"Why did they only spend two days with us?"
Which is a question I can't really answer because the real question is, why do we live so far from those who love them so much? Two days with the uncles is never enough, even when those two days are full of Christmas lights and circuses and sushi, it's never enough, as far as Mary and Kate, and their mother, are concerned.
My childhood was full of aunts and grandparents, weekly visits and overnight stays with people who loved me, but Mary and Kate's is not. There are no grandparents here; Jack's family is in another state and not keen on traveling, and my own mother is self adhered to her house with a sticky glue unknown to most. But we have the uncles who think nothing of popping up for a few days spent with the "girlies", their mother and father being a distant after thought once they arrive. Absolutely fine with me, Mary and Kate couldn't be happier than when perched on the shoulders of two adoring uncles, laughing wildly while being held so tightly that neither mother nor father could pry them away.
As we begin this week of family and friends and thankfulness, I am thankful for these two who come into our lives and remind the girls that families come in all shapes and sizes. While we are blessed with some, we are lucky enough to chose others, and 24 years ago, when Mr. Friendly popped his head into my dorm room, I had no idea that I was making a choice beyond late night study halls, this guy was going to be with me, and whatever else we became, forever.
And so, at the almost end of the circus, when I leaned over and whispered to Mary that we had to step out, that it was time for the uncles to leave, she looked back with huge teary eyes, amid bright lights and flying people, to ask why? Perhaps the answer is that two wonderful days are better than none, and the real blessing is that they will always be back, that you can count on, forever.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Lost Without Her Love
To understand his side of the story, you must understand that he, in no way, benefits at all from her existence. Of course it's really a chicken and egg story, perhaps if he shared some kindness the love might flow back and the benefits would be easier to recognize. As is, they march around each other, one yelling, the other gassing, coexisting in a small space of unpleasantness.
He comes to this naturally; as I understand it dogs were more of a commodity than family member when he was a child. Trouble remembering to feed the dog? Get rid of it! Dog chewed on your shoe? Get rid of it! Whereas in my family the dog was a cherished third child, always along on family vacations, draped casually on every piece of furniture we owned, forbidden from not one room, Truffles was in every sense one of us, and losing her was horrible.
But then, Eleanor has done everything possible to arm Jack with dislike. Years ago, when she had only been with us for three months, she ate an entire cake, his birthday cake. We came home from a celebratory evening out to find that she had escaped from the safety of her room, climbed onto the dining room table, removed the glass cake dome (which lay shattered on the floor) and helped herself to every bit of a very rich chocolate cake, not one scrap remained. Two calls to the emergency vet sent Jack to the corner store in search of hydrogen peroxide (on a very cold and snowy January night). The remainder of his birthday was spent inducing vomiting in a very displeased beagle. His displeasure need not be mentioned.
It used to be that she slept at the foot of our bed, occasionally even snuggling deep under the covers. Until we woke in the middle of the night to the most horrible of sounds, a violently ill beagle at our feet, covering the antique embroidered French sheet that I had just bought in London with things we cannot ever speak of again. At about five months pregnant, still reeling daily from the smell of coffee, I was absolutely no help in cleaning the mess, and the mess was voluminous.
Beagles smell everything, they eat everything they smell, and they then vomit about half of what they eat. And so it was this morning when we awoke, yet again, to that sound, and I spent my 6 a.m. hour cleaning the remains of who knows what was digested yesterday.
Jack counts the days until we lose Eleanor, although he has lived through the demise of one dog with me, I can't imagine that he is truly looking forward to suffering through that madness again. And while she is certainly getting older, Mrs. Roosevelt now in her U.N. years with Franklin long gone, she is not going anywhere, not for now. However I am fairly certain if the old gal gets her paws on another chocolate cake she and I may have some house hunting to do.
He comes to this naturally; as I understand it dogs were more of a commodity than family member when he was a child. Trouble remembering to feed the dog? Get rid of it! Dog chewed on your shoe? Get rid of it! Whereas in my family the dog was a cherished third child, always along on family vacations, draped casually on every piece of furniture we owned, forbidden from not one room, Truffles was in every sense one of us, and losing her was horrible.
But then, Eleanor has done everything possible to arm Jack with dislike. Years ago, when she had only been with us for three months, she ate an entire cake, his birthday cake. We came home from a celebratory evening out to find that she had escaped from the safety of her room, climbed onto the dining room table, removed the glass cake dome (which lay shattered on the floor) and helped herself to every bit of a very rich chocolate cake, not one scrap remained. Two calls to the emergency vet sent Jack to the corner store in search of hydrogen peroxide (on a very cold and snowy January night). The remainder of his birthday was spent inducing vomiting in a very displeased beagle. His displeasure need not be mentioned.
It used to be that she slept at the foot of our bed, occasionally even snuggling deep under the covers. Until we woke in the middle of the night to the most horrible of sounds, a violently ill beagle at our feet, covering the antique embroidered French sheet that I had just bought in London with things we cannot ever speak of again. At about five months pregnant, still reeling daily from the smell of coffee, I was absolutely no help in cleaning the mess, and the mess was voluminous.
Beagles smell everything, they eat everything they smell, and they then vomit about half of what they eat. And so it was this morning when we awoke, yet again, to that sound, and I spent my 6 a.m. hour cleaning the remains of who knows what was digested yesterday.
Jack counts the days until we lose Eleanor, although he has lived through the demise of one dog with me, I can't imagine that he is truly looking forward to suffering through that madness again. And while she is certainly getting older, Mrs. Roosevelt now in her U.N. years with Franklin long gone, she is not going anywhere, not for now. However I am fairly certain if the old gal gets her paws on another chocolate cake she and I may have some house hunting to do.
Monday, November 16, 2009
There Are Not Words
Recently my cousin, mother to an almost three year old boy, revealed to me that on choice occasions Liam likes to let fly with a hearty "God Damnit", sending her racing for cover, hiding her laughter. She can pinpoint the exact exposure as both she and her husband have done a fine job of editing in their word choices since Liam was born. Not so at my house. Jack seems to live by the "Do as I say, not as I do" mantra, which opened the door to at least a week, if not a few days more, of Mary marching down the hall to time out, shouting "Dammit, well DAMMIT" the entire way. Points for using the word correctly I suppose, and for adding some much needed levity to time out situations, but we were all pleased when her personal word exploration days came to a close.
To be fair, a well placed word can really serve you well, and to that, I find that omitting, rather than replacing works best for me. There are no "Jimminy Crickets" served at my house, words used correctly, but not within ear shot of five year old ears, are perfectly acceptable, however, like all good things, saturation leads to ineffectiveness.
Which in no way explains Kate's recent exclamation as she shed her coat after a long day spent at kindergarten, "I simply LOVE this freakin' coat".
We were left speechless.
A little William Safire'esque note: this required me to do some research on the correct spelling of a few words. Dammit, not damnit, is correct when using the word alone however, when prefacing it with God, it becomes damnit, a variation of damn it. Why dammit is not also based on that variation, I have no idea.
To be fair, a well placed word can really serve you well, and to that, I find that omitting, rather than replacing works best for me. There are no "Jimminy Crickets" served at my house, words used correctly, but not within ear shot of five year old ears, are perfectly acceptable, however, like all good things, saturation leads to ineffectiveness.
Which in no way explains Kate's recent exclamation as she shed her coat after a long day spent at kindergarten, "I simply LOVE this freakin' coat".
We were left speechless.
A little William Safire'esque note: this required me to do some research on the correct spelling of a few words. Dammit, not damnit, is correct when using the word alone however, when prefacing it with God, it becomes damnit, a variation of damn it. Why dammit is not also based on that variation, I have no idea.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
To A Good Home
The drawer on the top left was for her checkbooks, the large three to a page variety with black binders. Below that was a drawer fitted for paper, typing paper and carbon paper and letterhead, both her personal and business. The bottom drawer held envelopes, letter and personal size and the blue ones that she took with her to church every Sunday morning. To her right was the drop down front with the slide that popped up and out, which held her blue typewriter, and which scared me when it snapped into place. On top was the faux antique phone, a desk pad, a calculator and a small pyramid she bought somewhere in Asia which, in theory, was to give the time when tapped on top. But the time, although spoken in English, was so heavily accented that you couldn't understand a word said. She loved to set it off, lean in, and then roll back laughing, "the things I spend money on!". The middle drawer was for pens, my favorite being the clicky green ballpoint from her bank, a roll of US flag stamps, lick required, in the clear plastic stamp roll, liquid paper and piles and piles of address labels, most received in the mail from various organizations, all of whom she reimbursed for their kindness with a check, yellow safety paper, from the big black binder.
In the evening, after dinner, while my grandfather cleaned the kitchen and vacuumed the floor (which he did every night) Mimi would frequently retreat to her office, the red room, where she would spend hours, or what seemed like hours to me, balancing the company checkbooks. When she was off by a penny, which was not often, she'd wander the house, muttering constantly, deeply frustrated at the imbalance. While she worked I would sit on the day bed and look at the albums of family photographs she had created, black pages in maroon binders, her writing in white script. Occasionally she would move to the table, the same one we used for card playing on Sunday nights, allowing me to spend my time working away on the typewriter, writing story after story, none of which remain today.
The desk was organized and predictable, as were my evenings at their house. Lawrence Welk on television in the family room, Mimi in the kitchen making dinner, cocktails at 5:00, dinner usually at 7:00, as my grandfather frequently appeared just before, to catch the final round of Wheel of Fortune, and my grandmother always got the puzzle, in record time. Each time she beat Patricia from Cleveland, or Ralph from Orlando, my grandfather would rub his chin, look at me and say, "she's amazing, isn't she? We've got to get her on there, don't we?", and she would wave her hand horizontally, shrug him off, and return to the final plating of the fried fish and peppery potatoes with lima beans, as I was frequently a dinner guest on Fridays.
In that desk I knew I could find paper and stamps and pens that had ink. There was never a scramble for a sharpened pencil to finish my homework, never a letter left unmailed for lack of a stamp. For years it's been with me, moving at least 10 times, but we now have no room for Mimi's old desk. Our small space is no longer able to accommodate two adults, two children, a beagle and a huge old office desk. It needs a good home, one that will appreciate the old tape marks on the pull out to the left where she taped phone numbers, including the Hall's bridal registry direct line. One that will know the secret of the drawers, which one must be extended to free the others. It's well worn and loved and on it's way to Philadelphia, to my cousin, who happily offered it a new home.
And it's old home is now a bright blue playroom, full of crayons and paper and sharpened pencils. The perfect place for Mimi's great granddaughters to find comfort and order and silliness, just what I needed so long ago, just what she would want now.
In the evening, after dinner, while my grandfather cleaned the kitchen and vacuumed the floor (which he did every night) Mimi would frequently retreat to her office, the red room, where she would spend hours, or what seemed like hours to me, balancing the company checkbooks. When she was off by a penny, which was not often, she'd wander the house, muttering constantly, deeply frustrated at the imbalance. While she worked I would sit on the day bed and look at the albums of family photographs she had created, black pages in maroon binders, her writing in white script. Occasionally she would move to the table, the same one we used for card playing on Sunday nights, allowing me to spend my time working away on the typewriter, writing story after story, none of which remain today.
The desk was organized and predictable, as were my evenings at their house. Lawrence Welk on television in the family room, Mimi in the kitchen making dinner, cocktails at 5:00, dinner usually at 7:00, as my grandfather frequently appeared just before, to catch the final round of Wheel of Fortune, and my grandmother always got the puzzle, in record time. Each time she beat Patricia from Cleveland, or Ralph from Orlando, my grandfather would rub his chin, look at me and say, "she's amazing, isn't she? We've got to get her on there, don't we?", and she would wave her hand horizontally, shrug him off, and return to the final plating of the fried fish and peppery potatoes with lima beans, as I was frequently a dinner guest on Fridays.
In that desk I knew I could find paper and stamps and pens that had ink. There was never a scramble for a sharpened pencil to finish my homework, never a letter left unmailed for lack of a stamp. For years it's been with me, moving at least 10 times, but we now have no room for Mimi's old desk. Our small space is no longer able to accommodate two adults, two children, a beagle and a huge old office desk. It needs a good home, one that will appreciate the old tape marks on the pull out to the left where she taped phone numbers, including the Hall's bridal registry direct line. One that will know the secret of the drawers, which one must be extended to free the others. It's well worn and loved and on it's way to Philadelphia, to my cousin, who happily offered it a new home.
And it's old home is now a bright blue playroom, full of crayons and paper and sharpened pencils. The perfect place for Mimi's great granddaughters to find comfort and order and silliness, just what I needed so long ago, just what she would want now.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Me, Myself and I
Writing from the inside out is much more difficult. In no time I can bang out a paragraph or two about my family, or friends, or complete strangers who spark my curiosity, but writing something about myself is far more challenging. Being asked to put together a brief autobiography is the most strenuous writing assignment I've faced in decades. Maybe it would have been easier years ago, when I could define myself by occupation. For years, and years, I was a student. Diploma in hand I became a terrible waitress, and when that proved too rigorous, I went back to the safety of student hood.
To the complete shock of my father, a man who had struggled through years of basic math with me, my next incarnation was banker, a title I held onto happily for years. Easy to describe, my personal ad would have read "single banker, more fun than stuffy suits imply, able to stay up much too late before early morning meetings, loves friends and family and blind dogs". When I left the banking world for the incredibly juicy not for profit community, I listed my profession on the new patient form at the dentist as "philanthropist".
Just this morning, while discussing author Doris Kearns Goodwin, my fellow swimmer asked "where does she tend bar?", meaning with which University is she affiliated? I have no bar, no University, no place to hang my hat and nothing terribly exciting to say about myself.
It's much easier to define yourself in relation to others. For years I was introduced as Bill's daughter and even now, when I run into friends of the family I extend my hand with "I'm Mary's granddaughter, so nice to see you". At dinner Saturday night I was Jack's wife, and at school I am Mary and Kate's mom, but on my own, it can get rather dull.
Or maybe who I am is, for now, the sum of all that I have been; an absent minded Chicago adoptee, lover of words and history and clean restrooms, prolific scribbler but completely inept at writing one thing about herself, mother of two, wife of one, daughter of many, who, in a pinch, could help you work out that estate plan you've been meaning to get finished.
Life was clearly easier to define when I had a bar to tend.
To the complete shock of my father, a man who had struggled through years of basic math with me, my next incarnation was banker, a title I held onto happily for years. Easy to describe, my personal ad would have read "single banker, more fun than stuffy suits imply, able to stay up much too late before early morning meetings, loves friends and family and blind dogs". When I left the banking world for the incredibly juicy not for profit community, I listed my profession on the new patient form at the dentist as "philanthropist".
Just this morning, while discussing author Doris Kearns Goodwin, my fellow swimmer asked "where does she tend bar?", meaning with which University is she affiliated? I have no bar, no University, no place to hang my hat and nothing terribly exciting to say about myself.
It's much easier to define yourself in relation to others. For years I was introduced as Bill's daughter and even now, when I run into friends of the family I extend my hand with "I'm Mary's granddaughter, so nice to see you". At dinner Saturday night I was Jack's wife, and at school I am Mary and Kate's mom, but on my own, it can get rather dull.
Or maybe who I am is, for now, the sum of all that I have been; an absent minded Chicago adoptee, lover of words and history and clean restrooms, prolific scribbler but completely inept at writing one thing about herself, mother of two, wife of one, daughter of many, who, in a pinch, could help you work out that estate plan you've been meaning to get finished.
Life was clearly easier to define when I had a bar to tend.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Sweet and Salty
"Mom, may we have candy, may we have some trick or treat things, please?"
I'm not unreasonable, I gave them one thing each the day after Halloween, one carefully selected sweet and sticky candy treat, no licorice, or flavored sugar, but something with chocolate, or peanut butter or nuts.
But today, today they want more. One each, you may each select one thing from your pumpkin. They rooted around, assessing the options, carefully making their selection. Mary emerged with a Reeses, "This! Dad LOVES this", and that was fine, although she had no idea what it was. Kate continued to dig.
Minutes later Kate came up for air clutching a small bag of Halloween themed pretzels, "Mom, may I have these, may I please eat my pretzels?".
It's all about making choices.
I'm not unreasonable, I gave them one thing each the day after Halloween, one carefully selected sweet and sticky candy treat, no licorice, or flavored sugar, but something with chocolate, or peanut butter or nuts.
But today, today they want more. One each, you may each select one thing from your pumpkin. They rooted around, assessing the options, carefully making their selection. Mary emerged with a Reeses, "This! Dad LOVES this", and that was fine, although she had no idea what it was. Kate continued to dig.
Minutes later Kate came up for air clutching a small bag of Halloween themed pretzels, "Mom, may I have these, may I please eat my pretzels?".
It's all about making choices.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Maine On My Mind
Several years ago Jack and I were having dinner with friends, many of whom had just seen the Michael Moore film, Fahrenheit 911. It was of course a spirited discussion with many different opinions, all interesting, until one woman said she could not believe that a film like that could be made in this country. And I thought, thank God I live in a country where this film can be made. Agree with Michael Moore or not, I respect his opinion, his right to have an opinion and his want to share his opinion.
John Adams, many agree, really shot himself in the political foot in signing the Alien and Sedition Acts, most of which are now repealed, which would have sent Michael Moore to prison for making his movies. Over 200 years ago Americans did not reelect a President who moved to restrict their freedoms, in a time when women couldn't vote, show their ankles or own property. But they knew that being prohibited from expressing themselves was wrong.
Mary and Kate will be able to vote, and they will be able to buy a house on their own. They will grow up in a world where they know they they have the right to make choices, to read what they want and see what they want and be who they want, but apparently, unless they choose to live in the heart of conservative Iowa, not marry who they want.
My freedom to make choices matters to me in every possible way. What I don't understand is why it matters to the good people of Maine.
John Adams, many agree, really shot himself in the political foot in signing the Alien and Sedition Acts, most of which are now repealed, which would have sent Michael Moore to prison for making his movies. Over 200 years ago Americans did not reelect a President who moved to restrict their freedoms, in a time when women couldn't vote, show their ankles or own property. But they knew that being prohibited from expressing themselves was wrong.
Mary and Kate will be able to vote, and they will be able to buy a house on their own. They will grow up in a world where they know they they have the right to make choices, to read what they want and see what they want and be who they want, but apparently, unless they choose to live in the heart of conservative Iowa, not marry who they want.
My freedom to make choices matters to me in every possible way. What I don't understand is why it matters to the good people of Maine.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Room to Room, Achoo!
Maybe we've been swined, or maybe not, I don't really know. There was sickness, six days of sickness, two miserable children, and two very tired parents. What I do know is that we are not terribly bright, because in the midst of the October 09 health crisis, we decided to completely rearrange our apartment.
Office to playroom, family room to dining room, dining room to radiator room, and living room to family room. While the children slept Jack and I moved furniture, painted walls, cleaned floors (that had been hidden for five years under heavy bookcases) and discovered a ridiculous amount of things that we don't need, although I am keeping every last issue of the soon to be defunct Gourmet magazine.
Of course this meant disconnecting the computer and the television, leaving us trapped for days without access to the outside world, save the archaic telephone. Still we remain Internet free, and I must find my computer time at the tea shop, now that the sick have returned to school. How is one supposed to grocery shop without a computer? It's challenging.
My friend Jeffy calls our home the Rubik's cube, and it is. To move this, you must move that, but not before you move those, there is no unclaimed space. The addition of children, and their necessities, has made the cube just a bit more difficult to sort. And after several days in isolation, Mary and Kate woke up to find a bright blue room all their own, full of things they love, and things we could no longer tolerate finding in every room in this apartment. There is no longer room for Mr. Potato Head in the dining room, move over Spud, you've got your own space now.
Office to playroom, family room to dining room, dining room to radiator room, and living room to family room. While the children slept Jack and I moved furniture, painted walls, cleaned floors (that had been hidden for five years under heavy bookcases) and discovered a ridiculous amount of things that we don't need, although I am keeping every last issue of the soon to be defunct Gourmet magazine.
Of course this meant disconnecting the computer and the television, leaving us trapped for days without access to the outside world, save the archaic telephone. Still we remain Internet free, and I must find my computer time at the tea shop, now that the sick have returned to school. How is one supposed to grocery shop without a computer? It's challenging.
My friend Jeffy calls our home the Rubik's cube, and it is. To move this, you must move that, but not before you move those, there is no unclaimed space. The addition of children, and their necessities, has made the cube just a bit more difficult to sort. And after several days in isolation, Mary and Kate woke up to find a bright blue room all their own, full of things they love, and things we could no longer tolerate finding in every room in this apartment. There is no longer room for Mr. Potato Head in the dining room, move over Spud, you've got your own space now.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Crazy Generosity
"Why do you call him Jack?"
Not exactly what you expect when you pick up the phone but given the caller, not a real surprise. She continued, not terribly interested in the Jack answer, "when did you start writing? Why? Where do you come up with this stuff?".
She rarely waits for answers, her normal speed being in excess of 100 miles per hour, even on the phone. And it's been that way as long as I've known her, which at this point is a very long time. Years ago, when she was my boss, she would come racing in, bags everywhere, hair flying, perfectly put together suit just a bit askew, "what are we going to eat for lunch today?" and then back to her office to deposit all that she carried. At the time she was living a life I found fascinating, a little exotic and completely engrossing. One morning, after an hour of reliving the previous night's adventures, she looked at me and said, "why do I tell you all this? I tell you everything", and I hoped that was true, because if she was leaving something out, her evenings had to be pure fiction. They weren't, and I continued to be enchanted, leaving my boring life behind when she came flying into the store.
Now I see her once, sometimes twice a year. They come to our annual holiday party and rave about the food, thus securing an invitation to all future events. Last year we asked for donations, en lieu of much appreciated hostess gifts, for the elderly people at church, who are often overlooked at Christmas. She arrived with the largest bag of loot possible, including hand knit hats and mittens. She is as generous as she is crazy.
"David! Get on the phone, David!"
David got on, all three of us now connected, as she began to rant about my writing, imploring David to do something, "don't you know anyone? We have to help her, who can we send this to?".
David did know someone, and David did send off my writing to a friend, a writer, who liked what he read.
Maybe this will propel me to greatness, and maybe it won't. Having a well known writer like what you have to say is wonderful, having friends who believe in you is even better.
Not exactly what you expect when you pick up the phone but given the caller, not a real surprise. She continued, not terribly interested in the Jack answer, "when did you start writing? Why? Where do you come up with this stuff?".
She rarely waits for answers, her normal speed being in excess of 100 miles per hour, even on the phone. And it's been that way as long as I've known her, which at this point is a very long time. Years ago, when she was my boss, she would come racing in, bags everywhere, hair flying, perfectly put together suit just a bit askew, "what are we going to eat for lunch today?" and then back to her office to deposit all that she carried. At the time she was living a life I found fascinating, a little exotic and completely engrossing. One morning, after an hour of reliving the previous night's adventures, she looked at me and said, "why do I tell you all this? I tell you everything", and I hoped that was true, because if she was leaving something out, her evenings had to be pure fiction. They weren't, and I continued to be enchanted, leaving my boring life behind when she came flying into the store.
Now I see her once, sometimes twice a year. They come to our annual holiday party and rave about the food, thus securing an invitation to all future events. Last year we asked for donations, en lieu of much appreciated hostess gifts, for the elderly people at church, who are often overlooked at Christmas. She arrived with the largest bag of loot possible, including hand knit hats and mittens. She is as generous as she is crazy.
"David! Get on the phone, David!"
David got on, all three of us now connected, as she began to rant about my writing, imploring David to do something, "don't you know anyone? We have to help her, who can we send this to?".
David did know someone, and David did send off my writing to a friend, a writer, who liked what he read.
Maybe this will propel me to greatness, and maybe it won't. Having a well known writer like what you have to say is wonderful, having friends who believe in you is even better.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Trick or Treat
Every time the bell rang I swung open the door with great enthusiasm, happy to be in a place where children could come begging at my house on Halloween. There were pumpkins on the front step, large stalks of dead corn welcoming everyone to my little home, and I was ready. The small children were charming, the older children a little intimidating, but I could not be deterred. This was Halloween, a holiday I did not love, but had thought perhaps that I should, and now was my chance, trick or treaters at my door, I was enthused.
The bell rang. Outside I found a young girl, probably about 12, dressed in a white shirt and jeans, with what appeared to be a pillow strategically placed under her shirt, giving her a very pregnant looking belly.
"Trick or treat! What are you dressed as tonight?"
"My older sister."
Happy Halloween.
The bell rang. Outside I found a young girl, probably about 12, dressed in a white shirt and jeans, with what appeared to be a pillow strategically placed under her shirt, giving her a very pregnant looking belly.
"Trick or treat! What are you dressed as tonight?"
"My older sister."
Happy Halloween.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
On The Road Again
"I had to gun it."
There it was, the phrase that always makes me put down the paper and focus on what she is actually saying.
Every so often my mother chooses to spend our phone conversation time dissecting the very treacherous traffic situation in Johnson County, Kansas. The most dangerous intersection in all the world is just blocks from her suburban home. Cleverly she avoids it, when possible. And she knows, because she spends an inordinate amount of time considering this, that the two intersections on either side of the danger zone are actually more deadly. The first because it is unexpected; everyone is busy preparing for the known entity yet to come, all energies focused on survival. The one immediately following is even more lethal as drivers are busy counting their blessings having just survived statistically the most treacherous stretch of roadway in the entire world. Three in a row, it's a real death trap.
My mother is not 97. Driving is not a skill sacrificed to old age; at 23, when my father risked life and limb, not to mention the safety of every commuter on earth, by teaching her to drive, she was a bad driver. That they stayed married for a full 18 years after that is the true marvel, divorce surely then an unavoidable casualty of the future. In high school she backed over my car, two weeks later I backed over my sister's bike.
Compounding the issue is that my mother feels that the good people of Johnson County have been brought together by danger, their sense of community really revealing itself as they all struggle to stay alive, or that is how she explains the honking that follows her everywhere she goes. Those beeps and blasts are offered in a congratulatory manner, and so she waves wildly from her window to let others know she appreciates their good wishes as she races past. If she could get names and addresses she'd write them thank you notes. Thank God she's too busy concentrating on the task at hand to yell out her gratitude.
"I had to gun it", let this be your warning.
There it was, the phrase that always makes me put down the paper and focus on what she is actually saying.
Every so often my mother chooses to spend our phone conversation time dissecting the very treacherous traffic situation in Johnson County, Kansas. The most dangerous intersection in all the world is just blocks from her suburban home. Cleverly she avoids it, when possible. And she knows, because she spends an inordinate amount of time considering this, that the two intersections on either side of the danger zone are actually more deadly. The first because it is unexpected; everyone is busy preparing for the known entity yet to come, all energies focused on survival. The one immediately following is even more lethal as drivers are busy counting their blessings having just survived statistically the most treacherous stretch of roadway in the entire world. Three in a row, it's a real death trap.
My mother is not 97. Driving is not a skill sacrificed to old age; at 23, when my father risked life and limb, not to mention the safety of every commuter on earth, by teaching her to drive, she was a bad driver. That they stayed married for a full 18 years after that is the true marvel, divorce surely then an unavoidable casualty of the future. In high school she backed over my car, two weeks later I backed over my sister's bike.
Compounding the issue is that my mother feels that the good people of Johnson County have been brought together by danger, their sense of community really revealing itself as they all struggle to stay alive, or that is how she explains the honking that follows her everywhere she goes. Those beeps and blasts are offered in a congratulatory manner, and so she waves wildly from her window to let others know she appreciates their good wishes as she races past. If she could get names and addresses she'd write them thank you notes. Thank God she's too busy concentrating on the task at hand to yell out her gratitude.
"I had to gun it", let this be your warning.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
And the Winner....
Cinderella. Not two days after I aired my opinion on Disney princesses Mary made this request from the balloon man at the annual Halloween party. Next time, at Christmas, she is going to ask for Snow White, or that is her plan now. You never know, priorities shift, princesses change, let's not commit this early, alright?
Buzzzzzzz.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Eighteen and Gassy
A few months after my eighteenth birthday I set off for college, to live, for nine months, with a person I knew not at all, in a room so tiny we could have used a bathmat as a floor rug. But we didn't, like all the new freshman we went out that first week to buy a carpet remnant, a dark green AstroTurf looking thing that served as our living area floor cover. To that we added posters and photographs, covering all walls with brightly colored images of high school friends, Winterskol competitions and hometown city views. There were two beds placed at an angle, with a large dresser placed tightly in the corner. On top of that we piled a stereo, too high for me to reach. On the other wall were two desks, one used as the "applying center", the other as a drop off point for clothes, books, food, garbage, wet towels, coats and dirty laundry. In between we wedged a small refrigerator, purchased by my father in response to a phone call where I lamented my lot being stuck out in "western Kansas with nothing", when in actuality I was about 60 miles from the Missouri state line. We covered it's white surface with stickers from Egg Roll King, our favorite fast food Chinese spot. Once we tried to fry an egg in our popcorn popper, huge mess, lots of smoke, a completely unsuccessful experiment. When we actually used the thing to make popcorn, we burned at least half of the kernels. We shared a bathroom down the hall with about 30 other strangers, where you were expected to yell "flush" in case anyone was in the shower and would be, had they not moved out of the way, washed with a 5 second spray of scalding water when the toilet was fired off. There was a resident advisor who watched over us, security guards at the door, and bars on our windows. Boys were not allowed on the floor at night, and meals were provided, albeit disgustingly, in the large cafeteria downstairs. There was not, and oh how we could have used this, anyone to help clean our 10 by 10 foot room. And so the mess accumulated until at last we could no longer walk through the small space and then we would clean, or rather, pick up. It took all of the day, with numerous distractions, ending with a triumphant trip to Egg Roll King and two new stickers for the refrigerator.
We were 18, left on our own, somewhat, and behaving appropriately as two 18 year old quasi adults would do in this situation.
Our current neighbors downstairs are 18, three roommates who live in what once was a beautiful apartment owned by a family of five. Last summer they moved to Europe and the college students moved in. We don't see them often, keeping to themselves with closed windows and doors, moving around at night, escaping during the day to open the door to the pizza delivery man. This weekend they were out of town, we assumed, as the car in the garage space was gone both day and night. Saturday morning the woman upstairs smelled gas. We sniffed around, called the gas company and they found a small leak in the third floor stove. Problem resolved. Sunday afternoon when we came home from a day of costume wearing about the neighborhood we were greeted with a gas smell so strong that we immediately marched the bumblebee, the ladybug and the beagle to the front porch while we investigated. In no time my head ached and I moved to the porch as well. Jack called the gas company. We waited outside, not carving pumpkins or baking apple pies as we had planned, thankful that Sunday's weather was not the freezing rain of the last week.
Jack and the Gas Man made their way into the college hall downstairs and found the stove on, no flame, gas pouring into the apartment as it had been doing since Friday when they left town for the weekend. We were one small spark away from complete disaster. Her army of cats survived, grateful was I that none of them smoked. Doors and windows were opened, the air so thick with gas fumes it was nauseating. We left, taking the girls to dinner in hopes that an hour away would sufficiently clear our apartment in time for bed.
The roommates were home when we returned, doors and windows closed, shades drawn, back to the reclusive cave in which they live. My year of living dangerously was spent many years ago in a tiny room with a good friend and a multi functional popcorn popper; I'm not ready to relive that time, wonderful as it may have been.
We were 18, left on our own, somewhat, and behaving appropriately as two 18 year old quasi adults would do in this situation.
Our current neighbors downstairs are 18, three roommates who live in what once was a beautiful apartment owned by a family of five. Last summer they moved to Europe and the college students moved in. We don't see them often, keeping to themselves with closed windows and doors, moving around at night, escaping during the day to open the door to the pizza delivery man. This weekend they were out of town, we assumed, as the car in the garage space was gone both day and night. Saturday morning the woman upstairs smelled gas. We sniffed around, called the gas company and they found a small leak in the third floor stove. Problem resolved. Sunday afternoon when we came home from a day of costume wearing about the neighborhood we were greeted with a gas smell so strong that we immediately marched the bumblebee, the ladybug and the beagle to the front porch while we investigated. In no time my head ached and I moved to the porch as well. Jack called the gas company. We waited outside, not carving pumpkins or baking apple pies as we had planned, thankful that Sunday's weather was not the freezing rain of the last week.
Jack and the Gas Man made their way into the college hall downstairs and found the stove on, no flame, gas pouring into the apartment as it had been doing since Friday when they left town for the weekend. We were one small spark away from complete disaster. Her army of cats survived, grateful was I that none of them smoked. Doors and windows were opened, the air so thick with gas fumes it was nauseating. We left, taking the girls to dinner in hopes that an hour away would sufficiently clear our apartment in time for bed.
The roommates were home when we returned, doors and windows closed, shades drawn, back to the reclusive cave in which they live. My year of living dangerously was spent many years ago in a tiny room with a good friend and a multi functional popcorn popper; I'm not ready to relive that time, wonderful as it may have been.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Hi Ho Hi Ho
"Mom...who do you like better, Snow White or Cinderella?"
For five years we have successfully avoided all references to the Disney wronged, but rescued, woman books. Not one damsel waiting to be saved by the all knowing, and all handsome, prince can be found on our shelves. There are no less than the 30 reasons that immediately come to mind when I start my objections to the Disney books, primary being that this idea of the prince really needs to go. It balloons from there, but suffice it to say that I am horrified by the notion that in any way my life was about waiting until this dashing prince appeared to save me from my day to day existence. And I don't really care for the big poofy pink dresses either, but that is much further down on my list.
Certainly I knew that our Disney free days were coming to an end, I was prepared and ready, but we were hit hard. Day One, a large pink princess backpack in the kindergarten line, this was going to rougher than I had imagined. In my own bubble world I had assumed that everyone shared my horror, that we, as a society, had evolved past the knight in shining armour mentality, much like I assume that no one feeds their children McDonalds, but I'm wrong. Life exists outside my carefully crafted Disney Fast Food Free Zone.
And now I bring my own personalized madness to the library, but to be fair, I didn't start it, and I can say that, it's a grammar school of course. The library with so few books owns an entire shelf of large full color Disney books, donated years ago, possibly by someone whose had already wedged their feet into glass slippers, found their prince, and no longer needed the guide books.
The first grade class overwhelmed our small space, and in no time, 98% of them had found the Disney books. Their teacher objected, certain they could find something else. Her issue, these books were not reading level appropriate for seven year old students, and I suspected, she just thought there were better books out there. The books were moved to another area. Now in week three we have children still begging for Disney, one little boy asks every week for Mulan. "What? Mulan?", I had no idea what that was, thinking that perhaps this child was in search of a book on a country unknown to me; I was being outsmarted by a six year old. Wrong.
And so my issue, aside from the antiquated story lines, is that for some children there seems to be nothing else. A library is a wonderful place to open your mind and discover new things; being trapped in Disney's world doesn't allow for much exploration.
Who do I like better? Snow White, but only because of that catchy little song. However her stepmother tried to kill her, Cinderella's only made her do all the housework, which comparatively doesn't seem so bad. Both were survivors who fought their way out and and were finally saved from the anguish of toil and trouble, although I suspect they were soon back at it, up to their elbows in pots and pans and dust mops; someone had to clean that palace.
For five years we have successfully avoided all references to the Disney wronged, but rescued, woman books. Not one damsel waiting to be saved by the all knowing, and all handsome, prince can be found on our shelves. There are no less than the 30 reasons that immediately come to mind when I start my objections to the Disney books, primary being that this idea of the prince really needs to go. It balloons from there, but suffice it to say that I am horrified by the notion that in any way my life was about waiting until this dashing prince appeared to save me from my day to day existence. And I don't really care for the big poofy pink dresses either, but that is much further down on my list.
Certainly I knew that our Disney free days were coming to an end, I was prepared and ready, but we were hit hard. Day One, a large pink princess backpack in the kindergarten line, this was going to rougher than I had imagined. In my own bubble world I had assumed that everyone shared my horror, that we, as a society, had evolved past the knight in shining armour mentality, much like I assume that no one feeds their children McDonalds, but I'm wrong. Life exists outside my carefully crafted Disney Fast Food Free Zone.
And now I bring my own personalized madness to the library, but to be fair, I didn't start it, and I can say that, it's a grammar school of course. The library with so few books owns an entire shelf of large full color Disney books, donated years ago, possibly by someone whose had already wedged their feet into glass slippers, found their prince, and no longer needed the guide books.
The first grade class overwhelmed our small space, and in no time, 98% of them had found the Disney books. Their teacher objected, certain they could find something else. Her issue, these books were not reading level appropriate for seven year old students, and I suspected, she just thought there were better books out there. The books were moved to another area. Now in week three we have children still begging for Disney, one little boy asks every week for Mulan. "What? Mulan?", I had no idea what that was, thinking that perhaps this child was in search of a book on a country unknown to me; I was being outsmarted by a six year old. Wrong.
And so my issue, aside from the antiquated story lines, is that for some children there seems to be nothing else. A library is a wonderful place to open your mind and discover new things; being trapped in Disney's world doesn't allow for much exploration.
Who do I like better? Snow White, but only because of that catchy little song. However her stepmother tried to kill her, Cinderella's only made her do all the housework, which comparatively doesn't seem so bad. Both were survivors who fought their way out and and were finally saved from the anguish of toil and trouble, although I suspect they were soon back at it, up to their elbows in pots and pans and dust mops; someone had to clean that palace.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Armed and Dangerous
Not so long ago, but a thousand years in our time, Jack and I were off on a long weekend in Phoenix, back when we could dash off for a few days of warmth and baseball in March without taking two others, and all their gear, with us. Having lunch in a bar, or cantina as it might be called in Phoenix, we sat next to a man, a woman and a young boy, about four or five. The adults appeared to be on a date, flirting madly and paying no attention to the young boy at all. This suited him well as he was left alone to lick everything in reach of his tongue, including the nasty bar stool, the table (top and bottom), all glasses on the table and the floor, but it stopped there, the woman intervened when the child threw himself on the ground, tongue first.
And so I wonder, does this kid now have the greatest immune system in the world? Is he bettter protected than my two germ magnets against this flu madness? Early on I tried to be cool, we passed on the brightly colored fluffly grocery cart seat protector, stuck them in every restaurant high chair around (including one truly scary one at our favorite Mexican spot), exposed them to the flying petri dish frequently and thought we were doing our part in building a great wall against future germ infestation. And then they started getting sick, over and over and over.
It was time to get a little crazy. Children who ride on buses, with everyone else in the city, should wear masks, right? And maybe bubble suits? Bathe in sanitizer gel goop? Nothing was too extreme.
Now kindergarten, and a school full of germ weilding short people intent on coughing and sneezing and breathing, all in close proximity to my children, who also cough and sneeze and breathe on others. Myself included as my days spent in the library are portals to infestation. Every child I see has a a sniffle, last week one poor boy had a completley encrusted nose, and I don't really want to elaborate as it might just make me sick to think about it again, but this child was in desperate need of a very warm washcloth and a humidifier, and home.
Every day we send them off, to infection central, hoping that they have some defense against whatever floats behind closed doors. If only we had let them lick bar stools a few years ago, maybe then we'd be ahead of this game.
And so I wonder, does this kid now have the greatest immune system in the world? Is he bettter protected than my two germ magnets against this flu madness? Early on I tried to be cool, we passed on the brightly colored fluffly grocery cart seat protector, stuck them in every restaurant high chair around (including one truly scary one at our favorite Mexican spot), exposed them to the flying petri dish frequently and thought we were doing our part in building a great wall against future germ infestation. And then they started getting sick, over and over and over.
It was time to get a little crazy. Children who ride on buses, with everyone else in the city, should wear masks, right? And maybe bubble suits? Bathe in sanitizer gel goop? Nothing was too extreme.
Now kindergarten, and a school full of germ weilding short people intent on coughing and sneezing and breathing, all in close proximity to my children, who also cough and sneeze and breathe on others. Myself included as my days spent in the library are portals to infestation. Every child I see has a a sniffle, last week one poor boy had a completley encrusted nose, and I don't really want to elaborate as it might just make me sick to think about it again, but this child was in desperate need of a very warm washcloth and a humidifier, and home.
Every day we send them off, to infection central, hoping that they have some defense against whatever floats behind closed doors. If only we had let them lick bar stools a few years ago, maybe then we'd be ahead of this game.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Sockless Joe
When I dropped the children off this morning I was wearing socks. Not just socks, as Mary thought best on Saturday, but an entire pile of clothing, culminating, at the base, in socks, and also shoes. When I picked them up I was without socks. My socks had gone missing. Written that way it does take away from my responsibility in losing them, as I had hoped; my recent track record being quite good with regard to holding onto things. Take the children, in five years I have not once lost the children. Misplaced perhaps but never lost, and I think this is really commendable. My father was one of the parents shouting, "Allyson, if that thing was not attached you would lose your head", and he was right, my early years were fraught with lost items, generally small things, but significant in that we spent countless hours searching for books and homework and as I got older, car keys.
They were once left in a snow pile on a very big hill. Kathy, Laura and I had decided to "Ski Kansas" and they apparently tumbled out of my pocket as I tumbled down the hill. They were recovered, months later, once ski season was over and the snow had melted. Countless times they were found in the car, the locked car. One time I packed them in my luggage, that was lost by the airline, and had to rent a car to get myself home. They were left in a friend's car, which was not terribly bad, except that she was moving to Washington D.C., and I was waving good bye to her from Chicago, and then had no way to get back to college, in Kansas.
This is all very important because my sister still loses everything, even though she denies this, which is only evidence that she has lost her memory as well. She has lost phones in toilets and garbage disposals, at current count, I believe she has lost two bikes, I have no idea how. Keys are a given, she will lose her keys if given the chance. For my part things have improved, my keys do go temporarily lost, as does my phone, but they are always found, almost always. Two years ago I lost my phone, the only phone I have ever lost, never to be found, but I know exactly where it happened. It fell out of the car as I unloaded the children on a cold and snowy Wednesday night in March, in front of our church, Ash Wednesday. Losing your phone at church certainly gives you a pass in the lost responsibility record books, or it should.
But my good standing has been jeopardized, today I lost my socks. Presumably while swimming, although that offers no real explanation, other than that they were not on my feet the entire morning, there was a window when the socks could have wandered off. Perhaps some other woman put them on mistakenly and spent the day in my socks. Imagine the horror at finding, at the end of the day, your feet snugly wrapped in another person's socks. She has no idea that I am a relatively clean person, that it is unlikely that my socks carry with them raging foot disease; if I were to wear a strangers socks all day I would boil my feet at the discovery, and then soak them in alcohol.
They were nice socks, black cashmere, soft and comfortable, and relatively new. Losing them through off my entire day. Thankful for the reasonably seasonal temperatures, I didn't suffer from frozen ankles when I went outside. Having spent hours in search of my socks I was running late, and then there were no brown line trains and school was out in 10 minutes, so I found a taxi, after almost being hit by a car, with a very old driver, not lively and quick, who responded, as best he could, at my urging to please hurry, I'm late, I can't be late. But I was, about three minutes late. As I fell out of the taxi, frazzled and sockless, the children were already out on the playground, but not my children. Now I had lost the children as well, which is what happens, lose one thing and the rest follow. "Do they have Spanish today?", from a parent whose daughter did not start after school Spanish today, like my girls.
"Oh right, Spanish". I flashed my bare ankles, "look, I lost my socks", as clearly no further explanation was needed.
They were once left in a snow pile on a very big hill. Kathy, Laura and I had decided to "Ski Kansas" and they apparently tumbled out of my pocket as I tumbled down the hill. They were recovered, months later, once ski season was over and the snow had melted. Countless times they were found in the car, the locked car. One time I packed them in my luggage, that was lost by the airline, and had to rent a car to get myself home. They were left in a friend's car, which was not terribly bad, except that she was moving to Washington D.C., and I was waving good bye to her from Chicago, and then had no way to get back to college, in Kansas.
This is all very important because my sister still loses everything, even though she denies this, which is only evidence that she has lost her memory as well. She has lost phones in toilets and garbage disposals, at current count, I believe she has lost two bikes, I have no idea how. Keys are a given, she will lose her keys if given the chance. For my part things have improved, my keys do go temporarily lost, as does my phone, but they are always found, almost always. Two years ago I lost my phone, the only phone I have ever lost, never to be found, but I know exactly where it happened. It fell out of the car as I unloaded the children on a cold and snowy Wednesday night in March, in front of our church, Ash Wednesday. Losing your phone at church certainly gives you a pass in the lost responsibility record books, or it should.
But my good standing has been jeopardized, today I lost my socks. Presumably while swimming, although that offers no real explanation, other than that they were not on my feet the entire morning, there was a window when the socks could have wandered off. Perhaps some other woman put them on mistakenly and spent the day in my socks. Imagine the horror at finding, at the end of the day, your feet snugly wrapped in another person's socks. She has no idea that I am a relatively clean person, that it is unlikely that my socks carry with them raging foot disease; if I were to wear a strangers socks all day I would boil my feet at the discovery, and then soak them in alcohol.
They were nice socks, black cashmere, soft and comfortable, and relatively new. Losing them through off my entire day. Thankful for the reasonably seasonal temperatures, I didn't suffer from frozen ankles when I went outside. Having spent hours in search of my socks I was running late, and then there were no brown line trains and school was out in 10 minutes, so I found a taxi, after almost being hit by a car, with a very old driver, not lively and quick, who responded, as best he could, at my urging to please hurry, I'm late, I can't be late. But I was, about three minutes late. As I fell out of the taxi, frazzled and sockless, the children were already out on the playground, but not my children. Now I had lost the children as well, which is what happens, lose one thing and the rest follow. "Do they have Spanish today?", from a parent whose daughter did not start after school Spanish today, like my girls.
"Oh right, Spanish". I flashed my bare ankles, "look, I lost my socks", as clearly no further explanation was needed.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Who is Who?
Mary's?
or Kate's?Without looking at the outside I know exactly whose lunch box I am opening. They never surprise me, one is reassembled and neat, food gone, hand wipe used, garbage removed. The other is a mess. Food remains, but not in the container, cheese ground into the seams, raisins in the pocket, the outside pocket, an apple core or orange skin, and always an unused hand wipe.
As in so much of their daily life, they are freakishly consistent, and so like their parents it shocks us still. One is methodical, the other scattered, one is thorough, the other speedy. Doing homework takes twice as long as it should; while one must choose the color appropriate pencil for every task (all apple questions are answered in red pencil) the other has colored everything on the page, including her name, in brown pencil, and is now moving on to the next task, but only after dabbing up the milk she spilled, on the homework, with her shirt.
My husband has never, in his entire life, turned in homework late, or with food attached. My homework was frequently eaten by the dog.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Eyes, Ears and Pimples
Last week the hearing impaired class joined Mary and Kate's kindergarten class in the library. The girls were armed with questions when they got home, most regarding the small wires they saw coming from the ears of the other children.
A discussion followed, on why some ears don't work the same way others do, and how some people need help to make their ears stronger. Just like my eyes, which are not as strong as they once were, I wear something everyday to help me see better.
Me: What do you see on my face?
Kate: A pimple.
Not exactly what I was thinking.
A discussion followed, on why some ears don't work the same way others do, and how some people need help to make their ears stronger. Just like my eyes, which are not as strong as they once were, I wear something everyday to help me see better.
Me: What do you see on my face?
Kate: A pimple.
Not exactly what I was thinking.
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