The Greatest Story Ever Told

When I was younger than 12, closer to 8,  my mother's father gave me a book on the Presidents of the United States. It was navy, a hard back and far too advanced for someone my age: almost all words, very few pictures (mostly photographs), plenty of charts and graphs and little to no appeal to someone my age. Visiting my grandparents in Dallas, I had little else to read and so I flipped through this book, certain that it was intended for my father, not me.

Near the front was a half page list of questions, Presidential Trivia: Which President was buried in a casket the size of a piano box? And, Name the only father and son to both serve as President?* There must have been 50 questions, the answers not listed anywhere for me to find. I had no choice but to read the book.

The Presidents were included chronologically. Each section began with a photograph (of a painting where required), a list of facts and then two to three pages of biography, written, not like an elaboration of the fact page, but an anecdotal biography of each man who had, at that time, been President. Their lives and accomplishments were not reduced to numbers, dates and honors, but built into stories that were engaging, stories that I could relate to, stories that held my interest and pushed me to read more.

The book that I was so positive was not for me became my very favorite. I memorized the trivia questions, and then the answers, and quizzed my friends. My goldfish was named Franklin, his successor, after an untimely death, named Truman. James Buchanan, the only bachelor president, fascinated me and for years the only books I checked out of the Trailwood Elementary library were biographies of the first ladies. History was not boring, it was a collection of the best stories I had ever heard.


The book is long gone but the stories and the fascination with history remain. When I talk about history, to my children or the children at school, I tell them the stories. We read Johnny Tremain, Imogene's Last Stand, and Players in Pigtails.  Sometimes, when you least expect it, history sneaks in and before you know it, you're reading the whole book, and loving the entire story.

Kate agrees. U.S. President of the Day courtesy of my ten year old who uses her collection of presidential magnets and trivia for both educational and decorative purposes.

Books: Johnny Tremain by Esther Forbes , Imogene's Last Stand by Candace Fleming, and Players in Pigtails by Shana Corey.

This post was inspired by Dead Wake, Erik Larson's thrilling account of the Lusitania's last voyage across the Atlantic Ocean and the U-Boat that attacked it. Join From Left to Write on March 26th as we discuss Dead Wake. As a member I received a copy of this book for review purposes.

*When I was 8 the only father and son to serve as President were John Adams and his son, John Quincy Adams. Things have changed.

Dance As If No One Is Watching

In the first year, her cumulative stage time couldn't have been more than five minutes, including the curtain call. We were very proud, happy that she had a chance to do something she so obviously enjoyed, and a little awed that she was so completely pleased and engaged in something that allowed her five minutes of stage glory. Mary was eight; participating in the school play in any way was amazing.

Last spring she jumped at the chance to audition once again. We encouraged her; she loved everything about being involved in the play, including time spent with a heavily weighted middle school cast.  But things changed; Mary, previously thrilled with her role as Extra Dwarf Number Three (in a updated version of Snow White), was cast as Mayor Lucy, a major role that demanded time, commitment, energy and a level of chutzpah that I knew she had but was overwhelmed to see on stage. She was amazing.

It's audition time again. Call backs happened this week, and this time not one, but two of our girls made the list. They spent the weekend practicing. Between bouts of pink eye they danced and sang their way from Friday to Sunday. Everyone in our building can now sing the first few lines of "Consider Yourself".  A chasse, which initially landed one on the ground, was perfected to a level of almost coordination. Twins, the formerly dueling duo, spent the entire weekend offering constructive criticism and genuinely supporting each other.

My Facebook wall is flooded with articles, posted by my parent friends, helping me to navigate the often tricky role of parent supporter/cheerleader/realist/coach. Like so many things, in the hyper sensitive world of perfection parenting, there are only so many things on the approved list of what to say to your children in the face of disappointment. Or the alternative, what to say to your children when your encouragement is required, but not so much that you are pushing them beyond the scope of mental and emotional stability, which will most certainly happen if you deviate at all from the above mentioned approved talking points. We all needed some practice this weekend.

But what I heard was two girls enjoying their time together, two children dancing and singing and cooperating. Two girls who were having fun. And that is what is on my approved list, "are you having fun?". The reality is that they are going to be turned down, they are going to be disappointed and they are going to have to learn to deal with those emotions. As much as I'd like to pretend that may never happen, my daughters are walking into a world where they will hear no more often than they will hear yes. My job, in addition to encouraging them, is to help soften the blow. And the truth is that I am in awe of these two children who are able to push past their comfort zone to do something that could most certainly end in defeat. To pass on the opportunity would clearly be much easier.

Thankfully I do really love to watch them dance. And do math, and sing, and sleep, and read, and bicker incessantly. That they can do all that, and handle rejection and acceptance with grace, is enough to make me proud.

But really, you should see them dance.

This post was inspired by The Matheny Manifesto by St. Louis Cardinals manager Mike Matheny. In in Matheny shares his tough love philosophy for childrens' team sports which translates  to everyday life. Join From Left to Write on February 12th as we discuss The Matheny Manifesto . As a member of From Left to Write I was supplied a copy of this book for review purposes.

A Gift to Call My Own

What should have taken about 20 minutes quickly stretched into an hour. The chance to run freely through a dimly light church sanctuary was irresistible, and the task at hand, selecting a gift tag from the altar tree, was sidelined en lieu of exploration.

Mary was immensely curious about all the candles, and the statue of Mary (the Mary, not my small one) looming over the candle area. Together we lit a candle and I talked to the girls about remembering those who have died. For my grandmother, a very old soul Catholic, the Virgin Mary was the mother of all and the one to whom you appealed for help in any situation. My Mary nodded, very focused and interested.

Mary knelt down and I stepped away, over to the tree but still in hearing distance of her quiet, church appropriate, voice. She blessed herself, "Father, Son, Holy Spirit, amen" crossing her chest from right to left.

"Hello Mary, this is Mary. For Christmas, could Mimi and Grandaddy come back from heaven, just maybe for the day? That would make my mom really happy. Thank you".

She stood quietly, blessed herself again, and then promptly threw one small leg over the top of the kneeling bench. Wiggling furiously she managed to get her entire body on top, as if on a grocery store mechanical horse. Grabbing one leg, I pulled her down, just before she rode her horse into row after row of lit candles. Sitting on the step, I then said my own blessing, for this child, for her kindness and her spirit; and for the circle of life that brought her to me. 

Originally written several years ago, when Mary was six, this was the perfect story to share after reading The 13th Gift, this month's From Left to Write book selection. A holiday memoir, writer Joanne Huist Smith shares how the kindness of others helped her family come together and celebrate Christmas, after suffering a great loss. Join From Left to Write on October 28th as we discuss The 13th Gift.  As a member I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

12th Street and Vine

How we ever found this place is a mystery, located just south of the historic intersection at 12th Street and Vine, as is what logical thought went into making our way here, night after night, long after the more intelligent people had gone home.

Since 1930 musicians have gathered here, at the Mutual Musicians Foundation, on Friday and Saturday nights around midnight, after the regular gigs were over, to play together until the very early hours of the morning. The Foundation is on the east side of the city, an area not known for its low crime rate. We hosted my father's 60th birthday party at Arthur Bryant's, just down the street; the white suburbanites were in the cars and on their way home by sundown. Our night had just begun.

I'm going to Kansas City
Kansas City, here I come
Going to Kansas City 
Kansas Cit,y here I come
They got a crazy way of loving there 
And I'm gonna get me some

Thank heavens we had the good sense, at midnight, to never drive to the Foundation. Sadly we never had the good sense to realize that taxis, readily available in many parts of the city at midnight, are not too easy to come by at 4 a.m. when you want to go home, at least not at 18th and Vine. Fooled early on by rows of unmanned taxis parked in front we soon learned that they belonged to drivers sleeping at the transient hotel next door, who were not too interested in waking up to take us home. More than once we relied on the kindness of a departing musician to get us to a neighborhood that was at least semi awake.

I'm gonna be standing on the corner
12th Street and Vine
I'm gonna be standing on the corner
12th Street and Vine
With my Kansas City baby
And some Kansas City wine

They sell cans of Bud Lite for one dollar out of a blue Igloo cooler. The musicians rotate in and out of play, highlighting one then another, as seamlessly as if they played together always. The room is always warm, even in January, when it feels like a thick July night inside. The neighborhood, alive only hours earlier with sounds of jazz and smells of barbecue, is quiet now, save the music emanating from the old brick building on Highland. That guy, the one just walking in, has given up his search for a taxi and is going in to dance with his girlfriend, the one in pearls swaying to the saxophone solo. They are having the time of their lives. Thank goodness they weren't smart enough to go home with their friends, hours ago. Thank goodness there are still places like this, on the east side of Kansas City.

Well, I might take a plane, I might take a train
But if I have to walk I'm going there just the same
I'm going to Kansas City
Kansas City, here I come
They got some crazy little women there
And I'm gonna get me one.

Lyrics to Kansas City: Jerry Lieber and Mike Stoller

This post was inspired by 2 A.M. at the Cat's Pajamas, a completely original and engaging debut novel by Marie-Helen Bertino. I could have written about nine year old girls, or teachers, or love, or Philadelphia or the kindness of community, as this book is so full of options. I was provided with a complimentary copy for the purposes of this post, as a member of From Left to Write. Join us August 28th, 2014 when we discuss this book and our unique impressions from its many themes.

Kate and Mary Read: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory

In the summer of reading, I have now enlisted my children to not only help with laundry, gardening and cooking but also writing. We all read the classic Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and over dinner, overwhelmed with their responses to my questioning in putting together thoughts on the book, I decided that they would write the essays for From Left to Write. Nine year old writing skills now far exceed nine year old cooking skills, but we're working on that.

Mary

As a five year old I always thought that getting everything would be nice, and that of course my mom and dad could, so then why wouldn't they? I saw kids my age at Target begging and screaming for a doll and they would get it. And when I tried this I got a time-out at home (and no doll). Now I am nine and by understanding the world a little better, I know that wanting (not to mention having) everything, would be a mistake of mine, for I would be bored, but most importantly I would not be a very good friend or person. In Charlie and the Chocolate Factory Veruca Salt is like this. In one part of the story she tells her parents that she wants an Oompa-Loompa and that she needs one, yet these Oompa-Loompas belong to Mr. Wonka (mother editor note, discuss owning versus working for with daughter writer). And after she screams and yells and whines they tell her maybe. So in conclusion I think that kids should get things only when they are nice about it and if it is something they need. Kids should never want everything.

Kate
After reading Roald Dahl's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory I found myself pondering a fact that I had not even thought about for a very long time: the fact that there is a gargantuan amount of children in the world that have living conditions much worse than mine. Many of these children would call something as simple as  flat screen TV a luxury and complain (actually they might not complain because they were used to it) of heat in the summer and being cold in the winter because they don't have air conditioning and heat. In my free time you'll probably find me relaxing on our back deck or deciding what to play with while rummaging through our big container of outdoor toys and sports equipment. I dont' realize how great it is that I have so many privileges very often, that is until Charlie Bucket pops into my mind again.

The other four lucky winners at Mr. Wonka's factory are described as greedy and spoiled children.  What do you think would happen if they switched places with Charlie Bucket? They probably never thought of kids like him. All four were too busy eating, chewing gum, watching television and and spoiling themselves to ever think of this. From now on I am going to try to think about this everyday.

 
My thoughts, beyond what a delightful and imaginative story this is, as enchanting now as it was when I read it so many years ago, lean to appreciation for fine lessons learned. I distinctly remember being horrified at the behavior of four of the five Golden Ticket winners when I was young; I'm happy to learn that my girls share my horror.


This post was inspired by the classic Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl, which celebrates its 50th anniversary this year. To celebrate, Penguin Young Readers Group, in partnership with Dylan's Candy Bar, the world famous candy emporium, and First Book, a nonprofit social enterprise that provides books for children from low-income families, is launching a year long international celebration.

Head over to From Left to Write to learn how you and your child can have a chance to win the Golden Ticket Sweepstakes where the grand prize is a magical trip to New York City, plus much more! For every entry submitted Penguin Young Readers Group will make a donation to First Book. Then join From Left to Write on July 24th as we discuss Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. As a book club member I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

This post was inspired by the classic Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl, which celebrates its 50th anniversary this year. To celebrate, Penguin Young Readers Group, in partnership with Dylan’s Candy Bar, the world-famous candy emporium, and First Book, a nonprofit social enterprise that provides books for children from low-income families, is launching a year-long international celebration.

Head over to From Left to Write to learn how you and your child can have a chance to win the Golden Ticket Sweepstakes where the grand prize is a magical trip to New York City plus much more! For every entry submitted, Penguin Young Readers Group will make a donation to First Book. Then, join From Left to Write on July 24 as we discuss Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. As a book club member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

- See more at: http://cupcakekellys.com/2014/07/22/charlie-chocolate-factory-ive-got-golden-ticket/#sthash.dbi3dT8o.dpuf

Choosing the Right One

"If you're going to chose someone to like, you should try and chose the right person".

She knows she has chosen the right person, "I've never had a friend like this before", and she hasn't. She's a very young fourth grade girl who often thinks like a 43 year old: intensely logical, curious, pragmatic, keenly aware, and sometimes just too practical. When she wants to discuss the first ten amendments to the Constitution she finds very few who take the seat next to her at lunch.

Several months ago she found that person; a friend who moved into her classroom, one who now would be there at recess when she felt like making it a Langston Hughes day. They found a table together in class, right in front, and at lunch.

"Mom, we do stuff, we spend a LOT of time together", and she was happy, because for the first time in a long time she knew that there was someone near who also found a conversation about the Gettysburg Address a worthy use of free time.

"Did you get new shoes?", asks the boy.
"Yes, did you?", answers his friend.
They are standing face to face, inches apart, each pushing up his own glasses in a most entertaining and stereotypical manner.
"I like your shoes", and they giggle, because they are wearing the same tennis shoes, in different colors.

This weekend his family announced that at the end of summer, after only a few short months of being classmates, they are moving to New York. I cried for her because I knew that this was going to be very hard, even for my child who often couches her emotions in a most adult way, and for her mother who has delighted in seeing her child discover a good friendship.

"You can talk to me, you know, if you're sad, about him moving".
"I'm sad Mom. I'm very sad", and she went off to get ready for bed.

Later she wanted to know just how far away he would be: were they going to live in the city? Would we fly to visit? Would he still come here?


"We have a strong bond Mom, we have great affection", and she cried.

We have the summer, and we will make the most of being together. We'll visit, and so will they, and both of our children will be just fine. But when you must lose the one you chose, the one who makes you feel less alone in a room full of people, that's hard to take, when you're nine, even if you think like you're 43.





 

This post was inspired by the novel Bittersweet by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore, a novel about summer, and family, and friendship. Join From Left to Write on May 20th as we discuss Bittersweet. As a member I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Not Always a Page Turner, But Always Ours

If it was our story, would you cheer for us?

From the trenches of our day to day, without the wisdom of perspective, I think that I would. Our story works for us, entertains us and keeps us busy, but would it make you turn the page, miss your stop, and wish that the doctor was running just a bit late?

Rosie's did.

Our story starts at work, where I was certain that the guy in the next office was a true dullard who would never once sneak out for ice cream on a warm summer day. I was right, but as he now points out I don't like ice cream, really never have. Rather we rolled many Friday afternoons into happy hour, and then dinner, and then occasionally dancing, all of which does tell much better than sneaking out for ice cream.

Several chapters later, after we had grocery shopped, introduced friends and stayed home to watch a movie, I asked him to meet my grandmother. He was busy. And when he finally realized how much it mattered, how very important she was to me, he agreed to dinner. She died the following weekend and I still ache that the person most responsible for who I am never knew the person with whom I now share my life. She would have liked him, his eating dinner with her in the dining room of the senior citizen home would have been one hilarious chapter, but it's part of the story never written. 

We went to Italy, we got engaged, we introduced our parents. We realized that we were coming at this from two incredibly different vantage points: very different childhoods, different families, different backgrounds. Our story could have hinged on this, a soul searching conversation leaving one of us alone at the end of the chapter, sitting on a step as the other walks away, back to their apartment, just for a break. It didn't; we knew that what mattered most was in front of us, what was to be our life together.

Big page turner, we got married. 

We moved, made new friends, traveled, fell down, got back up, and learned how this story was now about two moving forward, no longer one and maybe. And then my dad got sick, very sick. In a story that was going along so well, this came at us in a voice mail left at my office, "your dad had a stroke", and the chapter ended.

The story shifts, away from me, from my dad, and to my husband, who did everything right. In a time and place where I was left to make decisions and be strong and make my dad believe that he could get better, our story was the person who held my hand, made me tea and believed in me. But he died, my dad died, and no one person doing everything possible could make that right. We were stronger together, he held me up, and somehow our story, on the other side of horrible, got better.

There have now been children, job changes, new friends, aging parents, dead pets, and long wonderful summers. Our story is not boring, it's not perfect, but it is all ours. Would you root for us, when I forget to pick up the dry cleaning, he works too late, and dinner is a last minute call for Thai food in the middle of math homework that I don't understand? Would you turn the page?

This post was inspired by the novel The Opposite of Maybe by Maddie Dawson. It’s the story of Rosie, who at 44 is faced with some major life changing stuff. It's a story about a life taking some wild swings, and discovering that maybe what you never wanted was just what you needed. It's the story of a family, creating that the best way you can. You'll cheer for Rosie, I did.

Join From Left to Write on April 8 we discuss The Opposite of Maybe. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Who Judged a Book By It's Cover? Me.

"This book wasn't as good as it's cover."

Oh yes, the never ending story of a 8 year old girl who insists on choosing books with shiny covers full of pink, with a title announced in poofy letters and a cover picture which must include a girl in a short skirt, around 10 years old, who appears to be in some sort of quandary. Extra points for crowns and promises of princesses within.

"Did you read the first few pages, or the inside cover, before you checked it out?", although I know that she did not. She is not alone; children want books that appear new, with brightly colored covers, titles that scream at them and pictures that promise girl related drama or bodily functions. Publishers deliver, shelves are stocked with Junie B.Jones and Captain Underpants. And it's not just the third grade, pre-school boys are wild about finding pictures of toilets in books, while the four year old girls refuse to open anything that is not part of the Pinkalicious family of books.

No Henry Huggins, no Frog and Toad, no Lyle, all sadly regulated to the back of the shelf thanks to their simple covers and stories markedly absent of potty sounds and characters who only wear pink clothing. Charlotte's Web, only saved from certain extinction by having been made into a movie more than once, gathers less dust than than Superfudge. Put that pig in a pink gown and sparkly crown and you've got yourself a bestseller.

Don't judge a book by it's cover? Remind me of that next time you see me wine shopping, I'm drawn to labels with good graphics, or ones that look so distant and intriguing I am certain that the wine inside must be wonderful. You'll know me by the husband following close behind, reviewing each choice, and regulating most to the "ally" section of the wine cabinet.

But books? The horror. Generally I don't buy books online. I prefer my local book shop where I can spend hours going over each and every one that interests me, reading the inside cover and making decisions based on content and story, not just the flashy picture on the cover; I will not be fooled by flashy covers. Usually.

This book arrived in the mail, sent to me from the publisher for review purposes. Yuck. The cover was all wrong; it screamed pink and the font was messy. I wasn't going to like it but I had agreed to read it, and so it went into the "need to read" queue. Days later, having found it's way to the top, I read the first page, and then the second. Written in a series of emails, memos, court documents, letters and statutes, it's easy to flip from one page to the next, and difficult to put down. The story unfolds from the documents, each one (save the necessary statutes), written in a very smart, and unique, voice. The characters become real in their own words, not by lecture from the writer.

After years of reminding children to look inside before making a decision, I have, perhaps, learned my own lesson. Sometimes wonderful, thought provoking and smart stories can be hidden behind screaming pink covers, when you just take the time to look inside.

That said, it's still the label on the front of the bottle that gets me, every time.

This post was inspired by the novel The Divorce Papers by Susan Rieger. Young lawyer Sophie unwillingly takes her first divorce case with and entertaining and volatile client in this novel told through correspondence and legal documents. Join From Left to Write on March 18th as we discuss The Divorce Papers. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.


* If you enjoy reading books written in the epistolary style, I encourage you to read 84, Charing Cross Road, a wonderful way to spend a few hours.

From My Side of the Gate

This post was inspired by the novel Prayers for the Stolen by Jennifer Clement, the story of one girl, her mother and friends, surviving in rural Mexico. It is a choppy story, reflecting the life lived by these women, so far from the Mexico advertised in the United States. Join From Left to Write on February 18th as we discuss Prayers for the Stolen. As a member I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

There were two girls on the other side of the gate who appeared to be about my age. We stood and looked at each other for a few minutes, smiling and waving. My grandmother appeared behind me and suggested that I come back inside, it was time for dinner. Not at all hungry, I wanted to go out and play with these girls. She waved them on but I held firm, I wanted to be on the other side. At five my Spanish was limited to hello, thank you, please, and a few food items. I tried them all, certainly saying something as interesting as "me gusta el taco", the girls giggled, and said something back, which, having no idea what they were saying, made me giggle. Soon enough all three of us were laughing; Mimi went to find the cook.

Every year my grandparents left in mid January. Knowing I wouldn't see them for weeks, I spent the night before they left at their house, helping pack and leaving little notes in their luggage, the black and white patterned Samsonite with the bright orange lining. A week earlier my grandfather had brought them down from the attic so that, even though she took the exact same clothes each year, Mimi could start the packing and organizing required for a month away from home.

Three weeks later Dad and I went to the grocery store for milk, eggs, bacon, bread and these truly sweet sticky buns my grandfather liked, stocking the refrigerator for their return. The next morning we were on a plane, to be greeted four hours later in sunshine by my grandfather, relaxed and tan, driving the old orange Volkswagen thing that I thought was the most exciting car ever made. Dad took over and drove us home, Bopaw in the front seat smoking a cigarette and filling us in on what had happened in the year that we had been away. Mom and I rode in the back, my hair flying, her screams muffled by the roar of the open air car as it raced along the malecon.

Mona was still alive, and still horribly unpleasant. She patrolled the beautiful jardin, never beyond the fence for fear that she would bite someone. Only Paulino went in, to feed her, and take care of the flowers. The roosters next door had not made it to a stockpot yet and were still the very early morning wake up call for the entire block. Julia was making pork roast tonight, in honor of Dad's arrival, and papas fritas for me. The Testerman's were coming tomorrow for dinner, Mimi was having a party for their Kansas City friends on Saturday.

We bounced along the cobblestones and up the steep hills in town, Mom alternating between screeching in terror and joy as we passed her favorite shops: cute pink sandals outside Letty's competing for attention with a burro who wandered into our path. When we rounded the corner and stopped at the end of the road I could smell the papas fritas; Mimi's face inside the gate settled it, I was home, at least for a short time.

One week to sleep in the mosquito netting, to bury myself in the sand at El Dorado, to drink fresh squeezed orange juice every morning and to beg my Dad to carry me back up the hill after a trip down to Bing's for pineapple ice cream. One week to spend with the four people I loved the most in the world, in the place I waited all year to be, Mexico.

And then, at the end, as I knew would happen each year, I said goodbye to my parents and got on a plane with my grandparents for the trip home. Mom and Dad just at the start of their Mexican time, a month of friends and parties and sunburns in front of them, while I was headed to snow and school and heartache, leaving my parents never easy, and my leaving was never easy for Dad. Waking the next morning to the sticky rolls we bought just a week earlier made him closer, even though I knew he was very far away.

My grandmother returned with Julia who talked to the girls for a minute and then turned to Mimi and me. In the end they allowed me outside, but only for a few minutes, long enough to take a picture and let me run to the end of the street and back. At five I had not yet learned that I wasn't supposed to be friends with the people who stood on the other side of the gate.

Happiness at Home, Like It or Not

From Left to Write asks reviewers to connect the book of the month with their personal experiences. Accordingly, this is not a traditional book review, but rather, my response to this month’s selection. This post was inspired by Happier at Home by Gretchen Rubin where she runs a nine month experiment to create happier surroundings. Join From Left to Write on January 6 we discuss Happier at Home. You can also chat live with Gretchen Rubin on January 7 on Facebook. I received an advance copy of Happier At Home for free, but I was not compensated in any way for my review. My comments are my own. This book is available for purchase here.


 It was sometime around month four, when the terror that had been my raison d'etre began to subside, when I no longer could exist on fumes and fear, that is when the real exhaustion set in. Each day I waited, like a forlorn puppy, for Jack's key in the door, when the responsibility of keeping these two infants alive was no longer solely mine, at least for a few hours. His dapper self greeted me, this weary, and frequently unclean, version of me and said, "go out, go out to dinner, get a pedicure, for the love of God please do something". I was simply too tired, and yes, unkempt. All I wanted, all I dreamed of, was to be at home, alone. All alone in the expanse of our small apartment, completely and selfishly alone, to bathe and watch television and yes, maybe read a book.  It never happened.

Kindergarten came much sooner than I expected. The children were going to be gone from home for almost six hours? At the same time as my husband was at work? It was the most painfully boring, and incredibly lonely, day I have ever spent. I went to work, I began writing, I started swimming. When the children went to school, I left home, the place I had been for five years, but never alone.

This year, in my annual post Thanksgiving bout with homesickness, I decided that what I needed was to feel more at home in my home. And if I really and truly missed so very much what home meant to me as a child, it was my responsibility to create that feeling here, in my now home.

"This is not a sprawling suburban fortress, it's a small urban apartment", said my rational self, or as he is known to many, Jack, as I dragged out box after box of Christmas accouterments. Boxes that held the trappings of a Christmas once marked by five trees, all with thematic ornaments. I went to work, looking for the kitchen decorations.

"There is not going to be a tree in the kitchen, not unless you can mastermind a way to string lights on the refrigerator without slowing the door opening process", said the voice of reason.

The long and narrow hallway, the trademark of a Chicago apartment, now used as a staging area, was impassable. Boxes and tubs stacked floor to ceiling, I sacrificed my two free days per week, usually spent downtown writing, to being at home. I ate ramen noodles and made cookie dough, listening to Bing Crosby as I hung paper chains on the dining room chandelier. The end plan was more home time, less frantic running about the city time. No need to soak up holiday cheer from everyone else, we were going to have plenty right here, at home. Annual trips to the Christ kindle market, the Mayor's Christmas tree, the Symphony, all put on hold en lieu of more time together, sloshing eggnog and roasting chestnuts (over our gas fireplace).

The joy didn't last. Jack came home with a terrible sickness, best described as a cough that kept the neighbor up. He was quarantined in our bedroom; occasionally I would crack the door, slide in a bowl of noodle soup, and run. Project home was put on hold, at least until we could be safely at home.

Mary got it the following week. With a fever that lasted the better of 10 days, I was forced into the domesticity that I had earlier decided would be mine this year. Holiday cheer was all ours, and only ours, as the whole family was now quarantined, our dear friends and family staying as far away as possible. Seven days in a row, only leaving the apartment once, and that, for church on Christmas Eve. Never before has a walk to Target seemed so dreamy.

The year that I chose home, home chose me. And with all that time confined to our small space, the halls are decked, the stockings are hung and the kitchen has never looked better. Why yes Jack, those are lights draped from pot rack to microwave.

Next year we share our joy, but not our fevers. Happier at home? Always.

How a Dog Taught Me About a Man

 
This post was inspired by Buddy: How a Rooster Made Me a Man a memoir by Brian McGrogry. When Brian leaves his bachelor life to move to the suburbs and join his girlfriend and her two young daughters, he had no idea he needed to win over their rooster also. Join From Left to Write on November 21st as we discuss Buddy: How A Rooster Made Me a Man. As a member I received a copy of this book for review purposes.

To understand his side of the story, you must understand that he, in no way, benefited at all from her existence. Of course it's really a chicken and egg story, perhaps if he shared some kindness the love might have flowed back and the benefits would have been easier to recognize. As is, they marched around each other, one yelling, the other gassing, coexisting in a small space of unpleasantness.

He comes to this naturally; as he explains 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,

But then, Eleanor did 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. Eleanor, true to her self in every way, spent her happiest moments wandering the city ingesting everything that crossed her path. My path was then to the emergency vet late into the night, hoping once again that what she had eaten would not kill her, the only permanent damage being when Jack discovered what another round of Eleanor flu had cost.

Of course I should have known. He had no patience for my dog, the one who had been my constant companion for the years leading up to Jack. When he met Shenannigan she was old and blind, forever running into things left out of place, quite frequently Jack being one of those things. He was new in her old world; he took me away from nights at home with my dear old dog, she couldn't have been pleased.

When he agreed to a dog I ran to the nearest shelter, knowing that my window of time was tiny, that in an instant he could take back what he had stumbled over, "yes, let's get a dog". Eleanor moved in the next day.  Every year I hoped he would begin to appreciate the the companionship, the friendship, the comfort of having a dog. He appreciated her need to go outside at 11pm, the cost of keeping her healthy and the accommodation made for her aging dog body odor.

When Eleanor died last year Jack was in New York. He did what he does best, he took care of things because his wife and two daughters were far too emotional to function.

"If you must have a dog, as far as dogs go, I suppose she was all right".

All right? She was the best, and she was part of our family.

On Not Telling the Truth, Nothing But the Truth

This post was inspired by The Dinner, a novel by Herman Koch. Two brothers and their wives sit down for a tension filled dinner, avoiding a tragedy that could change both families' lives forever. Join From Left to Write on October 29th and we discuss The Dinner. As a member I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

 

Some time ago Mary did something sneaky and she got caught. It wasn't terribly egregious, no permanent harm was done, but she knew she was doing something wrong and she continued to do it, the fun getting in the way of her six year old moral compass. It bothers her still.

Discovering these secrets is often a mystery unfolding, unraveling as piece by piece things come together to form a whole picture. For Mary it was my finding a bit of packaging from something she was not supposed to have opened, and it rapidly snowballed from there. She watched as I put together what had happened, watched terrified as I found, bit by bit, what she had done. And the truth is that I was angry at her for being sneaky but I felt bad that she thought it necessary.

Secrets are that way, one leads to another, one covering for the last, but when that code is cracked, the free fall is fast and furious. And the landing quite painful, even when you have just opened something you were told not to, something you wanted so much to play with you felt compelled to hide. 


There must be repercussions, because even though there was no real harm done, the lesson must be learned. Sneaking is bad, hiding is lying, and lessons learned now, over trivial incidents, can ease a good deal of pain and angst when the stakes are much higher.

As she often does, Mary flipped through the book I've been reading, not one meant for 9 year old eyes.

"What is this about Mom? People going out to dinner?".

My bookmark was in the last quarter of the book, "kind of, but also about a family, and what happens when people are not honest. It's almost like a mystery.".

She was quiet for a bit, reading the back cover and thinking, "and you need to write something about this book also?".

"I do, although I'm not sure what I'm going to write. In the story someone makes a bad decision, they do something wrong and then try to hide it. Do you have any ideas, things I could write about?".

She smiled, "what about the toy Mom? When I opened the toy? That was wrong and I tried to hide it".

As much as I hate that even now, three years later, she still thinks about what was really one very small incident, I hope that the impression made can last for years, when telling the truth is more than the right thing, it is the safe thing.

Cranberry Juice with a Splash of Ginger Ale

This post was inspired by the hilarious book Reasons Mommy Drinks by Lyranda Martin Evans and Fiona Stevenson, a riotous journey, cocktails included, through the madness of being a new mom. 

This is my second post for From Left to Write, an online book club where our bloggers/members create a virtual discussion of a book and how it relates to their lives and in turn, everyone’s lives. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes. The book is available for purchase here.

 
Mommy Day Three Cocktail

Cranberry juice
Crushed ice
Ginger Ale

Fill plastic hospital pitcher* with small pieces of ice. Add cranberry juice, top with ginger ale. Drink three or four per day, as delivered by nurse. Realize three pitchers in that this is a ploy, albeit a tasty one, in effort to force you to get up and use the bathroom. Continue to enjoy, even if devious ploy works. Go home the next day and beg husband/exhausted new father to keep them coming.
*Perfectly acceptable to walk out with hospital pitcher amongst your things. You're paying for it anyway.

How badly did I need this drink? Who knows? I was still quite loopy from the drugs required to rip two small people from my body without doing irreparable damage. Turns out that is impossible, but a nice jug of cranberry juice and ginger ale, complete with a bendy straw, made it all better. Still does.

One of my daughters, those pesky children who now snoop and read everything that I do, was horrified to find this in the introduction: If you're a new mother reading this, it's probably 3 am and your nipples are bleeding. Welcome! 

"Yuck MOM! That is gross, bleeding nipples? Ewww!".

"Absolute yuck Mary. Give me the book".

She has no idea. Of course the secret truth is that having a baby, or two, reeked more havoc on my psyche than my, all right, nipples. And no cocktail, no matter how fabulous, could give me back what I lost when I gained two permanent appendages: the ability to think only of myself. Adding a wee bit of vodka might help.

The Reasons Mommy Drinks is part memoir, part cocktail cookbook and all parts funny. It's not a classic, references to Snooky (done so well) assure us of that, but it is a really funny book. One that a new mother who will most certainly be up at 3:00 am experiencing some level of nipple pain might enjoy reading. One that will, for a moment, distract you from the physical madness that is happening to your body, but not take away, for one moment, the amazing beating being dealt to your psyche. As it should be, no cocktail required.


The most disturbing part of reading and then writing about this book? Having to google "Snooky" as I had no idea how to spell her name'ish.

The Story of a Pink and Blue Striped Cap

This post was inspired by the memoir Raising My Rainbow by Lori Duron as she shares her journey raising a gender creative son. Join From Left to Write on September 5 as we discuss Raising My Rainbow.  As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes. The book is available for purchase here.

This is my first post for From Left to Write, an online book club where our bloggers/members create a virtual discussion of a book and how it relates to their lives and in turn, everyone’s lives.

When our twins were born I saw not two girls but two blobs of healthy baby: twenty toes, four blue eyes, minimal hair, squishy faces and good Apgar scores. Also, I had no idea which was which. My husband knew although I think he had a better view of the "A" and "B" tags that the nurse had stuck to their tiny caps, their matching tiny pink caps.

"Could you put one of them in a blue cap please, it would be easier", was my exhausted plea to the nurse on day 2, feeling like a complete failure as a mother for having no idea which child was A and which was B without finding my glasses and studying the caps.

"You want me to put a blue cap on your daughter?", with a look of bewilderment comparable to the one on Jack's face when the doctor heard not one but two heartbeats.

"I do, please".

She scurried away and came back with a much better solution, a blue and pink striped cap. Who this was originally intended for we have no idea. I can only imagine the level of confusion for the poor mother who was not supplied the cheat sheet version of infant gender assignment; what child was deemed suitable for a gender confused baby cap?

Mine, but only at my request.

My mother in law quickly found her way to Baby Gap to find something more suitable. She was, I assume, unnerved by seeing her beautiful granddaughter wearing the ambiguous striped cap. The next day one girl was wearing a mint green number, the other lavender. Sanity restored, my only challenge being to remember who was in what color and to pray that no one ever switched the caps without me knowing.

When the girls were born I believed that there were certain things we all, as parents, had evolved into accepting. McDonald's food was unhealthy and generally bad, ditto television and all processed food. Also, the overall atmosphere of force feeding gender stereotypes? Very bad. Didn't we all believe that teaching our daughters about knights in shining armor and glass slippers was bad practice? Apparently not.

It is difficult to buy a child's toothbrush without making a gender specific proclamation. There we are at Target, trapped for hours in the dental aisle, trying desperately to agree on a toothbrush multi-pack that keeps everyone happy.  God bless Snoopy. His tooth brush collection, available in red, yellow and green, appeals to all and says little about the gender of the brush'er.

My children wear puffy coats from L.L. Bean every winter. They are warm, simple, last forever (or long enough to hand down between two very different sized twins) and are available in a vast array of colors. The boys' coat comes in bright orange, night sky and river moss. For girls we have citron, orchid and true blue, a turquoise color. It's the same coat, the exact same coat, and rather than list all the colors together, it is sorted into two distinct groups which I, as a mother appreciate, as I sometimes have trouble knowing just what colors are appropriate for my girls. Thankfully there are so many people willing to help me find my way. Pity my poor child who prefers primary colors and is forced to buy her winter coat in the boy section each year.

For all the effort made to categorize children, to assign to them our own stereotypes and confine them to our rigid, and really outdated, criteria of pink and blue, I remain confused. My children are not gender creative, they are gender non-compliant. Mary, who climbs every tree she sees and lives her life covered in scrapes and bruises, prefers to dress in glitter sparkled tutus.  Kate, who recoils in horror at the idea of bedazzled clothing, is perfectly content to spend the day inside with Kit, her doll, having tea parties and telling stories.

Who wouldn't be confused?

Many thanks to the employees of the Gap who have tried, repeatedly to direct me to the correct side of the store. My own ignorance once again stepping in first as I continue to miss the obvious, the screaming pink and purple displays to my left as I walk in and turn right, looking for jeans for my daughters that do not cling to their tiny bodies as if wrapped in a neon colored fire hose.

Also thanks to McDonald's which, on the one trip I made to pick up lunch for a classroom party, almost stumped me with the gender specific Happy Meal question. Thank goodness for the counter help who were able to direct me to the appropriate lunch option, and apologies to the 10 boys in the class forced to suffer the indignity of eating a girl Happy Meal. Thanks also to the girl in kindergarten who told Mary that if she was a girl she needed to wear pink to school every day and to Kate's first grade classmate who told me that she was almost positive that Kate's blue tennis shoes were for boys. Where would we be without the kind direction of these people?

When the girls were younger a woman at the park, the mother of a boy and a girl, told me she thought I was lucky because I would never have to separate their toys.

"I'm sorry?"
"Well I just mean you'll never have that day when you have to tell your son that he can't play with your daughter's toys, you know, because they are girl toys".
"Oh right, I hadn't thought of that. Lucky me!"

Clearly I have been very confused. Perhaps we all are.