Author Archives: mkea

Paradise Family Style

Fluffy white clouds move across the incredibly blue sky.  Waves crash upon the shore just a stone’s throw from my spot on the lanai.   Lean bodies bob in the surf, waiting for the right swell, then rise with the ocean, toes clinging to boards, falling back down as the wave ends in foam and bubbles, only to paddle out to begin again.  Gazing past the palm trees at the scene before me, I sip my lime laced Corona, and sigh.

Sounds good, don’t it?  Well it was really like that, some of the time, but the truth is, it was one heck of a trip just getting my family to America’s Eden in the South Pacific:

It starts out all right on a flight from San Francisco to Honolulu, but things go awry after catching a connecting flight to Maui.  Seems we had more than enough time to make the transfer, but our bags didn’t.  The baggage agent assures me that they will be on the next flight.  Maybe.  Or maybe the one after that.  Or maybe they will deliver them to our lodgings later.  Much later.

Okaaaaay….

Well, the next flight is due in twenty minutes, so might as well hang around for the luggage, right?  The kids are over-tired and out of control, but that’s just another day at the beach for us.  As we wait, the twenty minutes turn into an hour.  We watch in confusion as the arrival screen shows the flight as on time, then late, then on time, then removes it off the board all together.  When we do finally collect our luggage, we figure now we may as well wait for my parents and sister to arrive at the baggage claim since their flight is only another half hour away.

I watch anxiously as weary travelers straggle in from the gates to wait around the carousel where my parent’s flight is listed.  Scanning the crowd, I cannot find my mom and dad.  Worried, I try my dad’s cell phone, then my sister’s.  Surely somebody would have called me if something had gone wrong!  Anxiety turning to fear, I run down the open air concourse in the humidity until I come to the ticket counter, and race up to an available agent.

“My parents were supposed to be on flight 34, but they didn’t arrive!”  I gasp, wiping sweat from my eyes.

The agent looks up, smiles vacantly, tip taps into her computer, and calmly replies “That flight’s delayed two hours.”

“Oh,” I gush with relief, “I was so worried because the screen shows it as on time…”

“That flight’s delayed two hours,” she repeats with the same vacant smile.

Okaaaaay….

So jump ahead in time a little, the relatives arrive, and we help my folks with their luggage cart over to the line for the rental car shuttle bus.  We wait, and as the person before us finishes loading and jumps on the bus, I begin to load the parents’ luggage as quickly as possible, not wanting them to stand in the hot sun.  Neither one walks well, and I want them seated.  At the same time, from the other direction, some bozo starts throwing luggage on, completely disregarding the fact that we waited in line and it’s our turn.  So pushy little broad that I am, I don’t back down, I just keep tossing luggage to the poor driver who’s putting ours in one pile and Bozo’s in another. 

“Why don’t you wait until somebody else is finished?” Bozo says acidly.  “There’s a line here.”

“I waited in line,” I snapped indignantly, “you came from the other side.  And I cannot leave my parents standing in the sun any longer.  They’re handicapped.”

“Not my problem,” Bozo dares to say.

I am on the step of the bus, Bozo is on the curb and he’s sort of a runt anyway, so turning back toward him and leaning in close, I am about three inches from his face when I bite loudly, “You’re an asshole.”  I hope he caught some spit with that.

People on the bus turn and stare, but Bozo shuts up.  At the car rental he shoves his son off the bus before it’s fully stopped, ordering, “Get in line, quick!”  For his efforts with his son’s life, he ends up about four customers ahead of us.  The snaking line positions us directly across the rope guide from each other, but while I check out his lycra encased chubby wife and decide she’d be a candidate for “What Not to Wear”, Bozo carefully avoids looking at me.  Yeah, that’s right, little man.  Don’t mess with angry Greek/Italian women.  We’re mean.

Traffic to our destination is obnoxious, and at one point we consider pulling over until morning to join the jalopies camping on the narrow band of beach next to the “highway”.  We finally arrive at our condos in paradise, and find out the relatives’ expensive condo hasn’t been updated since Captain Cook frolicked with natives.  Fortunately, a pleading call to the property manager solves that problem the next morning, and we are now free to enjoy ten days of carefree relaxation. 

That was a fantasy with no hope of realization.

Did I mention the Greek/Italian thing?  See, vacationing with my family is like skipping off to paradise with some unholy mixture of Chevy Chase’s Griswolds, Cher’s family from “Moonstruck”, and Nia Vardalos’ family from “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.”  Nothing goes right, we fight, we shout, we cry, we forgive.  We don’t do peaceful very well.

Still, in our chemically unstable way, we have a good time.  And we are together. 

Eventually the trip ends, and we return to our ancient half remodeled fixer, my parents to the family home where I grew up, only half a mile one direction, and my sister to her cute condo, half a mile in the other direction.  We all say we want to return to Maui next year. There is a spot in our backyard where I would like to put a bench.  I like to pause there under the mulberry tree, and look back across the toy strewn lawn to our house.  It looks cheery despite its age from that vantage point.  I can hear the shouting from within, some joyful, some argumentative, some punitive.  I can hear the children’s laughter.  And when I revisited this spot soon after our trip, I smiled to myself at our untidy yard and noisy home, realizing that really, paradise is relative.

Heaven’s Gardener

Sometimes, something special happens.  Well, I suppose something special happens more often than we realize, but sometimes we notice. I am sitting by the pool, gazing at clouds that look like they’ve been sponge painted across the sky…only God could do that.  And I think of things… 

A year ago May, my aunt passed away.  She was an unusual person.  She was generous, loyal, hard working, committed to family.  An excellent gardener and cook, and an expert knitter. She was also opinionated, often abrasive, argumentative, stubborn, and basically difficult.  A vulnerable know-it-all with fragile self-esteem.  She was very bright, a master with finance, yet consistently chose relationships with men who could only offer heartache.  She claimed to not be religious, though we found bibles and religious articles in every room of her home.  She had many talents, and many problems.  She was a contradiction, and she was ours. 

I could fill a book with anecdotes, some pretty funny in retrospect.  But this is about something special. 

Niki was not given to outward displays of affection.  When we were children, our grandparents (her parents) would warmly hug and kiss us goodbye.  Niki would coolly turn a cheek.  As adults we would literally have to grab her and force a hug upon her.  I don’t think she minded, she just didn’t feel comfortable being the hugger.  Yet, she sent cards for every occasion, including Easter, Halloween, and Valentine’s, always adorned with cute little stickers, and simply signed “Love, Aunt Niki.”  No one else ever mailed me a valentine.  There were no valentines in the mail this year.  I almost expected one. 

In her beautiful Berkeley hills garden was a painted wooden sign that read “Niki’s Garden.”  I took it home and put it in our front garden on one side of the walkway by the porch.  Though our garden isn’t as impressive, I thought she would like us to plant it anew among growing things.  I’m not a gardener at all.  My thumbs are black right to the bone.  But this past November, I planted bulbs.  I always meant to every fall, however it seemed I never got around to it.  Niki had planted them for us once or twice in the past, and we would have beautiful tulips in the spring.  She always planted hundreds in her own garden.  So this past fall, among others, I planted white and yellow narcissus in front of her sign, as a sort of tribute. 

All of the bulbs sprouted, but the white narcissus in front of her sign outgrew all at a furious pace.  By January, they were in full bloom, while all the other bulb plants were only a few inches high, nowhere near blooming.  They made me smile each time I passed.  Perhaps these bloom early.  I don’t know.  But I liked to think that Niki made them bloom. 

Scattered around the garden, the crocus and tulips each took their turns.  Of the yellow narcissus, half were planted by Niki’s sign and half a few feet away where they had the same amount of sunlight, same drainage, same exposure to rain.  As the white waned, the yellow sprang to life in front of the sign.  The other half of the yellow bulbs bloomed weeks later.  

Our front garden faces north.  It gets afternoon sun, but very close to the house it stays shaded.  Thus the closest beds all point their faces toward the road, tendrils stretching toward the sunlight. 

Except this once.  

As the spring flowers inevitably faded away, a grey-green plant called a Dusty Miller sent a large shoot away from the sunlight and back toward the house.  The rest of the plant reached for the source of sunlight, but this one shoot grew backward, about 18 inches back into the shade until it had reached Niki’s sign, where it wrapped itself around the wooden stake, and curled upward toward the painted letters where the leaves spread out in a graceful fan around the edge of the board. 

It is summer now.  On each side of the walkway, near the porch, the hydrangeas are in bloom.  My husband had cut them back some time ago, and they started the season unequally.  One was small and stunted.  The other was larger, strong and healthy, with large deep green leaves, and tiny buds that would become colossal pink blooms.  Fast forward to the present.  The plant that started stronger looks healthy, with two big beautiful blooms.  The runt is now enormous, with ten big blooms, and buds hinting of color to come.  I keep straightening the sign next to it, and each time I pass by, I find it gently leaning toward the plants that grow in profusion before it. 

Is there a logical explanation?  Possibly, maybe even probably.  Perhaps for some reason the soil on one side of the walk is richer this year.  Perhaps the drainage is better even though it doesn’t appear to be so, or the sprinklers are more accurately aligned.  Perhaps the sign has just come loose in the soil.  Or perhaps from God’s beautiful garden, a soul who loved deeply but could only show it indirectly, visited mine. 

Each time I pass through the front door, I look closely at our garden, admiring, and looking for anything extraordinary.  Because sometimes, something special happens.  Sometimes we  notice.

Rather Have a Wedgie

“…and there I was, walking around the store, not wearing any underwear.”

That was the line, verbatim.  Yep, she said she was not wearing underwear in the store.  Hmmm…was she wearing underwear now?  Did she ever wear underwear?  Did I really want to know?

I don’t know this lady’s name.  Presumably she has a child in the same school as my daughter.  I was walking on the sidewalk in front of the school with my two boys, on our way to pick up their sister.  I passed this lady as she was going the other way with another woman and a few kids.  As she walked past, I heard her say sotto voce to her friend, well, you know.  No “chones”.  

If I knew her at all, I would have certainly asked her why she wasn’t wearing underwear, oh, and what store was this?  But even I don’t have the audacity to ask a complete stranger why she wasn’t wearing any pantsy poos in the store, especially when the remark wasn’t addressed to me, and I really shouldn’t even know she wasn’t wearing any.  But still, I did wonder…

Maybe it went something like this:

They were going to be late for school again!  Dripping from the shower, a threadbare towel covering what it must, she checks on her kids and realizes they are doing what they do every morning: nothing.

“Johnny, get your bunky out of bed now!  You are going to be late!  Don’t make me come in after you, mister!”

“Suzie, stop playing with your breakfast and get dressed!”

“Geez, Mom, you’re not dressed,” Suzie observes.

“Don’t you backtalk me, Miss Smarty Pants!  Go put your clothes on!” 

Sheesh!  Why does every morning have to be such an ordeal?  She hurries into her room to get dressed, and rummages through her underwear drawer.  “Oh, great!  I don’t even have any clean underwear!  Well, there’s no time to wash any now, I’ll just have to go au naturel.”  So she tugs on a pair of lightweight knit capri pants and a t-shirt, stuffs her feet into sneakers, and runs out to shift her kids into second gear.

She has to hover over Suzie to make sure the little girl’s engine doesn’t stall getting dressed.  “You’ll just have to wear the pink shirt, the blue one is dirty.  Along with everything else.”  Good grief, why is it that she can do four loads of laundry every day, but nothing is ever clean? 

“Put your homework in your backpack.  Come on, move!”

“OK, Johnny, where are your shoes?  Did you brush?  Oooh, don’t pick your nose! Oh, man, especially don’t eat it!  Well, that’s going to have to be breakfast, buddy, because we are late!”

She tosses the kids into the family van, and heads off to school.  At the designated “unloading zone” in front of the school, she hits the button that automatically slides open those smooth van doors, and tells her little darlin’s,  “Get out!”

“Mom, we forgot to get juice boxes!  You’re supposed to bring juice boxes for the class party today, remember?”

“OK, OK, don’t panic.  The party isn’t supposed to start until 10.  I’ll go to Target and I’ll have them to your class in plenty of time, OK?  Now go!” (Actually, except for the underwear part, up to this point it sounds more like my day.)

Well, no time to go home and fix the lingerie problem now.  Besides, she needs laundry soap anyway, so she’ll just get that too while she’s at Target.  Heading the other direction, she arrives at her favorite big box store.  Parks, grabs her purse, jumps out, clicks the little button on her key ring that magically makes the mobile rectangle lock up tight, and trips into Target.  Gosh, maybe there is time to just look at those v-neck sleeveless sweaters that were in the Sunday ad.  She ambles across the store to the ladies clothing section.   Is it her imagination, or is she getting some odd looks?  No, that woman definitely sneered.  Well, she has lost a little weight lately.  Probably just jealous.  Women can be so catty. 

In the ladies department she finds the sale sweaters.  Hmm…blue would go best with her bleached hair, but red is so… saucy!  She selects a red sweater in a small, OK, better get the medium, who is she kidding, and heads to a mirror where she holds it up to herself.  Oooh, red is nice! Especially with these white capris she’s wearing.  Hold on there a minute.  Is that…oh, no.  These pants are see-through! 

Well, that explains a lot!  She holds the sweater strategically, gets a cart, pushes it in front of her, walking very, very close to the cart.  She pinches her cheeks together tightly (you know which cheeks I mean), hoping it will make her booty smaller and her pants hang a little more loosely from the rear view.  She can’t leave without those stupid juice boxes, so taking very quick small little steps so she doesn’t have to put much space between her body and the cart or unclench her cheeks, she goes to the food section and throws a few 10-packs of Capri Sun in the cart.  She usually gets the 100% juice stuff for her own kids, but this is cheaper, and heck, she’s not going to pay a fortune to hydrate someone else’s kid!  Doing the same sort of geisha walk, she hurries to get laundry soap so she can take care of her little problem sometime today, and heads to the checkout. 

The checker looks at her oddly as she obsessively hugs the cart, but hey, he thinks, whatever floats your boat, lady.  She makes it to the car, throws her bags in the back, and thankfully heads home where she will have just enough time to put on some very dark, very loose pants, and deliver the juice boxes. 

Well, it could have happened that way.  I imagined a few other scenarios as well, but I like the G rated version best.  She didn’t look like she had many public R (or worse) moments.  Maybe a few PG-13.  But if I ever see her again, I’m going to have a hard time looking her in the face, ya know what I mean?

Reflections

Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the continuity of life.  The vastness of spirit that flows throughout time, that came before us and will continue beyond our presence here on earth.  It is humbling and comforting all at once.  The year I graduated from high school, I searched through my record albums for a quote to put beneath my senior yearbook picture.  I guess you can figure out how long ago that must have been, at minimum, since I was still spinning vinyl for tunes.  Oh, all right, since you don’t have your calculator, it was in 1980, OK? Anyway, I chose a line from “Within You Without You” by George Harrison from the Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper album.  The Beatles were long gone by then, but timeless as ever.  I didn’t actually care for the song much, but I liked the line “And to see you’re really only very small, and life flows on within you and without you.”

I still like that line, but especially the second half.  I think of what our life may have been before this earth, if our soul existed with God first, about our life in this body, and about what it may be after.  I think of life in all its forms all over the earth, and of how we are a small part of that beating force.  And I think of my family members, some of whom have passed, of my children who were just a vague dream barely 10 years ago, and of their children who have yet to come. 

There are other quotes I can recall from different times in my life that bring me back to the same themes, the endless flow of life, and love, although they were given breath by those dear to me, not by famous musicians with funny haircuts.  When I must have been in my early teens, I remember my grandmother saying absently to my mother, as she watched me at some task, “Nana [my great grandmother] said you love your grandchildren just like your own, and it’s true.”  I didn’t have any children of my own yet, of course, and I heard this with the ears of a child, but I knew it meant something special.  Now that I do have children, I can appreciate the enormity of what she was saying.  I can envision her heart expanding to include me and my sister in the special circle of love that only a mother can conceive.

Many years later, I had my first child, Julia.  What a beautiful baby! Oh, I know, every mother says that, and every mother means it.  And my mother, who has always adored babies, was completely enraptured by her.  In fact one of the clearest memories I have from Julia’s birth is the pure joy in my mother’s smile as she watched.  The only other time I saw her smile quite like that was the day I was married.  I have only one sibling, and I remember when I was small my mother wanted another baby desperately, although I didn’t really understand why you just couldn’t have one if you wanted one!  One day when Julia was only a few weeks old, my mother and I were going somewhere together with the baby. I drove and my mother rode in back next to Julia.  My mom muttered something, but I didn’t quite hear.  “What?” I asked, watching her in the rearview mirror.  Without looking up from the baby, she continued her own little conversation. 

“I was just thinking, this is the best time in Grandma’s life.  You are that baby I wanted all those years ago.  I didn’t know then that God would give you to me as a grandchild.” 

I’ll never forget those words.

Still more years later, my Gammy grew old and weak.  She suffered from dementia, remembering things from decades ago but not that her husband had passed, or if she had eaten breakfast.  She lived with my mother after my grandfather passed away, until her body grew so feeble that she needed constant medical attention.  Reluctantly my mother had her transferred from the hospital to a convalescent home, but Mom went to see her for hours every single day.  I had two children by that time, and later a third.  I tried to go at least once a week, at lunch time when my mother was there, and to bring my little ones with me to make Gammy smile, although I am ashamed to say I didn’t always make it.  One day Gammy looked at my pretty daughter and said to my mother , “Diane, what happened to my little girl?”  She looked worried and perplexed.  Where was her own pretty little girl with big brown eyes?

“Well, Mother, I’m your little girl, remember?  I’m all grown up now, and I have grandchildren.  These are your great grandchildren.” 

“Oh,” Gammy said, and nodded, but she didn’t look convinced.  Her first child, a pretty little girl, just like mine, burned forever into her memory too deeply for dementia to touch.  Her love for her little girl was the same as it had been 65 years earlier, the same as it would be in 65 more years.

In my children’s faces I see God, and I wonder how anyone who has ever loved a child could possibly doubt that there is indeed a God, that there is indeed an ongoing life that flows from one of us to another, day after day, year after year, decade after decade, forever.  I remember the things I have heard that I keep in my heart, and I know that at least once, George Harrison was right.  Life flows on, within us and without us. 

Spring is Sprung

Spring is in the air,
And pollen from the grasses.
I’d like to find the Sudafed,
But first must find my glasses.
 
Searched all day for those specs,
Foul words I was heard to utter.
Found them in an obvious place,
In the fridge behind the butter.
 
With spring weather all my kids
Have increased activities.
Mom’s old body finds it hard
To keep up with such proclivity,
 
When you must repeat it decades later,
Fourth grade is such a bummer.
Please, Lord, no more homework!
C’mon, where is summer?!
 
Can’t wait for heat and days at the pool,
But first I must get trimmer.
‘Cause if I don’t hit the gym soon,
I’ll scare the little swimmers.
 
Wait! Bring on that ol’ rabbit,
For first we must have Easter.
I’ll find the time to play the bunny,
Somehow I’ll move my keister.
 
Nodded off in the sunlit kitchen,
Fatigue, caffeine couldn’t mask it.
I sat up quick when the doorbell rang,
And knocked my coffee in the laundry basket.
 
My son doesn’t want to read,
My daughter won’t eat chicken.
The youngest doesn’t want to potty,
Mom’s about to lose her frickin’…
 
Oh, the joys of childhood,
And being my kids’ mother.
For though I’m losing brain cells daily,
This life, I’d choose no other.
 

Apple Season

That was one freakin’ expensive apple.  I don’t even particularly care for apples, and to pay for just one, your entire life…well, I hope it was good. Kind of turns you off fruit. 

I am talking, of course, of that apple from the Tree of Knowledge.  Yeah, that’s the one.  The one Eve just had to have.  I really question the validity of that story.  I do not know one single woman who would stick around long enough to hear what a snake has to say, let alone be persuaded by one.  Every woman I know would have run so fast she didn’t leave tracks, or grabbed the biggest rock she could find and smashed that sucker’s head, then made a nice snakeskin purse. 

But no, Eve had to have an apple.  Well, I guess if there’s no chocolate in existence, you’ll get your sugar where you can.  She probably didn’t have some power thing going at all, she just had a sweet tooth.   

And what’s up with Adam?  Did he do everything his wife told him to do? Who wore the fig leaf in that family?  There’s a name for guys like him.  It’s not nice, and it can’t be printed here.  Rather ironic that at the beginning of time it was the woman who called the shots, a risk taker, and the man who followed along.  That pretty much blows a few stereotypes away. 

So here we are, millions of lives later, still paying for that one piece of fruit. Bloating, cramps, irritability, not to mention the convoluted joy of squeezing a human being from your loins. 

Then comes the extended payment plan.  I’ve moved onto that part of the arrangement.  Let’s talk about night sweats, shall we?  Until recently that referred to the sweat pants I wore to bed in the winter.  Now that means sitting up in bed and flapping my T-shirt in the middle of the night. 

And how about sipping your coffee on a frigid winter morning, huddled over your cup, when suddenly instead of reading the newspaper, you are waving it wildly in a back and forth motion while simultaneously pulling off your sweatshirt, as the internal seasons switch from mid-winter to August in the wink of an eye. 

But the best part is the PMS from hell.  Anxious, irritable, hair trigger temper.  Mood swings that make a stay in a sanitarium sound like a viable vacation option.  I’d like to have a talk with that Eve.  She could have had an Eden bag with matching shoes, but no, she picked the freakin’ apple. 

And if I ever see that damn snake, he’d better slither fast.  He doesn’t stand a chance against one middle-aged, pre-menstrual, stressed out, pissed off, mean ass modern day woman. 

Eve was a wimp.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

Every December I wonder, is this the year?  Is this the year my oldest decides there cannot possibly be a fat man with flying reindeer who circles the globe in one night, and comes down the chimney with toys for all the good little children?  

When I was a child, I remember asking if there was really such a thing as Santa Claus, and my mother said we would talk about it the next year.  I suspected the truth, so I let it be.  But the next year I reminded her of her promise, and pressed for an answer.  I was eight.  She answered with another question, “Who do you think Santa is?” 

“You,” I answered.   

“And who else?” 

“Daddy.” 

“That’s right,” she confirmed.  

I had known already, because as you grow older you begin to realize that certain beliefs don’t seem to follow the normal course of the world around you.  Reindeer don’t fly, for example.  Animals that fly have wings, and reindeer do not.  And looking up the chimney, it seems rather narrow.   Big things simply do not fit into small spaces.  But knowing, and knowing, are two separate things. 

Some of the magic left that year, and it cannot be reclaimed.  It is intangible, indefinable, a nameless wonder and fascination that thrills the mind and warms the heart.  And it only belongs to children. 

I strive to remind my children each year of the real reason we celebrate Christmas.  I explain presents to them when they are very young by saying that at Jesus’ birthday party, everybody gets presents!  We read the story of the nativity.  In the pockets of our advent calendar, I hide stickers of animals, shepherds, angels, stars, Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus.  Each day we add a sticker to a simple outline of a stable taped to the wall, and slowly create a little paper and sticker nativity. 

But let’s face it, Santa has a mystique about him that no kid can resist!  To let go, well, it’s a major rite of passage, at least from my mom eyes.  

So this year, if Julia asks me, how do I respond?  

She has tentatively broached the subject before, with questions such as “Mommy, why do some of the kids in my class not believe in Santa Claus?”  and “Do you believe in Santa, Mommy?”.   I have explained that lots of grownups don’t believe, and that some of the children in her class have already moved on from believing to not believing.  

Do I believe?  

“I choose to believe,” I answered. 

She was content to leave it at that, but I know that she simply was afraid to pursue it any further, because she already knows what she would find.  She is nine years old, in fourth grade.  Last year she may have chosen to accept the impossible, to cling to the magic, but what about this year?  Will she still cling, or will she announce with disdain that there is simply no such thing as Santa Claus?  Or worse, will she force me to utter a firm “yes” or “no”? 

And I’m afraid I’m going to have some explaining to do. 

You see, our cats barf a lot.  Especially Boo Boo.  If you are not careful, you may step in something in the middle of the night that you would just as soon not have on your foot.  Last Christmas Eve, in the middle of the night, after getting something gross on my foot that was left on the floor by the foot of our bed, I hastily grabbed a towel from the hamper and wiped so that I would not step in it twice. 

Turns out I didn’t do a very good cleaning job in the dark.  A funny shaped smear was left on the shiny hardwood floors, and it strangely looked like a really big print from a really big shoe.  My husband got the kids, and told them to look at the boot print Santa had left in our room! 

“He must have come in to make sure we were sleeping,” Jerry explained. 

They bought it, hook, line and sinker.  They talked for days about how Santa had left a boot print!  They pondered why they had not heard him, and did he check on all of us?  The magic was alive, and for Julia, confirmed anew. 

Oh, I know, it is inevitable.  I cannot stop my child from growing up.  But with the wonder of my three children at the fat man in the red suit, I can almost feel the magic again.  And I know that when Julia lets go, Christmas will never again hold quite the same aura for her..  Then she will join the club of the secret keepers, and aid us in continuing the myth for her two little brothers.  Eventually they will all go the path of the non-believers, and the magic will be gone. 

And nothing is going to knock the magic out harder than learning the “proof” was cat barf. 

Walnut Festival

Like many towns across America, my hometown got its start as an agricultural community.  Once just a crossroads in the midst of farms and ranches, eventually the local growers formed a small town aptly named after the local topography and primary crop: Walnut Creek.   Nuts and pears covered most of the local farmland, so I suppose it could just as easily been named Pear Creek.  When I was growing up here, there was still a considerable amount of land devoted to orchards, and every home had at least one walnut tree on the property.  There were only a few houses on our block at first, but soon the neighborhood was full.  We were proud to boast a local department store.  The town rolled up the sidewalks at 6 o’clock, and nothing was open on Sundays. 

Fast forward about…well, forget how many years, just fast forward.  OK, I’m 43.  I moved here when I was 2.  So fast forward 41 years.  Satisfied?  

The orchards are all gone now.   The town is bustling and is a shopping mecca.  We even have Tiffany’s.  But one quaint custom from the old days that remains is the annual celebration of the harvest.  The Walnut Festival takes place every fall, as it did when my mother was a girl, and probably for a long time before her memory.  The weekend before the actual festival is the Walnut Parade, right down Main Street.  Main Street is still only a two lane road, and retains a quaintness of years gone by.  A few older buildings remain, but even the newer buildings have been built with an eye toward small town congeniality.  Local families line the sidewalks, waiting for high school marching bands, local politicians, fire engines, and Boy Scout troops.  One of the highlights is the local chapter of Pearl Harbor Survivors.  These men used to walk the route, dressed in white slacks and Hawaiian shirts, but those who are left are now frail, and ride in convertibles.  Still, they get a grand round of applause the entire way, and most adults stand in respect as they pass. 

The official mascot of the Walnut Festival and of the parade is King Walnut.  I kid you not.  King “Nut”, as he is known to his friends, is dressed in long velvet robes, carries a scepter, and wears a big walnut head with a crown on it.  The eyes are huge with big Lucille Ball eyelashes, and he grins a blindingly white grin.  He used to have one eye closed in a wink, but he got a remodel some years back, since that winking eye was taken as looking a little sinister.  Small children were afraid of him.  He still isn’t much of a looker, I’m afraid, but it’s hard to make a walnut seem warm and fuzzy. 

This year my husband was sick, so he was allowed to stay home while I bravely toted all three kids downtown to watch the parade.  The high point of the entire event was when pony driven carts pulling actors promoting a local play passed by.  The ponies left a trail right down the middle of the road.  Since I am mature and sophisticated, I immediately elbowed my daughter and whispered “Look, pony poop!  Someone’s going to step in it!” 

All three kids, um, four, if you count me, started to giggle.  Even the youngest pointed and shouted “Doo doo!”.  We eagerly watched each passing parade entrant, completely oblivious to their music, cheers, or costumes.  We just watched their feet.  When some boy scouts jumped and sidestepped right at the last moment, we pointed and laughed uncontrollably.  When the high stepping cheer squad mashed right through it, we laughed even harder.  And when the marching band pounded it right into the asphalt, well, I’m afraid we just lost it completely.  Ah, yes. What a time that was. 

The next week was the festival itself.  It used to seem enormous to me as a child, but now it seems what it is: a small, local carnival.  To my kids, however, it is as impressive as I found it at their age.  The lights, the sounds, the games and rides, are all so exciting!  They rode ponies (no poop in sight, it was a very well tended riding ring), rode the merry go round, took several trips down the super slide, and even dared the tilt-o-whirl.  They tossed coins and rings, fished for rubber frogs bearing lucky numbers, and lastly, aimed ping pong balls at endless little fishbowls filled with water. 

That was my favorite game when I was a kid.  Back then, the fish were actually in the bowls.  If you landed a ball in a bowl, that bowl and fish were yours.  Now the fish are in big tubs.  If you land a ball in a fishbowl, they scoop a fish out of one of the tubs and put it in a plastic bag.  I remember standing there throwing ball after ball when I was little, and I just couldn’t win a fish.  Finally the man running the game just gave me one.  He told me I had already bought it ten times over.  But this year, my daughter won one the old fashioned way.     

She stood in line behind the other small winners, waiting her turn to have a baggied fish handed to her.  Leaning over the railing and peering into the tubs of goldfish, she said helpfully to the man scooping “There are some dead ones.”  He ignored her, so a little louder she said “I see two dead fish floating.”  I nudged her to stop, but she just kept on, saying more loudly still “Eeww!  Some of those fish are dead!”. 

The man finally looked up briefly, and said heartily, “Oh, they’re just sleeping!  Shhh! Don’t wake them up!” 

My nine-year-old daughter raised her eyebrows, gave him a scornful look, and said definitively  “No.  They’re dead.” 

So it was with no surprise as we walked away with her little goldfish in a baggie, whom she promptly named Joey, that I saw the little guy was not exactly an aggressive swimmer.  I have told my family that there will be no more living creatures in our house until those that are there now are either in kitty cat heaven, or college.  Hopefully the children will be the ones to go to college, and the cats to that other place.  The rule for the fair was that if a fish was won, it would be taken to live at Grandma’s house, because she already has fish.  We hightailed it from the fair to Grandma’s, where Joey floated in his bag to allow his water to adjust to the temperature of the tank, and then was set loose.  

Grandma’s goldfish are big.  Everything Grandma grows is big.  Her cat looks like a small dog.  The bigger fish sensed an easy target, and chased Joey around the tank.  I didn’t think they looked all that hostile, but Julia screamed, hid her face, and begged Grandma to take Joey out before the other fish ate him.  Being the good sport that she is, Grandma scooped out Joey and set him up in his own big bowl, left over from when Grandma last fooled herself that the fish thing would stop with one goldfish in a bowl. 

Well, you may have already guessed, but Joey had passed on to goldfish heaven by the next morning.  Julia took it better than I’d expected, but she was so disappointed that I promised we’d get another, and this one we would keep at home.  At the pet store, my two sons also had to have their own fish, despite my feeble attempts to have everyone “share”.  So instead of one fish in a bowl, we left with three baggied fish, and an aquarium.  

My daughter must have ticked off the goldfish gods at that fair, because Sam, Joey’s replacement, only lasted a week.  Dot kicked off after about six weeks.  Flippy looks good, so far.  You get attached, even though they are just fish.  They wiggle their little fan tails, and come up to the glass when they see me.  Still, secretly the overworked mom part of me, and don’t tell my daughter this, but secretly that part of me won’t be too disappointed when the aquarium is acquiring dust in the garage.  I just don’t have the energy to take on any more life forms.  I’m no good with plants, and I guess I’m not any better with fish.  I seem to do well growing kids, however.  Let’s hope next year a ping pong ball in a bowl doesn’t win you a baby.  I’ll be sunk.

Thoughts On Being Old and Tired

I’m tired.  I’m almost always tired.  There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with me physiologically, I’m just tired.  Pooped.  Worn out.  Zonked.  There are probably quite a few reasons why I am tired, all acceptable but all related to the fact that I have three young children.  I wouldn’t not have my children for all the zing in all the Red Bull in the world. I’ll take tired if that is the price.  But if it’s not, can somebody please tell me how to not be so tired?  Don’t say more sleep, that is not one of the choices. 

I want to be able to have enough drive to really clean my house.  Get rid of all the dust bunnies, cob webs, and cat hair.  Go through all the stacks of papers, and find a place for everything.  No piles of stuff that doesn’t really have a home.  Organized neat closets that are easy to navigate.  Spotless toilets.  Socks all folded and in the appropriate drawers.  Nothing sticky on the floor, nothing yucky in the corners.  The very top shelves of my floor to ceiling shelves dusted.  

I want to be zippy enough to take out the sewing machine after the kids are asleep and sew some cute outfit for my daughter.  I enjoy sewing, or at least I think I do.  I used to.

I’d like to read a book just for fun, and not on the toilet.  I’d like to try a new recipe that is really hard and takes lots of time, just because. 

I want to go to the gym every day, ice skate at least twice a week, take walks in between.  I want to be able to drive to the mountains early in the morning, ski all day, and drive home that evening without falling asleep at the wheel.  I want to be young again.  Except that when I was young I didn’t have a home, husband, children, and I don’t want to go back to life without those things.  So I am going to have to struggle with old and tired, doing the best I can. 

I have a theory about aging.  The young suck the life out of you.  Literally.  My children grow and thrive by drawing the very essence of life out of me and my husband.  And they are welcome to it.  I would rather creak and ache and groan while watching my children discover the intricacies of life than remain young and strong all by myself.  Such is the love for our children that we would gladly lay down our lives for them, and in fact we do. 

Well, that’s my theory, anyway.  I know that isn’t the literal truth, but it does feel as though I am physically passing something (no, it’s not gas).  Sort of lends a quixotic, romantic flavor to aging. 

I haven’t worked out how that applies to childless people.  I mean, it doesn’t seem so idealistic to have your life drained by other people’s children.  It seems more gothic that way.  Frightening, really.  So maybe if you don’t have children, you age because the life simply evaporates with no new home to go to.  That’s a sad thought.  Maybe all the orphans and unloved children of the world receive that energy.  Yes, I like that.  I like to think that even if they are unaware of it, lonely children are the receptacles for the life energy of childless grownups from all over the world. 

It’s a credit to my graying hair and sagging butt that my children are so strong and exuberant.  With every ounce of love, I pass along a little more of my youth, until finally there will be no more, and my little boos will be all grown, feeding hungry young lives of their own offspring.  My spirit, forever strong, will gently leave this place of trial and worry, one last gust of life and love breathed upon those I leave behind, until they too, pass the essence of their physical being, and join me in watching the slow relay of life and loving.

No Butts About It

There is something I just don’t understand.  We belong to the neighborhood pool.  OK, I understand that part, just bear with me.  It’s a very nice club, well tended.  There is a baby pool, a pool for laps and lessons, and a pool for diving and just having fun.  There are gas barbecues and picnic tables.  Lifeguards are on duty at all times.  Also among the amenities, in a tiled nook between the bathrooms, are three outdoor showers, with both hot and cold water.  

OK, here’s what I don’t get.  I always assumed the showers were for rinsing off the chlorine, and maybe warming up.  But I see whole families who stand there in their swimsuits doing almost a full body scrub, plus shampoo and conditioner.  From the number of people who do this, I know they can’t all be off someplace else with no time to go home.  Besides, it’s a neighborhood  pool.  What, you don’t have time to drive two blocks?  

We are not on the swim team.  We don’t live at the pool like swim team families do.  We are purely recreational members.  So I thought maybe I just wasn’t in the know, and asked a good friend who is a swim team mom about this mystery.  This friend, who is blond, offered up the explanation that they might be trying to prevent green hair.  

Hmm…OK.  I’ll buy that.  At least from the shoulders up.  But what about the all the liquid soap and bars of Dial in little travel containers I see?  Not for your hair, and I haven’t noticed anybody swapping a swimsuit for a birthday suit.  Do you see where this is going? 

C’mon, people!  What part of you most needs a good scrubbin’?  Yeah, that’s right.  Hiney. 

I’ve watched an entire family soap all around their swimsuits, giving pits special attention, carefully shampoo and condition hair, then go into the bathroom and change into fresh clothes.  Do these people think they’re clean?  Have these parents ever seen their children’s booties?  ‘Cause let me tell you, kids don’t wipe that well.  It really shouldn’t need explaining, but since it apparently does, let me not mince words:  

You need to wash your crotch, people!  

One man apparently got it, because I saw him stick his hand down his pants and give the boys a good once over.  Frankly, I’d rather see people leave with dirty tushy than watch that exhibition again. 

I never considered myself an extremist in hygiene.  I guess I always assumed washing your crotch was paramount in personal cleanliness to anybody who bothered to shower in the first place.  It seems I am mistaken.  Every time we go to the pool, while my kids splash and play, I stare in fascination at these skimmers.  I keep thinking I must be missing something.  I just can’t imagine showering without washing your butt.  I’d love to follow these people home.  I’ll bet their homes would put mine to shame.  Heck, most people’s homes would put mine to shame.  Ha!  But I’ve got something on them now.  Next time some rich, snooty mom tries to lord it over me with her gazillion dollar monstrosity built on a postage stamp lot where one is not allowed to wear shoes past the threshold, I’ll be smirking inside.  

My house may look a mess, but there’s no dirt under the rug, you know?

Blame It On Papa

I have recently had an opportunity to go through very old photographs of, I assume, relatives from Greece.  My father is 100% Greek, and among his sister’s many years of paper hoarding are pictures that must go back to at least the turn of the last century.  Nobody knows who any of these people are, but we are assuming they are relatives.  The men are largely handsome, and the women are largely, well, large.  Short, chunky, classic hooked Greek noses, and most importantly, a prominent unibrow.

So at last I have proof.  It’s my dad’s fault I’m so hairy.  I always knew it must be so, since he is quite hirsute himself, and my mother hasn’t a hair anywhere but on her head.  I don’t recall my grandmother or aunt as particularly hairy, but I look like my father, and those pictures pretty much prove in what part of the gene pool I’ve been swimming.

This is something that in my youth caused a great deal of consternation.  I actually wondered at one point if any man would ever marry me, since who wants a gal with  a forest on her arms and legs.  The unibrow can be controlled, and I’ve been spared any significant other facial hair, but by the end of the day I’m sporting a pretty good 5 o’clock shadow on my legs.   Actually, even if they are shaved smooth, you can still see a little shadow if you look closely.  Those bastards are never gone!

I must have been about five when I first noticed that my legs were considerably hairier than those of my little friends.  By the time I was in third grade, I was begging my parents to do something.  My father finally let me use his electric razor.  At last I could be casual when my knee socks fell down, instead of rushing to pull them up before anybody noticed.

By sixth grade, I was mortified by my arms.  I had friends with hairy arms, but they were all blonds.  Mine looked like an old growth forest.  I recall a boy asking me why my arms were so hairy.  I was too young and insecure to do anything other than try not to die of humiliation, like maybe replying that my arms were hairy for the same reason his ass was where his head should be. I was born that way.  Anyway, at that point my mother took mercy on me and bought some bleaching cream.   The bleached blond arm hair didn’t exactly match the hair on my head or my coloring, but it showed up so much less than the natural me.  Years later, instead of bleaching, I actually took to trimming.  I used a sharp little pair of embroidery scissors to mow, er, thin the growth.

Of course when I was younger than I am today, and before I gestated three children, I liked to wear a bikini in the summer.  No need for details.  Just think weed whacker.

Did I mention I shave my toes?

Thankfully, as I age, the hair on my arms seems to be thinner.  Or maybe it’s just my weaker eyesight.  At any rate, I don’t care anymore.  I’m fine with shaving every day in the summer, and my bikini days are long gone.

Earlier this year my nine year old daughter asked me why her legs are so hairy.  She doesn’t have it as bad as Mommy, but she’s beginning to take notice that her limbs are not as sleek as some of her little friends.  My arm around her, I solemnly took out the Greek pictures, and explained.

“It’s Papa’s fault.”

OPJ

I remember when I was little telling my mother that grownups never had any fun.  My mother told me that when you are grown, you think different things are fun.  I have found there’s no one point when you cross the line, but life subtly shifts, like one of those revolving restaurants.  Without seeming to have moved at all, you are suddenly facing a different view.

When we moved into our home four years ago, I had never been to a garage sale, never had a garage sale, and would not have dreamt of stepping into a thrift store without a biohazard suit.  Used stuff is for the truly indigent, right?  Right?  And it’s gross.  Who knows where it’s been. 

Well, it all started that first year in our new house with the annual neighborhood garage sale. The event is advertised, and about 40 families participate.  A neighborhood tradition, we were told.  Since we had small children and were always purging what we had outgrown, it seemed like a prime opportunity to clean up a bit and maybe make a few bucks in the bargain. 

From there I started “purging” periodically on eBay.  Hmmm…maybe I could “purge” somebody else’s stuff.  Nice stuff, you know.  Maybe some antiques or something.  So it was one small step to estate sales.  Interesting, and, well, yes, “fun”.  So I started getting interested in old used stuff that other people might pay for.  Some call it collectibles, some call it vintage, some call it antiques.  (I think you start becoming interested in vintage about the time your age qualifies you as vintage.)  

Of course, where do you find other peoples old junk, er, collectibles?  Why at their homes!  Hence, the descent into garage sales.  But not everybody holds a garage sale to get rid of old junk, er, vintage items.  Many people donate to charity.  Where do those things go?  To the poor?  Oh no, they are sold and the money is used to help others.  And of course, this crap, er, treasure, is sold at thrift stores.  

Now I have completely descended into OPJ (Other People’s Junk) hell. 

As often happens in hell, I met another little devil more clever than I who pulled me even farther into the abyss.  Her name is Pati.  Oh, she’s good.  Pati and I spent last Mother’s Day driving around a trailer park in my minivan hoping to buy somebody else’s junk.   We had trouble finding the right trailer, but the sign had pointed this way!  At last we found the right place.  It looked like we had arrived too late, but no moss grows on Pati!  

“Hey, they might be willing to sell the leftover stuff cheap!”  She jumped out and knocked on the door.  

I heard a pleasant sounding conversation before she hopped back in and reported that they would be holding another estate sale soon.  “So where should we go now?  Salvation Army?” 

I walk into a thrift store and am overwhelmed by the amount of useless crap.  In two seconds I can tell you if there is anything worthwhile to be had.  Ah, such naiveté.  Pati can pick up a scent and follow it like a bloodhound.  At St. Vincent de Paul, as I was ready to dismiss the entire load, Pati suddenly disappeared under a table.  I heard banging and crashing as she scavenged for her treasure, her feet barely visible beyond the edge of the table.  “Are you OK in there?”  I called.  Should I send for help? 

In a minute she emerged triumphant, brushed the dust bunnies from her cheeks, and proudly held aloft the ugliest little bowls I’ve ever seen. 

“See these?”  she said.  “People love these!  They’re collectible!” 

On our way to the Hospice Thrift Store later, I saw a crow pecking at a dead squirrel in the middle of the road.  “See that crow?”  I said.  “That reminds me of you.”   She blushed and tried not to look flattered. 

Yes, I have a fast growing problem, and my friend Pati is an enabler.  We are addicted to OPJ.  Why is somebody else’s junk more desirable than our own?  Because when it’s somebody else’s old stuff, it’s collectible.  When it’s yours, it’s just clutter.  I suppose it’s a relatively harmless habit, but it is scary.  We rode in a minivan around a trailer park hoping to buy somebody else’s junk.  And it was fun.  What’s next?  Dumpster diving?

Should Have Gone to Clown School

My hair is turning gray, and I don’t like it much.   When I was in high school I said I would never dye my hair when I was older.  I wanted to grow old gracefully.  Well, the hell with that.  Miss Clairol and I get together every now and then and we have ourselves a little home beauty spa. 

I still have enough of my original color to get away with using semi-permanent dye, which means I can save some money and do it myself.  The semi-perm stuff doesn’t leave roots, either.  It’s hard to find the right shade when you are not an expert, but with a little trial and a lot of error, I figured out that mixing two colors together gets me a pretty good match to my own non-gray color. 

Now normally I like to do this when my hair is freshly cut, because I have very thick hair, and one bottle is barely enough to kick that stubborn gray to the curb.  If my hair is too long, well, there just isn’t enough dye, and those dry ends like to soak up all the color.  I’ve been having a little trouble connecting with my hairdresser lately, however.  The result is that the weight of my hair has pushed it down on top, and the curls are all growing out at the sides.  Sort of a Bozo look.  A graying Bozo.  I just couldn’t stand it anymore, and last week I hit the bottle.  

When the two older kids were at their institution of lower learning, and the little guy was at preschool, the party began.  You’re only supposed to leave the stuff on for a maximum of 20 minutes, but my wicked curls hold out for a full 30 before succumbing.  The color may be semi-permanent on your head, but it’s plenty permanent on everything else, so I always cover my head while I’m waiting for the transformation to be complete.  With a towel?  A do-rag?  No, no.  Those would stain! I use a plastic grocery bag.  A do-bag, if you will.  

It’s a good look for me.  I cover all my stinkin’ dye-soaked hair, and tie the handles on top of my head.  Oh, yeah.  Paris Hilton ain’t got nothin’ on me.  I know fashion. 

As I tied my stylish petroleum based “scarf” over my head, I noticed something bright red on my face, right by my ear.  Oh geez!   I must have bought the wrong color dye, and I really was going to look like Bozo!  I double checked the bottles, and no, numbers 18 and 20, just like always.  I poked at my scalp in a couple of other places, but the color was brown, just like it was supposed to be.  With a hunk of wadded up toilet paper, I wiped off the red stuff.  

Blood!  This looked like blood!  Where the heck was I bleeding from?  Nothing hurt!  Did I have some sort of mutant zit that had exploded when I rubbed in the hair dye?  What would happen if the dye got into an open sore? 

I couldn’t find any sign of injury or acne, so baffled, I decided my hair color was more urgent than my health, and I went into the kitchen to clean up while Miss Clairol worked her magic.  As I put dirty dishes into the dishwasher, I absently scratched the base of my scalp.  My finger came away bright red. 

Good grief!  I panicked.  The dye must be having some sort of strange reaction!  I ran into the bathroom and frantically ripped my do-bag from my head!  I looked from my head in the mirror to the bag in my hand…the bag. 

Crap.  This wasn’t a grocery bag.  It was a Target bag, and the red bulls eyes were run together in a bloody mess.  I wasn’t going to look like Bozo, I was going to look like the Target dog.  

I tossed the bag and jumped into the shower, frantically scrubbing out all the color, both the one I wanted and the one I didn’t.  The water going down the drain looked like I must have been out slottering hogs all morning.  

Now I know why my hair grows in this Bozo pattern…I am Bozo.  It’s hard to believe somebody could be well educated and still be such an idiot, but they don’t teach you how to deal with gray sparklers in your part in business school.  Too bad I didn’t have that on hidden camera.  I’d like to play it back in about 20 years, recalling how gracefully I had grown old.

Harper Valley Mom

I suppose there must be one at every school.   After all, they’ve written songs about her.  You know, the Harper Valley PTA mom.  The kind who looks like she might have a job that’s illegal in most states, and who makes you suddenly conscious of your sweatpants and sneakers.

I ran into ours, almost literally, about a month ago.  I had kissed my daughter goodbye and was rushing my son to his classroom when…boom! There she was.  Right in front of me, about two inches from my nose.  She’s very tall; I’m very not.  “Excuse me,” I said hastily to her bright pink waistline.  She looked down distractedly, then looked away as if she hadn’t seen anyone or anything, and kept on walking. 

“Hmmph!”  I thought.  “You’re in the wrong part of town, honey.” 

Her hair is brown streaked with large chunks of blond.  She had on enough makeup for a Tammy Faye convention, and wore big Jackie O sunglasses.  Her top, what there was of it, was tight, sleeveless, bright pink, low cut, and showed her flat (damn her!) belly.  She wore tight, black, low rise pants with flared legs, and pink stiletto pumps.  The kind of pumps that have a very rude slang name, if you know what I mean.  She stood out like a Kodacolor figure in an old black and white movie.  

In contrast, I wore sneakers, jeans, and a bleach stained sweatshirt.  I had on no makeup, and in fact had barely combed my hair before dashing out the door.  I am sure Harper, as I like to call her, has never cleaned mildew out of a shower, let alone stained her sweatshirt (like she has anything as dumpy as a sweatshirt) with Tilex.  

I sneer, but perhaps a part of me, a teensy weensy part, and I’m not admitting anything, mind you, but just maybe part of me is the tiniest bit jealous.  Maybe.  Because if I were to wear the same outfit, the adjectives that would come to mind would not be “cheap” or “sleazy”, but rather “comical” and “pathetic”.   I mean, wouldn’t we all like to know that we could be sleazy, if we wanted to?  

I am sure I am doing this poor woman a terrible injustice.  She looked very young (damn her again!), and probably hasn’t been beaten down enough by life to think that Mom clothes are OK.  I’m sure underneath the scant clothes, inside that tall, taut body (damn, damn, damn!), beats a heart of gold.  Or something.   She’s just a great gal who’s also a candidate for “What Not to Wear”.  Oh, how I would love to hear what Stacy and Clinton would say about her! 

I know it’s wrong to judge, especially on appearances.  And I feel badly about that.  Sort of.  After all, I certainly wouldn’t want someone to decide from looking at me that I am slovenly, thick headed, and unemployable.  On the other hand, I dress so that no one will look at me.  I definitely want to stay in black and white, at least until I get out of this mind blurring little kids phase.  And really, I am in black and white mentally.  My whole being is focused on my children, which I guess is a little unhealthy. 

I can snipe about what this woman is teaching her daughter.  About her message to the world carried by her appearance.  But what am I saying?  What am I teaching my daughter?  That once you have kids you don’t matter anymore?  That fun goes out of your life with the placenta?   That a good mom is selfless to the point of martyrdom? 

Hmmm… 

Since then, I’ve joined Weight Watchers.  Gospel truth.    I’ve lost the first five pounds, and I’m starting to think that my wardrobe is a little drab for the thinner me that will be emerging.  I hear Macy’s is having a spring sale…perhaps a little hot pink? 

 Look out, Harper, you may have some competition.

Boys of Summer

I’m not much of a sports fan, but I do enjoy baseball.  It’s not just the game; baseball means spring, youth, and sunshine.  When I was younger, I would go to spring training in Arizona with some girlfriends.  Of course, the main reason we were there was proximity to the players, and to meet all the guys who went down to watch the players prepare for the regular season.  But we did watch the games.   And although I enjoy a good double play, I must say there is nothing like a handsome young player in a snug pair of baseball pants.  Yes indeedy, baseball pants make a fine display of firm male posterior.  Don’t tell me you never noticed!

Back in the day, I was a San Francisco Giants fan.  That was when the Giants played at Candlestick Park.  They renamed the stadium 3Com Park, but these names that go the highest bidder just don’t hold the same charm.  The ‘stick is a true fan’s park, mostly because only a true fan could stand to be there.  It’s a cement monstrosity built on a rocky outcropping on the bay just south of San Francisco.  It’s cold and windy.  The seats are uncomfortable.  The only fare offered back then was traditional baseball food: hot dogs, Cracker Jack, peanuts, popcorn, soft drinks and Bud. 

Now the Giants play at the new SBC Park.  It’s a beauty.  There is a play area for children, and the stadium offers a stunning view of the Bay Bridge.  The comfy seats each have a drink holder.  And concessions….well, let’s just say that one dines at the new park!  Forget hot dogs.  How about garlic fries, sushi, and microbrew?  Unfortunately all this modern luxury carries a hefty tag.  Don’t even think about taking the family to the game unless you plan on pawning your soul first.  

Needless to say, I do not attend Giants games with the regularity of my youth.  And it really doesn’t matter anyway, because I’m afraid with marriage I had to change my allegiance.  My Georgia-born husband’s moods from April through September rise and fall with the performance of the Atlanta Braves.   Add to that the fact that I have three small children, and, well, I think you can probably guess how much time I have to even care about baseball, let alone follow a specific team. 

But in the past few weeks, all that has changed.  There’s a new team in town, and I am a diehard fan.  They’re the Cubs.  The Walnut Creek Youth Athletic League T-ball Cubs.  It’s the most exciting exhibition of America’s favorite pastime.  My whole family attends each and every game, and I am glued to the action on the field. 

I’ll never forget the first game… 

The player at bat looked menacingly at the pitcher, then fixed his steely eyes on the T and whacked one into center field.  It was an easy base hit.  Tagging the base with time to spare, he high fived the first base coach.  Tension was in every line of his body.  Would he run? 

No.  He turned his back to the action at home plate, scanning the fans with his eagle eyes.  Jumping up and down, he waved excitedly, and shouted “I love you, Mommy!” 

“I love you, too!”  I shouted back, beaming hugely at the parents around me. 

“How cute!” and “Oh, that’s sweet!”  they murmured in appreciation. 

Oh, what a day that was.  

The players are apt to be distracted by bugs in the grass.  The ball rolls through their legs, and they don’t always know what base to run. The Cubs play at a park where the view of the field is obstructed by a high cyclone fence.  There are a few bleachers, but no comfy seats, no drink holders.  Concessions are only offered to children, and most adults aren’t interested in the graham crackers and juice boxes, anyway.  

It’s the best damn ballgame I’ve ever seen.

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Is It Friday Yet?

I live in a nuthouse, of which I am, of course, the chief nut.  Mmmm, nuts.  I just started a diet…that sounds good.  Oh, where was I?  Right, a nuthouse.  We are loud and disorderly.    And late.  Always late!  L-A-T-E. 

I just realized that if I added another T, I’d have a latte.  I love lattes.  I wonder if there’s some sort of sick correlation there.  

But I digress.  The point I was eventually going to make is that the members of my loving but goofy family all conspire against each other to ensure that we never arrive anywhere on time, or at least not without a frantic rush.   We cannot seem to pull our family together into a well trained get-your-butt-out-the-door team.   And when our butts do get out the door, it seems somebody always forgot something, has to go poop, feels like hurling, can’t get his/her seatbelt buckled, feels compelled to have a tantrum, and so on.  Since my husband is at his job in San Francisco all day, most of this chaos is usually with Cashew Mom (mmm…) at the helm.  I try.  I swear I try.    

My husband understands in principal, but I’m not sure he understands just how nerve racking it is being me.  Every now and then, I like to give him just a little taste of 24/7 in a Planters can.  (Mixed, salted. Mmmm…. ) 

Take last Thursday, for example: 

My bed was warm and comfy.  Daylight was just beginning to peak under the blinds.  I cracked open an eye and squinted at my watch.  That’s right, I wear my watch to bed.  I’m too nearsighted to see the clock.   6:45. Good, I could log Z’s for another 15 minutes.  

15 minutes later I checked my watch again.  7:30!  Impossible! 

“Aaaargh!”  LATE!  We were going to be LATE!  I flew out of bed, shouting to my husband that we were LATE! LATE! 

I stumbled to my son’s room and shook him awake. 

“Get up, Buddy!  We’re going to be LATE!” 

“Huh?  Ok, I have to go potty.” 

Moments later I simulated a small earthquake with my daughter’s bed as the epicenter to get her moving.  She groaned and rolled over.  The trembler went up a couple of notches on the Richter scale.  

“OK, OK, I’m up!” she said, pulling the covers over her head. 

I yanked the covers off the bed, including the sheet.  Hard to snuggy up now! 

In the next 25 minutes a frantic scuffle ensued, jammies flying hither nither, small socks rudely tugged onto reluctant feet, cereal scarfed, homework hastily crammed into backpacks.  

“OK, let’s go!’ 

“Wait, I can’t find my jacket!” 

“Aaaargh!”  I was beginning to sound like a pirate. 

“What’s going on now?” my husband asked. 

“Jacket, jacket!  She can’t find her jacket!  We’re LATE!” 

“Not my problem”, he said, newspaper under his arm, headed toward the bathroom. 

Whoa!  Hold on there a minute, cowboy!  Not your problem?  Well, I didn’t have time to argue the point, but I was about to give him a problem.  A big one.           

We headed out the door, and started toward school.  We live less than a block away from the elementary school, yet we are always late.  LATE.   And it’s not all mom’s fault, because it’s a hell of a trip down the street.  My oldest son likes school, he just hates the walk.  He thinks I should drive him, but the closest to the school I can get a parking space is two houses down from our own.   We don’t need to drive just to get two houses closer.  

“Owwwie!  My shoes hurt!  My toes feel funny!”  My son stopped mid-sidewalk, looking tortured.  

“What’s wrong with your shoes?  They were fine a minute ago!” 

“I hate these shoes!  They’re too big!  My toes don’t touch this part!” he said, pointing to the tip of his shoes.  “I want my old shoes back!” 

As patiently as I could muster, I explained that when your toes touch the end, your shoes are too small.  That’s why we bought new shoes. 

“If you still don’t like them by the end of the day, you won’t have to keep wearing them, but I think you’ll get used to them. 

Pouty faced and not looking convinced, Jackson hobbled a few steps further. 

He stopped again. 

“Itchy, itchy!  I’m all itchy!  My legs itch!”  He did a wacky sort of dance, hopping and scratching wildly. 

Hmmph.  Must be allergic to walking. 

A little farther down the road he turned up the heat. 

“Ouch!  My penis hurts! My pants are hurting it! Help me!”  he exclaimed, clutching his crotch in feigned agony. 

Good grief!  Maybe he could have said that a little louder.  I don’t think every neighbor heard. 

“Well, if your pants are rubbing, just, well, move it to one side,” I suggested.  Where was my husband when I needed him?  Oh yeah, he was in his “office” with the newspaper, not having a problem.  

“No, you do it!” 

Now that is outside my job description.  And how to explain that if I helped him adjust right there on the street, I feared some passerby would think I was molesting a small boy on his way to school, and call protective services.   But time was tickin’, and I still had to return home and take a toddler to preschool.   Exasperatedly, I turned his back to the street, grabbed the waistband of his Scooby Doo undies, and gave them a good shake. 

“How’s that?” 

“Better, I guess.” 

And so it went.  Eventually we arrived at school.  LATE, but present and accounted for. 

The next day my husband took the kids to school. 

They hadn’t left the porch when he said impatiently  “What’s wrong with it?  Well, just move it until it doesn’t hurt anymore!”  He looked at me with frustration stamped across his face.  He didn’t have time to fool around.  He still had to get to work! 

I looked him square in the eye and closed the door.   I could hear my husband’s irritated voice as they walked down the steps.  “Now what?  There’s nothing wrong with your socks!”  

Smiling, I went to poor myself another cup of coffee.  I was willing to bet they’d crack his shell. 

Not my problem.

Headline Hypnosis

“Bat Boy Secretly Advising President”

OK, I admit it.  I read the supermarket tabloid headlines.  Sometimes I can barely get my groceries on the belt, I am so busy learning that “Nostradamus Predicts World Ends, Hockey Season Cancelled”.  Holy #$@*!  Half of that already came true!  Sure, it happened before the headline hit, but Nostradamus must have predicted it first, right?  Man, I’d better get two more bags of M&M’s.  They might be my last! 

I am proud to say that I never buy the tabs.  I never even pick them up.  I just devour the deceptive headlines like the gossip loving cretin I profess not to be.  Bat Boy is my favorite.  He shows up on the cover of Weekly World News about every 3-4 months.  What a career he’s had!  Who is this guy?  Why hasn’t he been on Leno?  He must be worth a fortune!  I’d like to get a look at this kid’s parents.  If he’s a fake, and I’m not saying he is, who would let their kid be headlined in the supermarket as Bat Boy? 

And then there are the star reports.  I’m not really a star struck person, or a film aficionado. I don’t know many of the popular actors and actresses names, or who is in what movie currently.  Hey, I have kids; if it’s not animated, I don’t know about it.  I do know that Kirstie Alley is fat.  Can you believe that is news if you’re famous?  I’ve been fat for years, and nobody’s hiding in my shrubbery to snap a photo!  I also know if Oprah is up or down, who’s supposedly cheating and with whom, and what problems Mary Kate and Ashley are allegedly coping with.  All valuable information that I am sure I will one day find a use for.  Like maybe writing a column, or something. 

My weakness is the cheap women’s mags that promise to help you never feel fatigued again, and lose 25 pounds by the time you finish reading the magazine.  I know it’s just a 2500 word article with pictures and recipes that boils down to “eat fewer calories, exercise more”, yet some stubborn part of me foolishly hopes somebody will discover the miracle “Eat A Lot of Chocolate After Dinner” diet, that it will show up in one of the cheap women’s mags before it hits the major networks, and that I will just happen to see it while waiting for Valerie the Checker to slide all my low fat yogurt and cat food over the scanner.  

See, I don’t have any trouble sticking to 90% of the rules of any of the diet fads, except the really weird ones where you only consume papaya juice and green tea for two weeks.  Yeah, like I need to buy a magazine to tell me starving for two weeks will drop a few.   No, it’s the pseudo-believable diets that get me.  I’ve switched to only whole grains.  I eat wild salmon, and only consume “good” carbohydrates with my meal, following a healthy portion of protein, of course.  I’m a model dieter until the dishes are done and the kids are getting ready for bed.  Then I’m a junkie.  Yeah, that’s right.  I got a problem.  I’m not ashamed to admit it.  I eat sugar after dinner.  After 8 o’clock, even.  And if it’s not chocolate, then it doesn’t count.  

Those sneaky people at the women’s mags, they know all about people like me.  They know we’re suckers for a headline.  “Miracle Ingredient:  Lose 10 Pounds in Two Weeks”.  Pictures of Felicity, formerly a size 18, now a slim size 6.  All she did was follow this miracle diet.  It was easy!  You can do it too!  

Sure I can.  Until the dinner dishes are done.  How come nobody ever addresses the overbearing need for treats and comfort at the end of a long day?  What, am I the only one here with a problem?  There are enough chubbettes in line with me to tell me that lots of us have some kind of problem with food.   I tried some low carb sugar alternatives.  They have this sugar substitute, a “sugar alcohol”, called Malitol.  It should be called Fartitol.  And if you eat too much, Crapitol.  It’s fine if you live alone and you have good ventilation, but believe me, your spouse and kids will not thank you.  They’d rather have you fat.  

Yes, I have one of those mags sitting abandoned in my “inbox” right now.  I knew the headline was sell-more-magazines-speak for “eat fewer calories, exercise more”, but there was that tiny spark of hope.  I justified the purchase by telling myself I was only wasting $1.49.  The premise of this particular diet was reducing cellular inflammation brought on by aging.  Not only would you lose weight, you would look younger, too!  Even your wrinkles would decrease!  Wow, that sounds great!  I read through a week’s worth of menus.  OK, not stuff I really like, but I could do this.  I could stick to this during the day.  So if I stick to the diet 90% of the time, I’ll lose 9 pounds instead of 10, right?  I know that’s not how it works, but I was willing to delude myself and try again. 

Then I read the part where you’re supposed to give up coffee, too.  What kind of sicko wrote this?  Is this a women’s magazine, or one of those “alternative” publications, for people who like to suffer?  I can give up most of the good stuff, and I can accept that I am wrong, wrong, wrong for giving into sugar, but there’s no way, honey, that I can get through my three kid day without being juiced.  Uh uh.  We have stock in Starbucks.  

So like all the others, this one will end up in the trash bin.  

I checked out the headlines today.  Apparently it’s not a miracle diet I need, it’s a miracle liquid.  “Lose Weight Without Dieting”.  I’m proud to say I declined to purchase.  I did learn something, however.  There is a very successful Bat Boy musical playing in London, and Hillary’s thong is too tight.  Now that’s news!

That’s a Crock!

There is a renowned child psychologist or some such “ist” who writes a syndicated column carried by our local newspaper.  I cannot remember his name, which is just as well since I am about to misquote him dreadfully, but I do know he has written several books and is considered an expert.  His picture printed just above his column must have been taken the day his hemorrhoids flared, or right after he took a sip of vending machine coffee.  He has the sourest look on his face.  He looks like someone more likely to abuse your children than counsel them.  Supposedly he has grown children, all psychologically whole, and productive citizens, but that is by his account.  I have no proof of this.  I have never seen him pictured with any sour faced children purported to be his offspring.   

Even though I seldom agree with him, I do read his column from time to time just so I can roll my eyes and say, “Yeah, right.  Like that would work with my kids!”.  Of course, I am not an expert.  I would not even say I am an expert with my own children.  I am just a regular mom doing her best to raise her children well.  But here is the point of this little tirade.  Potty training.  I am on my third and last (I believe) episode of potty training.  The Expert believes we have become a nation of potty training wimps.  Apparently children were potty trained at a much younger age when our parents were in diapers.  The secret, he maintains, is to let your child go without a diaper for a week.  Then when he messes you can put him on the potty.  After no more than a week the little darling will understand and start using the potty.  There is probably more to it than this, but that is the skeletal version. 

OK, well when my parents were in nappies they didn’t have any kind of stay dry lining, so maybe he has a point there.  Grandma probably got really tired of Cloroxing all those smellies and was very motivated to move on to toilet training.  But in regards to Dr. Expert’s method, I do not think a week of having poop and pee on my sofa is going to do Mommy any good psychologically.  And our grandmothers were home all day.  They didn’t have to worry about baby pooping in the minivan, or peeing in the dance studio while big sister practiced plies. My bigger objection, however, is that I have learned something important from my first two children.  They control their own bladder and bowels.  Yes, that is shocking news, isn’t it?  They themselves have the ultimate control over when they poop and pee, and where.  

When my daughter was little, I tried just about every version of potty training, beginning at an optimistic 18 months.  She understood.  She didn’t care.  She didn’t want to use the potty.  Messy pants?  OK.  Pee on the rug?  OK.  Whatever.  I didn’t give up, but I made no progress.  The pediatrician told me not to worry, just keep sitting her on the potty, and when she was ready, she would be “trained” rapidly.  At about 2 ½ years of age, just as I feared she would wear diapers walking down the aisle, I tempted her with pretty “big girl panties”.  I explained that she had to use the potty to wear these, and that if she went poo or pee in her panties, I would throw them in the garbage.  She really wanted to wear them.  The first day she pooped big time in her pants.  She watched me throw them away.  That was the last accident we had. 

Wow!  It doesn’t happen young, but I had the answer!  Then my son came along.  I went down the same path.  I familiarized him with the potty.  If he should happen to let something loose while sitting, I would praise him loftily.  Still, he really had no interest in getting to the potty whenever the urge to go hit him.  I tried big boy pants.  I explained just as I had to my daughter that the dinosaur underwear would go in the garbage if he went poo in his pants instead of the potty. 

The first day he did a huge doo.  I made a big show of throwing them away.  I put on another pair.  

He did another doo.  I made a big show of throwing them away.  I put on another pair.  

He peed.  He took them off and threw them away himself.  Then he went to his drawer and told me I needed to buy some more. 

When I told him “No more, you will have to wear a diaper if you won’t use the potty,” he just looked at me and said, “OK, dyepah.”  He was almost three years old when he decided on his own that he liked the potty after all, and overnight he was “trained”.  

Now I am working on my youngest son.  He will be three in March, but he is much more “babyish” than the other two were at this age.  Still, I have been going through the routine.  Oh, he gets it.  He just doesn’t want to.  Last night before bath time, I had him on the potty.  “Go pee pee!” I encouraged.  “Just like Jackie and Julia, go pee in the potty!”  He grinned happily, pointed down between his legs to the water and cried “Pee pee!”  Except he hadn’t done anything.  Eventually I put him in the bath.  He stood there proudly and said “Mommy, wah dee!” (“Watch this!”).  He then proceeded to grab his penis and direct a spray of urine across the tub, laughing the whole time.  

Recently he has decided he does not like any poo or pee in his diaper at all, which I take as a good sign.  Before he could swish around in it all day and not care.  The down side is that he keeps taking off his own diaper and handing it to me.  Today he marched up to me naked and handed me a diaper full of chocolate nuggets. 

Uh oh.   “I’ll bet some escaped!” I thought. 

Sure enough, as I retraced his steps he had left a doo doo nugget trail, like Hansel and Gretel in the forest. 

“Jerry, help!  Jamie spilled nuggets!” 

My husband ran to assist as I quickly secured and swabbed the poopetrator.  

“Wait, you missed one!”  I said, pointing at a Hershey’s kiss size brown ball of poop, camouflaged well in the multi-colored runner of the hallway. 

“Move, move!” he shouted.  “You’re on one!  No, not there, you’re smooshing it into the carpet!” 

Just now as I am writing this Jamie handed me another loaded one.  Fortunately this one appears to be fully intact.  But what now?  Teach him how to put on a clean diapie himself?  That would be helpful.  I am not stressed about this at all, despite the day’s poopisode.  After all, the first two taught me that they will go when they are ready, and not before.  I can go through the routine, but the timing is up to them.  They will respond to motivation, or will motivate themselves, when they are ready.  I’m not really sure how our grandmother’s did it.  I mean, bowel control is not new.  So maybe we really are a nation of potty training wimps.  Maybe we need to send our babies to potty training boot camp.  I don’t know.  I just know I am less stressed by letting the kids develop at their own pace, and it seems to suit them better, too.   

So Dr. Expert I-can-raise-your-kids-better-than-you-can will just have to shake his head in disgust at me, and continue to glare sour facedly at the world from his throne of newsprint superiority.  Wimpiness seems to work OK for our family, and we’re not going to doo it any other way.

The Dance

My five year old son is torn between needing his Mommy, and becoming a Big Kid.  I know he is going to continue along this vein for several years, until finally he is an adult and breaks away from me.  He has an older sister, yet the struggle seems more pronounced in Jackson, my middle child.  My daughter moved gently into Big Kid status.  Not Jackson.  Nothing is subtle with him.  As such the transition is more painful, perhaps because I see our inevitable destinies so clearly.

We have had rain here on and off for three weeks.  This morning the school office called, and told me Jackson had dried the kindergarten slide with his butt.  Well, they didn’t phrase it like that, but they asked if I could please bring him some dry pants.  We live quite close to the school, so I grabbed a pair of pants and walked down the street.  Jackson was waiting for me in the office.  He grinned when he saw me, happy I had come to his rescue.  I took him into the office bathroom and helped him change.  His pants were not really that wet.  His Disney-enhanced undies were still dry.  If he were at home, of course, I would have popped him into dry pants immediately, and I guess he wanted that level of comfort and attention.  He continued to smile the whole time he was changing, and as I retied his shoes.

Transformation completed, as we left the office I told him I would walk with him back to his classroom. 

He put his hand up, palm toward me.  “No!  I know the way!”

“Well, I’m sure you do, but I’m going to make sure you get there.”

“No, Mom, really, don’t come with me!”

Oh dear.  Have we reached that age already?  But the truth is, Jack is very mischievous, and I simply didn’t trust him to go back to his class without a detour.

“OK, I won’t go with you, but I am going to stand here and watch you.”

With that he took off, scampering across the courtyard to the doors that opened into the group of kindergarten classrooms.  As he pulled one of the doors open, putting all his weight into it and leaning back slightly, he didn’t move out of the way fast enough and stubbed his toes on the door.  Abruptly he let go and stood there jumping up and down, looking across the courtyard at me, howling.

“Owie, owie!  I hurt my toes!”

I hurried over, examined the damaged extremity, kissed my fingertips and planted them firmly on the insulted toes.   Miraculously cured.  “I’m OK now,” he said slowly, testing the foot as he turned once again toward the double doors.  I opened one for him, and watched him as he walked down the short hall.

Turning around he said exasperatedly, “Stop doing that!”

Sheesh.  Make up your mind.  I closed the door and turned toward home.  My path took me directly past the kindergarten playground.  I watched discreetly as Jackson emerged from his classroom to join the other children.  Hands in pockets, smiling, he sauntered over to a group of little girls who appeared to be asking something.  He gestured toward his pants, still smiling.

Ah, of course.  Mom would totally spoil the cool. 

Yet I understand his conflict.  I am torn between wishing he would grow up a little and do some things for himself, stop messing, stop doing the kid things that are not so cute and adorable, while another side of me watches him when he is unaware, committing the sweetness of childhood to memory.  Not wanting to let go of the last vestige of the little baby who slept safely next to my chest in a sling while I worked at the computer.

Of my three, as a toddler Jackson would most vehemently proclaim, “No, me do!”.  He would never hold my hand, whereas the other two reached for my hand automatically.  Jackson always wanted the freedom to break away from me at will.  Interestingly enough, this year, his first year at Big Kid School, he holds my hand on the way to school voluntarily.   He has reverted to wanting me to dress him, though he has been wriggling into his own threads since he was two.

Letting go and holding on. 

The sacred dance between parent and child.  So it has always been, so it always will be.    

3:00 P.M. Dentist, 4:00 P.M. Dance, 4:45 P.M. Soccer…

I have wasted a lot of time flogging myself mentally for not measuring up to the level of wife and mother set as an example by my own mother.   Maybe my memory is frayed, but I do not recall my childhood home ever being as messy and frenetic as my home now.  My memories of my mother when growing up do not include a harried and harassed lady with little time for any but the most basic personal grooming, and whose very being emitted a sense of no control.  Granted, these are the memories of a child, but I am afraid my mother herself has confirmed the worst:

“Your life is crazy!”

What really burns my biscuits is that my life is less crazy than some other mothers I know, who seem to be able to cram in a whole lot more, and still keep their roots from showing.  I quit my work-at-home-so-you–can–be-stressed-all-the-time job when my youngest was about 11 months, and yet I do not seem to be faring any better with all the “extra time”.   I’m not lazy.  I try very hard.  My life is crazy but I believe I am reasonably sane (of course, what looney believes herself to be looney?).  

So what the heck am I doing wrong? 

The answer came to me a couple of weeks ago.  My five year old son had a friend over for a play date. The boy’s mom stayed for a little mom-to-mom chat while the kids tore the house apart.  It had taken me a week to get ready for this little event.  A kid, not my own, was coming over to my house, coming inside my house, with his mother.  That required extensive preparation.  Like not letting them see how we really live.  And making sure I had an assortment of healthy kid snacks in case he was picky, and a similar array for his mom.  The kids had a great time, and so did I.

But here’s where the realization set in. 

I never had a play date when I was a kid.  My mom had nothing to do with my playing with other kids.  I’d walk or ride my bike to a friend’s house, knock on the door, and ask if so-and-so could come out and play.  Come out and play.  We would almost always play outside, and in fact we had to ask permission to play indoors.  Many times the answer was “No!”. If the house was a mess, I never saw it.  There was no need to “get ready” for your kids to play with other kids.  And although I received the occasional glass of milk, my friends’ mothers were under no obligation to provide snacks.  Sometimes I never even saw a parent.  The child would come outside to play, and when it seemed like it was getting close to dinner, I went home.  A similar scenario played out if a child came to my house.

With the dawning realization of just how different my stay at home mom life was from my mother’s, I thought about all the other areas I had to be involved in with my children that was unheard of in Mom’s day.  We didn’t have a lot of after school activities, because we could go and play outside, on the sidewalk, down the street, wherever, without worry.  Mom didn’t need to keep us under her watchful eye every single second.  If we did have an activity, chances are it was within walking or biking distance, and we had to get our little butts there ourselves.  Mom didn’t haul us all over the county.  I didn’t have a schedule.  Didn’t want one.  I was a kid, for gosh sakes! 

My life, in contrast, revolves around my children’s schedules.  They cannot safely walk two blocks to play with a friend, or go to the school playground or local park without supervision.  Anything they do outside our own home requires parental involvement.  No wonder I feel sometimes like I have lost myself.  I’m not lost, but I am certainly low priority.  The world is so much more complicated and threatening than my childhood world.  I don’t know if there is really more danger, but there is certainly more awareness.  I’ve seen the online state list of prosecuted pedophiles who live in my zip code.  How many little faces arrive on flyers in the mail, asking if I’ve seen them?   Like any 21st century mother, I am determined my children will never be anyone’s victim, will never have their faces on any mass mailings. 

I still hate the mess.  I hate always having to hurry.  I hate never having enough time for anything.  But I look at it differently, now.  I see it is not my fault I can’t be like my mom, at least not entirely.  She really did have more time to get things done than I do.  She cared for us, and did it well, but she didn’t share every moment of our lives with us. 

My life is crazy because I am not living my life.  I am living my children’s lives, or facilitating their living their lives.  I have chosen this.  If I still worked outside the home I could probably find a piece of my mind and maybe a few intelligence cells that still work, but I sacrificed that willingly, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.  

Besides, I really couldn’t guarantee that more time would make me a better housekeeper or more organized.  At least this way I have an excuse!  Heaven help me when the kids are grown and gone.  I’ll just have to plead senility then.