slowly opened the garage door. But no flash of fur or scramble came from beneath it. Thirteen years of muscle memory would now begin to atrophy.

A few days later a small cream-colored envelope arrived in the mail with the vet clinic's embossed lettering on the return address.

No one ever opened that card.

He just held it and cried.

I had never seen my father cry before that day.

Truth be told, I thought his tears were really for his own mother, my grandmother, who had died at least a decade earlier.

He had mourned her, of course, but in a stoic, tearless way.

A perfectly understandable transference in my mind, I try and reason. This love we have for animals seems perfectly uncomplicated, unlike the love we have for people.

It pains me to think when my father was diagnosed with lung cancer last spring, the demise of our old dog was the first thought that jumped into my mind.

It's horrible to think of my father this way. That, when he dies -- as we all must do – the hardest moment will bear my witness. And then the silence afterward …

I will look for him in the grocery store. I will see him in every man with a puff of curly white hair. I will miss his perfectly imperfect grin and his “fancy meeting you here.”

I know it's not the same, but I can't help but feel my love for him is perfectly uncomplicated.

We didn't fight. I never feel judged. He was just a supportive, loving presence. A person who was capable and fallible, but honest and loyal, too.

He never seems disappointed in me even when I felt I was nothing but disappointing.

But he is always there.

Silently, stalwartly, doggedly there.

My dad is.

Period.

Full Stop.

He IS.

Any thought to the contrary is too unbearable to think.

Growth season

The tomatoes have already started to redden, something that hasn't happened by late-July in the whole history of my pretending to garden. I'd like to think it's the beginning of a trend. But I know it's just an anomaly. These tomatoes are just alive enough to be embarrassed they are among the other so-called “plants” in the raised beds that border our house.

When I cupped my hand around the firm fruit and extracted it from the tangle of ugly leaves, I squinted, still holding it at arm's length, expecting the tomato to explode.

I'm not what one would call a green thumb. Not that it stops me from trying.

After all, last year we did manage to wrestle four pears and six strawberries away from the squirrels.

I've just accepted the fact that I grow food for the blight … and for the critters who visit late at night, vexing the dog. The perennial flowers that appear haphazardly among the berries and the lettuces, grace us with their presence for a few seasons before they disappear.

Their bulbs carried off by squirrels or killed in winter by my forgetfulness.

I didn't really expect anything glorious this year, though I fertilized the soil once and weeded a few times.

I tried to contain my delight at the little nub of green pepper that grew after the delicate blossom faded. I cultivated the same poker face when a curling tendril of cucumber reached its way up the trellis.

I knew what was coming.

Yellow leaves. Black dots. Munched leaves.

I frowned but wasn't surprised a little while later, when I noticed the tiny pickling cucumbers attached to the now dry and lifeless vines were petrified … in the rock-hard sense. The leaves had all withered and were crumbling when touched.

Broccoli-colored worms had feasted on the broccoli plants. Again, not a huge surprise. Last year's attempt had cultivated only a single, four-inch floret. Not exactly enough to count as a single serving.

The tomato vines, gangly and overgrown, turned spotted and dry in places but still produced healthy fruit. Last year, the vaguely green orbs, attached to healthy-looking plants, split or turned black before they ripened. Hundreds of the cherry-variety rotted on the ground.

A hundred times I've asked myself why I try to grow food.

I don't know what the true answer is …

Maybe it's because I fear a post-apocalyptic world, where our only source of food will be a dog … or the neighbors … if I can't manage to squeeze a squash from my garden.

Maybe it's just because I can't seem to do it.

Instead of giving up, I just try new things.

I pick plants I think are pretty.

Artichokes … Beans … Broccoli … Peppers ... Zucchini …

I also see it as a bit of a dare. The unwanted are the only specimens that have a chance to flourish in my garden.

Will anyone in this house eat an artichoke? Of course not. So, I'll probably get a bushel of them.

How many zucchini do you think we'll have to put on neighbors' front porches come late-August? 

Let's watch those suckers grow.

Community theater

This theater has seen better days. It's also seen worse ones.

The stage is small. There is barely a backstage, let alone dressing rooms. The walls are peeling. The ceiling looks like it has weathered a thousand storms, each one trying to come inside and seek shelter from its own rain. The ancient leather-covered seats squeal in protest when a person pries them from their upright positions. They are comfortable enough once you finally sit down. Of course, comfort is relative once you notice moisture gathering above your top lip.

Air conditioning is overrated, anyway.

And despite all the cracks, there is a moment, maybe you're sitting in the audience waiting for the curtain to rise on your kid's first-ever scripted performance, that you realize this is community theater at its finest. How is it possible not to love a place where your mailman, a neighborhood kid, and the friendly woman, whom you don't know but whose face you recognize from waiting in line behind her at the grocery-store meat counter, are stars?

That's how this “Hey, Lets Put On A Show,” stuff goes.

For me, it's hard not to love it.

I know because I've tried.

First it starts with the aforementioned “Hey, Lets Put On A Show,” and then it devolves into chaos and crying.

In our house, “Theater” has always gone hand-in-hand with “Drama.” And usually, after a bumpy ride, the pair tend to drive off a cliff like Thelma and Louise.

Shows need stories and props and costumes. They also need directors and sets and actors. You know, things my daughter, from an early age, had decided she could manage expertly.

But, no matter how talented I'd like to think my children are, the homemade versions of their endeavors tend to be long acting but nothing short of painful.

For me ...

Anyone lucky enough to be visiting during showtime.

Not to mention the poor soul who falls off the bed during the performance, which is how we know the curtain must close.

At least, that's usually how it goes.

For the price of admission – 10 imaginary dollars, which will be held up to the sunlight and pretendedly scrutinized for authenticity anyway -- audience members will receive an overly handled ticket to a never-ending performance featuring one actor, too many directors and something children shouldn't be playing with – you know … like fire.

It's breathtaking. Or at least breath-holding. … And that's why I banned the practice several years ago, though, admittedly, to little effect.

The show, as they say, must go on.

That's why, when I found out that our community theater willingly does this kind of thing – wrangle a few dozen teacup Thespians through the whole process – and for free – I signed her up.

Now, I know some people like community theater as much as they'd like to have a root canal. And the prospect of children's theater sounds like as much fun as having a mouthful of teeth pulled, but I can't tell you how amazed I was the first time we got through our first play without “drama.”

It called for a standing ovation. But more than putting our hands together, it also needs us to put our hands into our pockets.

Speaking the language

I never thought of myself as bilingual until recently.

Ok, perhaps “bilingual” is pushing it a bit.

It's more as if I have acquired a comfortable fluency in certain variants of a branch of American English that pertains to certain visual representations and other manifestations of an always evolving platform of digital information, which is specifically contained in the electronic game, Minecraft.

I'm not sure what I said just now, but it sounded impressive. Kinda like when I sing a Mexican song my mother used to sing to me … and my children think I understand Spanish.

Honestly, Minecraft has been something of an immersion experience, and I still don't know what any of it means.

In a nutshell, players in this blocky realm can build, farm, experiment, battle and coexist in a variety of modes along the ether.

As my kids -- elbowing each other and seeding copious amounts of cracker crumbs into my laptop keyboard -- take turns creating intricate, imaginary worlds out of this deceptively simple game of breaking and placing pixilated blocks into a virtual landscape, I pickup little bits of what it is they're doing.

I know there is a Survival mode in which monsters attack.

I know there is a Creative mode where you can fly.

I know the difference between a Creeper and a Griefer.

I know that a Mob doesn't adhere to the same definition as Websters.

I know what mob spawners do. In theory.

I know that the nether is a texture, not unlike cobblestone and that Zombie-pigman are an abomination.

You probably know more about this than I do.

After all, more than 16 million folks have already purchased this game and are playing it morning, noon, and night.

A pair of them live in my house. And when they aren't herding dogs or training horses or making pumpkin snow creatures they are watching videos on YouTube of other people building in their own worlds.

“It's a phase,” said one of my friends. “They go down the rabbit hole for a while, but they'll come back.”

I must admit, I'm a bit skeptical.

Perhaps that was true when they were playing the game. Fighting Creepers, shearing sheep, and building impossible skyscrapers that require switches, circuits as well as and ladders to enter, but something has changed.

They discovered other worlds out there and have become virtual tourists.

Lately, when I come downstairs in the morning, a bright chipper voice with an English accent greets me over the rapt silence of the kids, who are hunkered down in front of my computer shoveling yogurt into their mouths as they watch a character called “Stampy Cat” show them around his world.

“What's this on the floor? … Oh, it's cake …. everywhere the eye can see. Cake!!! Woooooooo!!!”

Turns out this cat – a 23-year-old former bartender named Joseph Garrett – started playing Minecraft about 20 months ago, recording his play and uploading it to YouTube under the name Stampylonghead. When his channel started to become wildly popular (in part for its clean, good-natured humor as well as his playing tips) he quit his job to manage the channel full-time.

Now he's got nearly more than 3 million subscribers. Two of them live here and tune in daily to see his latest video and backtrack through the hundreds they've missed.

Their own Minecraft worlds have been laying fallow.

I'm not sure that's such a good thing.

Especially if my kids start using English accents.

An epic in a fraction of a second

It always happens in a fraction of a second, or so they say. The bad things more than the good, or so it seems. A fraction of a second. No more.

I'm always holding my breath in those moments. Waiting. Seconds last longer than minutes as you wait, your mind playing out scenarios you hope aren't written in ink in this as yet unwritten script of life.

My husband is always telling me a person can't live in those moments. There's no room for anything else but worry. You have to move forward.

But he's not here. Directing.

It's just me … and my 10-year-old daughter. Ambling slowly, on our way to the park, behind a seven-year-old on a kick-scooter.

Anxiety hosts this particular party along our morning commute as I trudge along behind my son on the way to camp. I suppose I could drive the three blocks, but I don't want this specific fear to win.

The bridge between what my eyes see and what my mind imagines is always clogged with phantom traffic. But this traffic isn't invisible. A bottleneck of two-ton cars makes their way to the playground at the same time.

Inside every other one, a driver presses a cell phone against their ears, getting a jump on all the things they have to do in fewer than three hours their kids are in someone else's care. I have nowhere to be.

Tires screech somewhere in the distance. Not here, though. Not where I am slowly making my way back on this tree-lined, neighborhood street.

Traffic, that in my most panicked moments, always seems too fast for the road we are on.

My mind replays old moments, too. Like one from last summer, when the garbage truck took a swinging wide turn, clipping leaves of trees that would have been shading us only moments later.

It reminds me that anything could happen.

It didn't help that my son was kicking his scooter at least 200 yards past the break-nothing speed of my jog. Weaving like a drunken little imp on the sidewalk-less road between our house and camp.

I close my eyes. Washing away an image I don't want to see.

Only my voice – loud and panicked, and harshened by immediacy -- travels quickly through the space between us.

He stops to look at me but quickly swerves back to the sandy strip he was told to inhabit, between the lawns and the solid white line on asphalt.

I drew in enough breath to steady my swimming head.

Admonishments, now fully oxygenated, bubble up to my throat and catch there.

My daughter is faster than me, though.

“Don't do it,”  she whispers. “Don't yell at him now. People are watching.”

I close my mouth and touch her head. How is she so smart? How is she not the mother?

She is right.

The only control I have at this moment is over myself. Ranting about the dangers of the road, the limits of visibility and the risk of losing the privilege to scooter altogether is a close-range prospect. It is a rant that is best served calm and in person.

“Can I go now?” he hollers.

Silence.

He stays where he is until I catch up.

It's only a fraction of a second.

Armchair investigations

All I wanted was an address. It was innocent, really.

I had to send a thank-you note but only had a phone number. For some reason that escapes me, I didn't want to call and let them know I needed their address.

As if the reason I wanted their mailing whereabouts could somehow be perceived as nefarious.

“Yes … you got me …

“After your son came to my son's birthday party and gave him a really thoughtful gift, I wanted to come to your house late at night and toilet paper your trees.”

No. Really. A part of my mind thinks that way.

And my husband – often called upon to be the voice (at least in telephone calls) of our social life – can attest to how ridiculously hobbling this can be to an otherwise normal human.

So it is with genuine (but as yet undiagnosed) insanity that instead of phoning and asking for a mailing address, I turned to the internets, determined to find it myself.

After all, there is a reason I've been tossing printed phonebooks into the recycling bin since the turn of the century -- Switchboard, the online phone book.

But it wasn't so simple this time.

The name I was seeking didn't show up the way I expected. It was there all right, sandwiched between other similarly spelled names in different localities, but when I clicked on it for more information it led to a site that promised to tell me everything about this person.

And I mean everything.

Every conceivable record from marriage, birth, death, arrest, debt, college aptitude, political affiliations, and whether they “Liked” Coldplay on Facebook.

All mine for the snooping.

Oh, right … and it was perfectly secure. The person I was spying on would NEVER, ever, ever, in a million years, know that I was diving into the digital dumpster of their lives.

Truth be told, I felt a little slimy. I knew what this was, but still I found my clicker finger pressing down on the “Continue” button.

I felt a twinge of guilt as bright green bars of light scrolled through a time clock, as if it were uploading data from police stations, divorce courts and skip tracers from all over the country for my perusal.

I cringed as each imaginary upload accompanied flickering words … “Searching … arrest records.”

“Searching … court judgements.”

I knew where this would end. It would end at a page that demanded I not use this information to coerce, harass, evict, determine employment or otherwise infringe on the privacy rights of the person I had plugged into a search engine. And of course, I needed to give them a credit card number and pay them $99 for the information.

Click.

Search over.

I was laughing, but it wasn't funny. Had it been free I would have been tempted to swim in these embarrassing waters.

“What are you laughing about?” Ittybit asked.

"All I wanted was an address, but in order to get it, I would have had to join NSA.”

“That doesn't sound good. Now what are you going to do?”

“I'm going to have your father to call and ask them for their address.”

Short leash

The kids are gone for the morning. The house is quiet. The air outside isn't stifling just yet. It's just the dog and me puttering around. Mostly, she ignores me when the kids have left the building.

“Do you want to go for a walk?” I ask in her direction.

She sits down and drops one ear slightly. She seems perplexed by the word. Walk.

I feel a stab of guilt followed by relief. Ours is not an easy relationship.

I try not to use words in her presence that might trigger excitement.

I don't want to get her hopes up only to disappoint. It's hard to look at a hang-dog face.

That's not to say I don't take her places. I do. We go to the post office, and the bank, and for brief walks in the neighborhood. She's mostly respectable in public. Aside from a random squirrel that might trigger an exodus, she barely pulls against the leash.

That's not to say she's always easy ...

She looks at me with watery eyes, her nose wrinkles off to one side. A low growl escapes from her mouth though it's not really menacing.

“She's talking to me,” I think to myself with the conviction only a human possesses. “I suppose that's a yes for a walk.”

She lays down with a harumph, refusing to move until I say “Come on, Let's go” with a leash in my hand.

I don't think she trusts me. Or maybe trust is just another projection. I don't fully trust her.

Truth is, we haven't exactly figured each other out.

The kids and she, however, have reached an understanding.

As soon as the half-sized humans break through the silence of our misinterpretations, her face will lift and she will bound off in their direction. In fact, she will pain cry if they leave the house again without her. She needs to keep tabs on them while they're in her territory. She needs to chase their scooters and steal their tennis balls … at least until a varmint comes along that she has to vamoose.

She is the moon and they are the sun. She is relaxed around them in ways she is not around me.

In their absence, I feel as if we inhabit a black hole.

She wants to go to the office with me … but then she just barks when I talk to any one there.

I don't really know what it's about. She never barks at strangers. She only barks at me. And only when I talk to other people … or pet another dog.

I call her the “bad boyfriend” when she acts this way.

She doesn't take offense.

Coworkers laugh, because they know what I meant.

She only acts like this around me.

The insecure, commanding bark of a dog that doesn't let their human finish sentences in the presence of familiar people seems to draw a compelling parallel.

Of course it's not funny, though. The bad boyfriend isn't all that humorous in reality.

He isn't easily confined at home. You don't just give him a bone and lock him in a crate while you go out and live your life. He has thumbs, and, likely, a driver's license. And almost certainly a smart phone that, with the magic of modern technology, could be tracking some unsuspecting girlfriend's every move.

I'd be lying if I said having children – be they male or female -- didn't scare the bejeezus out of me, especially as they begin to orbit around puberty. I'd be kidding myself if I said every moment until they are happily ensconced in healthy relationships of their own, even in some distant future, didn't unnecessarily press upon my nerves.

I was a girl once. I know the ratio of bad boyfriends to good ones. I know the feeling of making the wrong choice … more than once.

Reading the news these days, makes me think the disparity has only risen.

No matter how irrational it seems, it's hard for me NOT to compare our beloved family dog with a potentially harmful suitor. … And the nagging fear that if harm does come it might very well be invited if not harbored.

But a part of me knows I can keep the dog on a short leash. I can't do that with the kids.

Not forever, anyway.

Not so foreign

I saw “Karate Kid” when it first came out in movie theaters. Since that evening in 1984 I've encountered countless children dressed in tiny white pajamas, and yet the experience of a class filled with little Ralph Macchios seemed entirely foreign to me.

There my son was draped in a suit of white muslin, one trouser cuff folded up, the other catching under his heel as he sidestepped across a room-sized mat. The white sash that held his tunic closed could have wrapped around his waist three times. Twice was traditional, and he had no intention of breaking with tradition.

The boy who stepped onto that mat, fist pressed against palm and bending into a deep bow, looked exactly like the kid who bounced into my car, charged over the seats with his muddy sneakers and had to be cajoled into sitting quietly and snapping his own seatbelt into place.

He looked exactly like the kid who threw his glove up in the air as he waited for the baseball to make its way into his section of the outfield. The boy who routinely sat criss-cross-applesauce during every other play. Coach can holler “baseball ready” all he wants, the term floats into the air and drifts away meaningless as he dances and stretches and plucks up grass by the blade. “I love baseball,” he insists. “I play great on the Wii.”

But this kid was different. Focused and alert. Watching every one's move and keeping in step. This was another sport entirely. And somehow he seemed to understand the language.

“Hey, buddy,” I yelled to get his attention. “Your sash is dragging on the floor. Let me help you retie it.”

Even my son recognized I seemed lost and in need of a translator.

“It's not a sash, mom. It's a belt. And I know how to tie it.”

Since he started taking a martial arts class I stand corrected. A lot.

The teacher isn't a master or a sensei, he's just “sir.”

It's not just a uniform or a gi, it's a dobok.

It's also not karate … or kung fu or Aikido … it's tae kwon do.

It comes from Korea, not Japan or China.

He riddles me with fact after fact, which I try to sort out with help from a careful comparison of dozens of Wikipedia entries. The variations, however, are lost on me.

What isn't lost on me is the stick-straight body of my normally fidgety son, in rapt silence, as he listens to the instructions of his new mentor.

As I watch from my place on the folding chairs, I am sure I couldn't duplicate the dance. Each step has a name I can't even pronounce.

It's all about the form. He moves through some basic stances. Foot plant. Foot plant. Swivel. Punch. Punch. Punch.

My son moves through this script fluidly and with confidence, needing only small corrections here and there. Leveling of shoulders, aligning of arms, position of feet. He finds the alignment on his own through repetition.

For an hour, twice a week, he seems like a different child. Focused and engaged. A little of this new stance even stays on him for a while after his dobok is in the laundry and he is swimming around in the tub.

He bows deeply, saying, “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” gently and unprompted.

Meditation in movement.

His teacher asks questions:

“Win or lose, does it matter?”

He and his classmates chime in unison:

“No, sir.”

“What matters is that you do your absolute best. It might not be 100 percent every day, but it's your best for that moment.”

“Yes, sir.”

And in that moment, it didn't seem foreign in the least.

Dawn til dusk

The day ended with ample time for a “family movie.”

We knew it would, whether the kids went off to dreamland on time or an hour late. That's how we roll on a Sunday night.

With darkness drifting in later and later, it becomes more and more difficult to convince the kids bedtime isn't connected to the light in the sky. They just think we're actively trying to pull the wool over their eyes by pulling the drapes over their windows.

The schedule is as much about nothing as it seems like everything:

Wake up. Breakfast. School. Lunch. School. Bike ride. Baseball. Dance. Dinner. Homework. Movie. Bed.

One activity morphing into the next as if it were a rope bridge over a raging river. Sure, it's dangerous but it's also a lifesaver.

Our kids can't seem to face that last week of school without powering down, and we can't face bedtime with sad-faced, belligerent children who feel robbed of their screen time.

Yes, I guess that means we are wimps. … We can admit it. School teachers wishing for a little more sanity as the 2013-14 academic year comes to a close are going to be sadly disappointed by us. We're not doing our part.

We're certainly not the parents we set out to be.

I'm sure we're not alone.

Children all over these United States trudge into school a few weeks shy of summer freedom with their zombie-like gazes or frenetic movements, and we parents should probably apologize.

Mea culpa.

It doesn't mean anything is going to change.

We know we can't do it all, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try.

What else is there? The more we do the more we get done.

We juggle work and play; baseball and dance recitals, science projects and field trips; not to mention running 5Ks in the morning and 4H meetings in the afternoon. We abandon the old when we start new things.

It's not as if it's all fun and games, though. Life keeps happening. And just as you think you have the juggling act down … the medical ball might bump up against the school ball and knock the work ball out of the rotation. Schedules have to be rearranged. Plans changed.

I have to keep telling myself that the change part is always the hardest.

That moment when you are heading in one direction and suddenly you find yourself turned around.

The job you didn't get. That test result you didn't anticipate. Going forward while looking back.

Some people just go with it … barely seeming to notice. But most people, I think, need at least a little while to adjust. They may just keep going in the direction they were heading until they run out of road.

I never cease to marvel at how we all seem to travel through this life on a path we think no one else has mapped. Not that their directions would have helped us much, seeing as how we don't all witness the same scenery flying past the windows of our souls.

It is all new to us, after all.

Such is life.

We might all end up at the same place, but there's really no single way to get there. At least, that's what it looks like in this brighter light at the end of the day.

Aught Seven

Time has just flown by.

He was born, and now he's going to be seven.

S-E-V-E-N.

Sprawled on the floor, surrounded by markers and dog-eared colored paper, he was charting a plan for what he expected to be The Best Birthday Party Ever.

It was going to be …

“Mom! How do you spell epic?”

“E-P-I-C.”

It was also going to be a sleepover; he was going to invite no one we knew; and the stupid, inflatable water slide we stored in a garbage can in the garage would not make a single appearance at this soiree as it had at the other six.

So … it was also likely to be a disappointment.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing, dear. Just continue your planning. Pay no attention to me.”

He made it clear: He was not a baby anymore.

And he didn't want my help, except to bake the cake and remind everyone when it was time for presents. And possibly to keep the dog out of the pillow fort, which I could help build if I were not too busy making pajamas for all of his friends.

As I peered over his shoulder at the crowded page, I could see he was serious.

In three, neat columns he'd carefully (mis)spelled (in his best handwriting) out every detail of this party to end all parties:

“My party is going to be a sleepover. We are going to play video games and watch movies and eat popcorn that has real fake butter. ... You know, the kind you get in movie theaters that always looks yellow? That kind of popcorn.”

He had a guest list, an itinerary and a three-meal-menu that included all the basic food groups birthday parties typically deliver: pizza, popsicles, brownies, cake, cupcakes and popcorn. There would also be fruit leather, chips, pretzels and cheese curls. And what kid wouldn't want Lunchables for breakfast?

Token protein.

They would play Minecraft and watch movies and sleep on the couches (head to head, so no one got stuck smelling feet).

Every second was accounted for. Even my role as Chief Cook and Bottle Washer had been punched into a clock.

“Oh … and in the morning, could you make those little panda bears out of oranges that you made for Ittybit's friends on her birthday?”

It's good to feel needed, I consoled myself, especially now that I have been demoted from party planner to citrus fruit sculptor.

It's also good, I muse, that party planning has also given him the impetus to practice his soon-to-be-forgotten first-grade writing skills.

“How do you spell 'Fireworks'?”

“Um … let's see: 'N-O'.”

“But … ”

“I-L-L-E-G-A-L.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means your mother would go to jail.”

“But … Amah has fireworks every year for Dad's birthday. She doesn't go to jail.”

“Amah lives in a state where fireworks are L-E-G-A-L.”

He shrugs his shoulders and starts to erase his misspelled sparklers and bottle rockets.

“Wait! I know how to fix this,” he says with a grin.

He scribbles with delight at his own brilliance.

“Moov to ware firewoks are leegle.”

No problem. We have three, whole weeks. That's plenty of time.

We're even

It was a crazy, messed up, beautiful day. The kind of day that begs you to go outside and do something, even if all you can muster is to sit on the porch and drink coffee.

Cursing the pollen.

It was a beautiful day despite the sudden rain shower. And the low drone of constant bickering. And forgetfulness that ebbs and flows from morning to night like a tidal creek.

It's the kind of day that has you rushing around in the middle of it, trying to pretend you hadn't forgotten today was the big game … or the dress rehearsal … or the day you volunteered to chaperone.

 

You are right, I am certainly not the boss of you, child. But I'm not your employee, either. I'm not the unpaid caretaker of your misplaced library books, or the scout who knows by intuition where your uniform has disappeared to in the dark and overgrown forest that is your room.

But go ahead, kids, keep assuming I'm clairvoyant.

I'll keep sending you on wild goose chases. It amuses me.

I'm pretty sure I saw the dog playing with your cleats under our bed. Bring a flashlight. … And a dust mop.

Oh, I kid. … the kids.

Like the time she called me into her room in a panic, certain the cat napping on her bed was a doppelganger – a look-alike imposter who came in through the dog door on a rainy day.

Well .. I didn't kid her too much. I had my hands full trying to compare iris markings with family photos.

Of course, beautiful days aren't perfect. They can be filled with confounding contradictions. Like the moment, you notice the tiny fist-like buds of your peonies raised to the sun. Until you bend down to breathe in the fragrance and the sight of an army of red ants – trying to pry open each pink, silken finger – punches you in the gut.

Maybe it was the promise extended by such a summer-coming day that had me thinking about all the oppositional forces at work. Summer dangles itself like a carrot for some and looms over others like a long procrastinated chore.

Scrubbing the toothpaste globs from the kids' bathroom sink, for instance.

Minor quibbles, really.

Well … except for the rainbow-colored wad of chewing gum one of my moon-faced cherubs used to cement the toothbrush holder to the counter of the vanity. That one wasn't such a minor quibble.

That one required chisels and a permanent moratorium on chewable (but not swallowable) confections.

Not that I can't handle the grossness that perpetually oozes out of childhood's every crevice.

I've had all the inoculations, and stamps in every page of this passport.

Of course, that could be why I've been walking around in a haze. The half-sleep that would make me think I was a new parent were it not for the reality I am an old parent, whose kids are becoming more independent.

Who can do things like reach the shelf with the glasses and pour their own milk … when I remind them – for the eightieth time today – they are not the boss of me.

Say it with me: “I will not cry over spilt milk.” It's truly liberating.

“We're late,” I yell as I herd them out of the house. “Get in the car. Put on your seat belts. I'll be right there.” I scramble to find keys and wallet and gear we should probably just leave in the car. My mind is a blank as I grab items and stow them in a bag. A bat. A glove. A stuffed bear with a heart-shaped pillow.

No water bottle.

I run out the door and down the stairs.

It's cramped, the car is filled with things I should have donated yesterday, but I can just make out Ittybit's head in the center row. Seatbelt in place.

Good.

I start the car. Ease it backward out of the garage. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly.

My daughter laughs. …

“Aren't you forgetting something?”

“I don't think so ...”

“How about my brother?”

Doh!

She laughs and laughs. Giddy and eager to tell the story to anyone who will listen if we ever manage to make it to Little League.

“Just remember … I may have forgotten your brother, but you thought your cat was an imposter. I think we're even.”

Lost in the Weeds

Now that spring has finally sprung there is so much to do. The grass is overly tall, the garden is in need of tending, and the mulch huddled together in a pile (a zillion yards away from any landscaping) won't mosey on over to the hydrangeas and spread itself.

And though I really want to finish all these projects that someone else thought I should start (I hate pulling weeds), I am exhausted.

In fact, I think I might be sick.

Or maybe I just ate something that disagreed with me.

It is possible I am avoiding the world. ...

Whatever the reason for my after-the-kids-get-on-the-bus malaise – be it upset stomach or rainy day -- I find myself wanting to just lay on the couch and watch one more episode of Mad Men.

Before I know it, the bus returns with my children and I'm halfway through season two of “How I Met Your Mother.”

I'll just call it Netflix Syndrome. You tell yourself you'll watch just one show before you start your day and before long it's dark out and you've managed to plow though an entire season of 24 in less than a day.

It's embarrassing but true.

Ever since we made the executive decision to cut back on cable by finally embracing on-demand media streaming, I was spending every spare moment binge-watching all the situation dramadies I'd missed during the last decade.

Since 1999, if a show wasn't on HBO on Sunday nights between 9 and 11, I didn't see it.

So … beginning in March I've been making up for lost time.

I've seen every season of Mad Men, Breaking Bad, How I Met Your Mother, Orange Is The New Black, My Name Is Earl, Raising Hope, House of Cards and Lilyhammer.

Between spring cleaning and pool opening, I've tried to like a host of popular shows -- Arrested Development, The Office, Dexter and Parks and Recreation -- but I just couldn't do it. That's like nine-hours of TV hangover time I'll never get back.

It makes me afraid to even attempt Lost until the possibility exists that we might be snowed in.

And even though I've been mesmerized of late, I've also had my eyes opened to some stunning coincidences and the sad reality that I might have named my son after a television character I had no idea existed until yesterday.

It's quite the dilemma. We got rid of cable so we could save some money and get more done. The rationalization was that we'd stop wasting time watching the same old movies night after night, get more sleep and have energy to actually do something productive. Instead we were introduced to the cheaper drug of serial television on demand.

Now I have bags under my eyes, a garden of dandelions, and a lawn that is three inches taller than any of our neighbors' lawns.

I see it as a sign … If I could start the lawnmower I would mow the lawn. Luckily, however, there's a problem with a gas filter, and it looks like rain.

Of course I would feel guilty if I weren't at least somewhat productive. All the things I could be doing instead, I do during the shows … folding laundry, cleaning out the refrigerator, making the beds, sweeping the floors. The areas within eyeshot of a television are super orderly in my house.

I placate myself knowing that I am adding to my cultural understanding and enhancing social navigation as I pull old episodes of Weeds from the guide.

Eventually, the series will end and I will mosey on out into the world to pull the real episodes of weeds from my garden.

I might eventually get Lost in it.

Disarming

“Put your hands in the air,” he demanded, hands firmly clasped, fingers tightly intertwined, and pointers leveled directly at me.

He pulls the hammer back with the click of his tongue. The true danger revealed.

“I said: Put yer hands in the ai-yerrrr!”

My heart drops.

It's only been a moment, but I have already seen glimpses of where this will lead. His imaginary gun is loaded. The blast will echo like a holler into a canyon, and forever until bedtime he will jump out of dark corners shooting.

This moment magnifies almost every single insecurity I have harbored as a parent. The kids watch too much TV. Violence pervades every video game. And worst of all we only half-heartedly try to regulate any of this imaginary aggression.

I turn the thoughts over and over in my mind. Composting the sticky remnants of modern parenthood, hoping to make rich and fertile soil. We are hovering and absent. Cling-y and ineffective. We are distant and still controlling. We organize chaos because we are afraid of the consequences we have to mete out to our kids.

Oxymorons everywhere, and they call the shots. It all seems so hopeless.

More images of failure come at me now in rapid fire. Time seems suspended as I try to hone in on my options.

Do I act offended and explain the gravity of guns? How people should NEVER, under any circumstances, point a gun – even the literal hand gun -- at another human being?

Do I pretend to be an outlaw, surrender willingly, and suggest a rousing game of Chutes and Ladders to pass the time instead?

Or …

Do I ignore him in the hopes this will all go away and he'll forget he ever wanted to fake kill me? I can always search for a child psychologist later.

I can't decide.

Only seconds have elapsed and yet it feels as if when I blink, I'll snap out of this daze and realize my boy is a grown man … with a real gun, facial hair and a tattoo of someone who doesn't look quite so matronly on his arm.

That moment passes, too.

I blink.

He's still staring at me, his pistol hands pointed just above my chin. His eyes are relaxed, despite his smile being so tightly drawn across his face. He looks happy: all smudge and spit and boy, for sure, but hints of his desire to cuddle and nap equally apparent through the rough and tumble. He is waiting for my response.

“Well …

“What's it gonna be, Pilgrim?

“Are ya gonna … Put. Yer. Hands. Up. In. Tha. Ayrrrrrrrr?”

That's when I decide. I am exhausted.

From fighting traffic to fighting the weeds in my unwanted garden, I have been battling things I love to hate all day. As I look into his giddy face now, all I can think is that if he were to shoot his imaginary bullet anywhere near my direction it would break my heart.

But I would survive.

I take a deep breath and hold it as I raise my arms overhead.

And just as I reach for the sky, he utters his final command:

“Now wave 'em like you just don't care!”

He drops his weapon and it floats this way and that as he joins me in celebration.

And for the next infinitely suspended moment, we wave them like we just don't care.

Cutting the cord

It's time for “The Talk.”

A part of me thought that we'd never get here. That somehow we would skip right over the milestone in our preteen's development.

But unfortunately, the need for a chat was clear as a bell. A telephone bell.

Honestly, I thought we'd have ditched the landline by now, so the only phone she'd have to answer was the one in her pocket, which we had given her – finally – when she turned 18 and was already a skilled and cautious driver.

But the fact is -- as children of the '80s ourselves, who's first cellular telephones (acquired well after graduating college) couldn't even fit in our pockets -- cutting the cord linking our house to the telephone company is easier said than done.

As it is now the only people who call the house phone are either telemarketers, or looking for someone who lives elsewhere:

“Is Charlotte there?”

“Sorry. You must have the wrong number.”

Or, increasingly, calls are from friends of Ittybit.

Just the idea that shrill summons of the telephone might be for her has her flying toward it at breakneck speed. “I'll get it,” she chirps with unbridled enthusiasm.

Oh sure, I patted myself on the back when – no thanks to me – Ittybit answered the phone on the first few occasions with professional flair.

The smile in her voice never wavered, even when the call turned out to be a wrong number or, more disappointingly, for her father.

But lately, her much-taken-for-granted expertise has shown a bright light on all the things she really doesn't know about dealing with disembodied voices.

(I'd call them perfect strangers, but we all know nobody's perfect.)

Before, when the voice on the line said something completely nonsensical in her estimation …something like: “Good afternoon Mrs. (mispronounces my name). We'd like to tell you about a special opportunity for people in your area. ...” she would simply look perplexed and hand over the handset to any adult who happened to be taking up space nearby.

Now, however, the strangers' words form a puzzle that her 10-year-old self feels bound and determined to solve:

“Hey, Ma! There's a guy on the phone who says he's not selling anything, so I thought he could be your brother … if you had one. I don't know. I thought it was fishy, but I told him who I was when he thought I was you.”

And so it has become quite apparent (in addition to the fact that she routinely tells people are mother is in the bathroom, and NEVER writes down messages anyone can understand) Ittybit really has no concept of “phoning it in.”

Of course, after the first lesson in Answering the Phone 101, it also became evident that she really isn't much interested in learning anything I have to teach her about the transfer of information – digital or analog – into the ether.

Ring-ring. Ring-ring.

Silence.

“Say 'Hello'.”

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Ask who it is ...”

“Who is this?”

Silence.

“Well. Who is it?”

“I don't know, it's a recording.”

“Hang up.”

“What if it's the school or something …”

“Well, is it the school or something?”

“I don't know, I wasn't listening.”

“Then hang up.”

 "But that seems rude."

Of course, on the occasions when telemarketers are actually on the line trying to adjust their scripts to accommodate the wild goose chase of a conversation my daughter has started, my heart just leaps into my throat.

“Why on Earth would you tell a total stranger your name? Never, ever, ever, ever give out information to anyone over the phone, especially if you don't know them. … On second thought … WHENEVER there is someone on the phone you don't know just hand the phone to an adult.”

"But what if you are in the bathroom?"

"Then take a message. But write down their name AND their number."

“But why would they give me any of that information? They don't even know me.”

Honestly … I didn't know what to say after that. It felt a little like we were playing a game of Who's On First.

Perhaps this is just a sign from the universe that we need to cut the cord.

The problem with encouragement

So … about a year ago I started running, right?

My kids made me do it. They were the ones who thought the idea of running club would be fun.

I had no grand illusions. I didn't expect to become a runner overnight … or ever. I didn't expect to look like I belonged in a Title Nine catalog (or even the Walmart sportswear flyer). I just wanted to try it and say: “Well, now that's over. Let's eat pie.”

Yeah. It's true. I expected to hate it. I expected to run (halfheartedly) during the hour-long running clinic with other non-athletic adults (who were also killing time) as we waited for our kids (who were simultaneously learning the proper way to hate running) in the children's version of the class.

Running turns out to be a love/hate pastime, which everyone and their eavesdropping mothers will tell you will ruin your body more effectively than methamphetamines.

Well, everyone that is, except for my husband, who may, in fact, be trying to kill me with encouragement, who knows?

In short, I expected to be back on the couch BEFORE my first 5K.

Well, it didn't quite work out as I'd planned.

Oh sure, I injured a knee. … then an ankle … then the other knee … and then the same ankle again (only in a different place) … All of which I expected.

What I didn't count on was how much I missed running when I couldn't do it. Or how much I would envy all the hard-core runners I'd pass in my car as they braved the outdoors in a wintery mix.

Surprisingly, I didn't have to talk myself into pounding the pavement after recovery. During the downtime I had taken a crash course in running tips from the Google School of Sports Medicine and found exactly what I'd been doing wrong:

Too hard. Too fast. Wrong socks. Wrong shoes. You're injured, don't run.

During those sedentary weeks, I had learned the difference between Fartlek, Tempo and Interval runs. I could even define them dependent on a runner's ability to talk naturally, gasp for air, or have the urge to vomit during completion of the workout.

Yet, after learning all of that, what dolt would go racing back to potential re-injury?

Points. At. Self.

Oh sure, I ran in the snow and rain. I ran when it was 7 degrees, but I really did hold myself back. I listened to Dr. Google and went out slower and for shorter distances. I didn't chide myself for taking time off. I didn't even care that I had gained weight instead of losing it during my quest for faster miles and longer distances. Well, I pretended I didn't care, anyway.

And then, last month, my determination payed off: I ran 60 miles.

I can honestly say, staring at the number, I felt like a Viking.

The number on the scale, however, pointed to the fact that I might actually look like a Viking, too.

I blame my husband, of course. There I was, feeling like I had earned those extra helpings of chocolatey decadent desserts he'd been telling me were guilt free.

“Go ahead,” encouraged my husband. “You ran eight miles today while I took a nap. You deserve the dessert.”

Perhaps that's why the needle on my scale moved in the wrong direction.

Why else would the miles I was putting in and the calories my phone said I was burning off have the opposite affect on my weight?

“Muscle weighs more than fat,” chimed my helpful husband, as he skied in place. A smug smile settles on his face.

He'd been prescribed a gym membership by his doctor not more than two weeks ago, and opted for the mechanical whirring of an ancient NordicTrack device he'd pulled out from under a blanket of dust in the garage and set up in our bedroom.

“Swish, swoosh, swish, swoosh, swish swoosh,” goes the machine as he raised the volume on the television. “I've skied one mile every morning and I'm already down 10 pounds,” he shouts proudly over the din.

I resisted the urge to strangle him with arm cords and walked down to the kitchen instead.

Chocolate chip cookies are his favorite.

The road ahead

I guess I've always had a problem with finding my way in the world.

I like to think it was easier before the Internets, when all a person had to do was ask for directions. Invariably you'd be passed around until the person with the best skills for such a thing could be found.

That person would ask you if you had a pen, and wait for you to get one before taking you on a ride, in your mind, along a series of roads so perfectly clear you could almost see the destination before you even got behind the wheel.

It was a combination of familiarity and trust.

“Go about 55 miles East on the turnpike. Turn left at the last intersection. Travel until you see some road sign and bear right at the enormous chicken. We're the third house on the left. You can't miss us.”

The real ride, however, isn't usually the clear path you think it will be. There's always some important step (or several) that I trip over.

“Go about 55 miles East (which is East again). Turn left at the intersection (what exit?). Travel until you see some road sign (that was stolen by some undergrads last summer) and bear right at the enormous chicken (which bears a striking resemblance to a cow). We're the third house on the left. You can't miss us (if you are looking on your OTHER left).”

Maybe I'd just written it down wrong? No matter. It wasn't a big deal. Ordinarily, I'd arrive on time and without getting terribly lost. 

The return trip would always bedevil me, too.

Getting from Point B to Point A is never as straight backward as it seems. When backtracking, I usually meander around the alphabet for a while before I find the off ramp.

I find real life, like directions, is like that, too.

No matter how you prepare, you're never really ready for the roadblocks the universe (and spring construction) plunk down in your way.

You could be driving down a road you've driven down your entire adult life, merging into traffic with the same careful practice you've always used, only to become confused by a new sign and a dirt road that weren't there before.

In the millisecond your awareness of this change charges through the gentle fog of your thoughts -- which, up until that moment, had allowed you to drive most of the way on automatic pilot -- you panic.

There is a sign for my turn. Wait ... this doesn't look right. Is this a detour?

What do I do?

On the road ahead, the pickup truck takes the path less traveled.

Of course, I follow.

Almost immediately I know that I was mistaken.

Cars ahead of the truck keep going up the ramp and take the right I should have taken. They cross the bridge I should have crossed.

The road I'm on leads to a construction site, with bulldozers on either side of me making level ground. The truck I followed disappears into a cloud of dust and parks.

I can't stop myself from thinking about how stupid I am … how incredibly short-sighted and ineffective. How much I don't want to be here. Now … or ever.

And how much I want to cry.

The man on the bulldozer smiles as I roll down my window. He doesn't seem as surprised to see me as I am to see him.

He doesn't care that I am a fool.

He gives me simple directions:

“Just turn around and go out the way you came in. Then take a right.”

I hate to admit it, but I did cry after I took that right and merged back into traffic.

It occurred to me that life can be a lot like my unfortunate detour. The road ahead isn't nearly as complicated at it seems, but that doesn't make our travels any easier.