Category Archives: Family

Family

Wrapping Up Christmas

My kids ruined Christmas for me.

Or maybe they just ruined me for Christmas.

When they were small, I made a concerted effort every year to remind my children of the true meaning of Christmas.  We had an advent calendar with little pockets.  I drew an outline of a stable and taped it to the wall next to the advent calendar.  In each little pocket would be stickers I had made to complete the scene: stars, the star, sheep, shepherds, angels, Mary and Joseph, and of course, baby Jesus.  They each would remove a sticker and stick it onto the make-shift nativity scene. Naturally, they fought over who got what sticker, or who removed a sticker first.  “Christmas,” I would say, ‘is a birthday party for Jesus, where everybody gets presents.” Santa? He was a good soul who loved Jesus and children so much that he flew all around the world to help good little children celebrate.

We had a real nativity scene, too.  By “real”, I mean little clay figures.  Not real people.  But those little clay figures look like toys to kids, and mine were no exception.  They couldn’t keep their hands off, and frankly, I was happy they noticed it.  Unfortunately, the inevitable happened, and baby Jesus broke.  I glued Him back together, but He was never the same.

Regardless of how I phrased it, there were presents to look forward to. So, three kids.  Maybe 10 presents each, plus stockings.  Five or so for my husband, gifts for my sister, my dad’s sister Niki, my mother’s brother Joe and his wife.  Every year, we spent Christmas Eve at Niki’s house.  This was a lifelong family tradition, but it meant getting home late and still having to wrap presents, even though I always tried to get as much done before Christmas Eve as I could.  I would literally be up all night trying to finish the wrapping.  I’d get an hour or two of sleep before the greedy little bast….uh, little darlings came in to wake us up to see what Santa brought. 

I wasn’t willing to let some fat old man take all the credit, so there would always be three presents each, wrapped in different paper, and placed away from all the others, that Santa would leave in the living room.  Of course, all the coolest stuff came from Santa.  But the rest came from Mommy and Daddy.

Christmas day would be spent first at church, then cooking and cleaning, since the family came to our house Christmas day.  It was a formal meal with fancy tablecloths, real napkins, china, crystal,  and silver.  That’s how my mom always did it, so that’s how I did it.  I don’t have a large formal table, or even a small formal table, but I would set up folding tables and chairs in the family room, and bring out the finery.  

In between all that fancy stuff, I helped Jerry wrestle toys out of packages, and assemble. Have you tried helping a kid get a toy out of the box it came in?  There are endless plastic sheathed wire ties.  It takes forever.  Heaven help you if the thing then needs to be put together.  And you’re in deep doo-doo if you forgot to buy batteries.  There is nothing like a kid getting the toy of his dreams Christmas morning, and not being able to play with it because his exhausted parents forgot to buy batteries.  Hell hath no fury.

My aunt eventually passed away, and then everybody also came to my house Christmas Eve, although it was casual, since I would still host a formal dinner the next day.  Nevertheless, it meant a late start on finishing the wrapping.  Up all night.

Add a couple more kids to the mix.  We are talking some serious wrap loads, now.  Over fifty gifts every year, kids, husband, parents, sibling combined.  Eventually the Christmas Eve tradition fell away as my parents became too elderly to come to my home, and my sister and I split Christmas and Thanksgiving duties.  But I started moving slower, too, and caring for my parents filled the hours I would have spent wrangling little ruffians, so it never seems I have any more time.

I also have a little cottage industry, sewing a product for ice skates.  It all started when my daughter was figure skating, and it makes a great gift.  A great Christmas gift.  So I get a ton of orders from November 1-December 20, and I’m exhausted every year.  And all the sewing makes it hard to keep up with the wrapping.

My point?  I’m still working my ass off right through the Christmas season! 

It ends a little earlier, though.  I can come home from Christmas dinner and not have to wash china or build toys.  I can sleep.

But I long for the day when I can sit back and enjoy Christmas.  When I can slow down, enjoy picking out a reasonable number of gifts, sip a hot toddy by the fire Christmas Eve instead of being up until dawn wrapping.  I don’t know what’s in a hot toddy, but it sounds good.  And our fireplace doesn’t draw well, so unless we renovate, there won’t really be a fire.  Not even the fake yule log on TV because we ditched cable service as an unnecessary expense.  I guess I could find it online.  And if you read “No Place Like Home”, you know the seating options here are limited…

So we are really talking about sitting at my computer at the kitchen table, sipping something that isn’t as cheery as a hot toddy, but hopefully alcoholic.

Except what does that mean?  There is no one to give gifts?  All the kids are grown and gone, and we are alone?  There are no grandchildren?  Santa isn’t real?

And if I’m honest, I really, really miss having little kids, and not just at Christmas. 

And I miss the traditional Christmas Eve dinner, the fancy kind my aunt always had.

I miss hearing an excited little voice cry out, “Just what I wanted!”

I miss fighting over the advent calendar stickers.  I even miss broken baby Jesus.

I guess I don’t really want things to change after all, but they already have, and they will change more.  However, I have five children.  And one can assume they will each have children.  I’m going to have a heck of a lot of grandchildren.  Which means a lot of gifts.  And parents who would be happy to have some help wrapping, and fighting toys out of boxes and putting them together.  The wrap load isn’t going to get lighter, it’s going to increase exponentially. 

So fix me a hot toddy, and make it a double.  I’ll drink it while I wrap. 

Ziggy

My “dog” Ziggy is a little…well…he’s weird, OK?

I say “dog” in quotes because we’re not really sure he is a dog. 

Think Lilo and Stitch.

Dog?

Ziggy is a mutt.  To our knowledge, he is part pit bull, dalmatian, and Labrador.  White with very pale brown spots, except on his ears where the spots are prominent, he has a huge black nose, and is fair skinned.  His neck is oddly long, sometimes making me think he might be part Loch Ness Monster, too.

A little over a year ago, we said goodbye to our dog Maggie.  She was a one hundred pound black lab, very smart, and so sweet.  This was the dog my children grew up with.  It was obvious she was growing frail and nearing the end of her life, but I kept praying nothing catastrophic would happen while our oldest son was away at college.  It was not to be. 

When she could barely walk one morning, and her always thumping tail was down and still, we knew we had run out of time.  My daughter rushed back from San Francisco, my other daughter skipped class, and we all gathered around Maggie at the vet’s to say our final goodbyes.  We said a prayer together, thanking Jesus for the years of joy she had given us, and asking him to welcome her into his kingdom.  I whispered into her ear, “My grandfather will take care of you.  He loves dogs.  His name is Joe.”  She raised an eyebrow, and turned her head to look me in the eye.  And we pet her softly as she passed from this life.

Now, Maggie was a couch potato.  But Ziggy?  Ziggy is constantly on the go.  It’s exhausting. We think he has ADHD, hyperactive-impulsive type.  His favorite thing of all time is to chase the damn ball, chew it to pieces, and chase it some more.  He won’t exactly bring it back to you, but he will drop it nearby.  Then he takes off running before you’ve even thrown it.  Jerry says that’s cheating. Ziggy will scratch at the door, go out and immediately turn around to look at you, crouched, ready to take off.  If you don’t throw a ball, but shut the door instead, he scratches at the door again.  When you open it, he looks at you and gets into position to run.  So you close the door.  And he scratches again.  This can go on indefinitely, so we often end up just leaving the dag-burn door open.  It’s easier.

Jerry got so tired of going out and throwing balls that he would throw the ball out the open door from his armchair.  Except he kept missing.  There were ball marks on the ceiling, on the wall, and any number of times I thought he would break the glass door.  For Christmas I bought him a dog ball shooter, so he can sit in his chair and fire a more precise aim out the door.  Twice Ziggy ran so fast chasing the ball that he didn’t pay attention to where he was going and ran headfirst into the fence, breaking a board.  Twice.  Twice, he hit his head so hard against the fence that a board broke, kung fu style.  Then he returned with his ball to play again.  He was completely unaffected.  How could that be?  Is his skull really that thick? Was he trained to use his head as a weapon?  Is he a genetic mutant?

Sometimes Ziggy is so happy when he goes outside, that he leaps for joy, like a gazelle.  He launches himself into the air, front legs forward, rear legs stretched out behind him, and floats through the air in pure joy.  It’s odd and beautiful.  I want to feel that kind of joy!

Another activity he enjoys is spying on our neighbors.  He peaks through a crack or knot hole in the fence, and just stares, not moving a muscle.  It’s like he’s catatonic, he becomes so entranced.  He doesn’t bark or pace back and forth, he just freezes and stares.  I’m tempted to find my own knot hole to see what’s so interesting.

Ziggy’s ears are bent at the top, but sometimes his left ear pops up straight.  And he winks his right eye. There’s a message there, but I’m missing it.  Katie studies American Sign Language, ASL.  Is this some sort of dog sign language, DSL?   I asked her what he was trying to communicate, but she just shrugged and said, “I don’t know, Mom.  He’s weird.”

But by far the strangest thing this guy does is sit on his bucket.  There is a large green plastic bucket with a lid in the backyard that is now officially his.  He likes to knock it around, then when it is on its side, sit his butt down on it, with his front legs on the ground, like a person would sit on a bench.  He has done this many times.  We have seen him playing with his ball, then stop to sit on his bucket, gazing lovingly at the ball in front of him.

Now, Ziggy came from Tony La Russa’s Animal Rescue Foundation (ARF), which is within walking distance of our home.  Just down the street from ARF is the Joint Genome Institute.  Originally this organization was the Human Genome Project, but that Rubik’s Cube has been solved, so they have moved on to other mysteries of DNA.  The Joint Genome Institute is part of the Department of Energy, but I’m pretty sure this is just a ruse.  Does anybody really know what they do?  Their website uses a lot of words to tell you nothing specific.  Wikipedia says “the JGI has been a user facility that advances genomics research in a broad range of disciplines where DNA sequence information is likely to drive scientific discoveries”.  Well that leaves the door wide open, doesn’t it?

Supposedly they work on plant and fungal genomes, and I’m sure they do.  As a cover.  But I think there’s some really strange shit going on there, and my dog is proof.

We are convinced Ziggy is the result of some weird-ass DNA experiment.  Maybe he escaped, maybe they send their living lab rats, er, dogs, to ARF for further observation in the human world.  Maybe when the dog is staring through the fence, he’s being controlled by another source we cannot see, that is downloading information from the pet microchip implanted in his neck that they told us was to identify him if he were ever lost.

We may never know.  We are all probably participating in some larger purpose for humanity. Or warfare.  Or something.  But it’s big, and it’s important.  Probably.  Or he’s just a weird dog.

He fits right in.          

Welcome home, Ziggy.  If that is your real name.

Katie and Roy

Our family was transformed in the summer of 2008.  It was then that my husband and I met our two children, Katie and Roy, and the three children we already had – Julia, Jackson, and Jamie – welcomed two new siblings.  Technically it didn’t all come about so quickly, and it would be four more years until Katie and Roy shared our home for good, but they were a part of our family long before that.

I met them first.  Katie was a wild thing, like an animal uncaged.  She used each minute to have as much fun as possible, to live as much as possible.  You could see the energy coming off of her in waves. Roy was clingy, desperate for attention and affection.  Both were extremely thin, and very hungry.  Roy was eight years old, had just finished second grade, yet he was only as tall as Jamie, who was six.  He had just lost his two front teeth, whereas most children I knew had lost them in kindergarten or first grade. 

It was clear from the beginning that something was wrong with their home life.  The more time they spent with us, the more obvious it was that they were neglected, at best.  Possibly more than neglected.  They spent a lot of time at our house, and never wanted to leave. 

Roy, who couldn’t say his r’s, cemented himself in my heart permanently the day he asked, “Can you buy me fwom my dad?”

“Well, I would if I could, but it’s against the law to sell children,” I explained.

He thought about this for a minute, then asked, “Can you give them away?”

When I explained that yes, in some circumstances you can go to court and a judge will say if a child can live with somebody else, he said “I’m going to ask my dad tonight to give me to you.”

I can still see his snaggletooth grin, his skinny body in his borrowed swim trunks, planning a way to come be with us forever.

This is a long story of abuse, neglect, drugs, and other ugliness, and all the ways in which the system did not work.  Said system is geared to protect the rights of the parents more than the rights of the children, despite horror stories you hear of the reverse.  The ugliness has been told elsewhere in writing, to the court.  It doesn’t bare repeating here.

Child Protective Services was involved many times, but it is difficult to prove neglect.  Each time they would give parenting advice to the custodial parent, their father, check up for a few weeks, and then close the case.  The children had been primed on what to say, warned that they would be sent separately to live with strangers, and their father would go to jail if they ever said anything other than what they were told to say.

As summer gave way to fall, weeks turned into months, and months became years, we struggled to give these kids all we could, without having the rights to truly change their lives.  My husband taught Roy to play baseball.  We bought him gear and paid for Little League.  We put him in soccer.  We paid for soccer camps and baseball camps. I helped both kids with homework.  I talked to teachers.  I bought Katie maxi pads when she started her period, and I bought her her first real bra.  We bought both kids clothes, fed them, and had them over our house as much as possible.  We celebrated birthdays, and had belated celebrations together for Christmas and Easter.  Katie called us Mom and Dad.

Years before meeting Katie and Roy, I had felt as though our family was not complete.  I wondered if we should adopt, or maybe foster a child.  But our own children had so many needs and special issues, I wasn’t sure they could handle an addition being thrust upon them.  Our house was too small for any more people, and we didn’t really have the funds, so I put those thoughts away, thinking maybe when our three were older it would be a better time.  I remember asking God to lead me if he had plans for us.

Frankly, I didn’t think Katie and Roy would ever get away from their father.  My husband had to constantly remind me that they were not our kids, not legally.  We prayed for them.  We thought the best we could do for them was to provide a better example, take care of them when they were with us, and give them a respite from their stressful lives.  It wasn’t easy, as they both had emotional issues which affected our family dynamics.  But, our three biological children accepted that Katie and Roy were a part of our family, understanding that they needed us.  I can’t count the number of times Julia said, “Let’s just not take them back.”

Fast forward to 2012.  Things were not going well for Katie and Roy.  But in the span of one hectic 24 hours, things came to a head and they were here.  Living with us. There was a court dependency case that lasted almost two years, and a lot more ugliness.  Yet within that ugliness, just as nature reclaims with new growth areas devastated by disaster, tiny seeds sprouted and grew.

Our house is very small, still we somehow managed.  We bought a loft bed for Katie, and Julia made room for a sister in what had been her private domain.  In order to fit three boys in one room, we had a custom three-layer bunk bed made. We were officially a family of seven.

I don’t’ know how to explain what came next except to say it was very, very hard.  For all of us.  We were crammed into our house like sardines, and our biological children suddenly had to share everything, including their parents, all the time.  Katie and Roy had to adjust to new rules, and Roy particularly suffered as the move brought home to him the fact that his biological family would never be a functioning unit.  A lot of childhood hopes and dreams were obliterated overnight. 

Kids who have had trauma in their young lives do things that are strange to the rest of us. Katie would fill her plate to the brim, leaving nothing for others, then not finish what she had taken.  She hid food in her bed.  Actually, she kept all of her belongings in her bed, and hoarded everything. 

She was a sophomore with almost no hope of graduating, ever, let alone with her class.  She had no sense of who she was, did all sorts of things that we had to make clear she understood were not allowed while living in this house, and entertained no thought beyond the present moment.

Roy was argumentative, desperate for affection and attention, and prone to tantrums.  He was so hyperactive he would watch TV, play with a moving toy, and play a handheld video game all at the same time.  He was 12 years old and could barely read.

Katie had to go to adult school every day after her regular high school classes, and had to go to summer school every summer.  It was touch and go, but she graduated with her class.  She is now slowly making her way through college, studying psychology and American Sign Language, and working in the floral department at Safeway with her sister.

I fought tooth and nail to get Roy tested for special education.  After being told endlessly he would not qualify, once tested he qualified in three categories.  With the proper support, he slowly made up for lost time.  Today he is in college in Minnesota with his older brother, where they both play baseball.  He works on campus, and is academically sound and independent.

Sometimes I look back and wonder how all of us made it this far.  And yet, we are all so blessed to be a part of this bumpy journey.  Our biological kids learned compassion, forgiveness, patience, hope, and to love when loving isn’t easy.  For Jerry and I, it has been a fascinating process, watching all of our kids grow.   Many times we get so bogged down in the day to day struggles that we don’t see the progress, but when we get a chance to breathe deep and step back, it truly has been amazing every step of the way.  I marvel that God placed such trust in us.  We are so ordinary.  We are not out to save the world.  Shoot, sometimes it seems like a miracle we even get through the day!

Katie and Roy are still a work in progress, as are we all.  But this is a story of what may lie hidden in every kid who seems like he or she is going nowhere.  Every kid who gets in fights, skips class to get stoned, has no friends, has too many friends of the wrong sort, acts out, shuts down, and is academically light years behind, has a spark inside that just needs a little fresh air and fuel to brightly blaze. 

The story here is what stability, unconditional love, and a safe place to call home can do for a kid. This is Katie and Roy’s story of courage.  Jerry and I are the supporting players.  We opened the door, but they had to walk through it. 

Silver Stars Go Gold!

title

February 4, 2011

Rochester, MN – The Silver Stars Synchronized Skating Team, representing the St. Moritz Ice Skating Club, took first place in the Pacific Coast Sectionals, the highest level competition for this Pre-Juvenile team.  Five teams competed for the title, which took place early Friday morning, Februray 4, 2011, in snowy Rochester, Minnesota.

As the Silver Stars took the ice and prepared for their warmup lap, the small parent contingency rocked the stadium with their clanking cowbells and “S-I-L-V-E-R” cheer.  Finishing the warmup lap, the skaters prepared to take their starting position. Silence suddenly reigned. As they took their positions, a loud cry of “We love you!” echoed through the still arena.

The team skated to “Once Upon a December” from the movie Anastasia.  With the first graceful notes, the Silver Stars elegantly transitioned from balletic arm movements into a circle with complicated footwork. 

The audience tangibly held their breath as a slight break occurred in the circle, but it was quickly closed with no interruption of the flow of the program.  Without stopping, the skaters reversed direction and performed a steady and swiftly moving traveling circle.

The remainder of the program was completed without error.  A traveling wheel just over halfway through the program moved with impressive speed and shape.  As they approached their finale, the skaters formed a solid line, broke into two, and two spiral lines glided to a graceful stop.

The crowd erupted.  Coaches, parents, and fans recognized a possible gold medal performance.  But this was figure skating, and in the end, it always comes down to the judges.

Said Jean Fahmie, SMISC Vice President and Membership Chair, who was at the competition to perform the duties of Accountant for other events, “Well, I knew who I thought deserved first place, but the judges never ask the accountants!  The Silver Stars had by far the most difficult program.”

Back in the stands, now wearing team travel jackets, the skaters watched the next event and nervously awaited the results.  Finally, it was announced that the final standings of the Pre-Juvenile competition would be next.

The results began with fourth place, the South Suburban Stars from Colorado.  The tension was palpable.  Third place, Fire Crystals, also from Colorado. Now the moment of truth…would they be first or second?  Would Epic Edge, from La Jolla and always a strong competitor, grab the gold away from them?

“The Silver Medalists…”, said the announcer, to a perfectly still arena, “from the La Jolla Figure Skating Club…”. Cautious screams began to erupt from the Silver Stars, as they realized the only positions not announced were fifth, which is not a medaled position, and first. 

“And our gold medalists, from the St. Moritz Figure Skating Club…” The rest of the announcement was drowned in screams and cheers.  Parents, coaches, and skaters cried and hugged.  Coaches Liana Martin and Laura Erle wiped tears from their eyes as they hastily pulled out cell phones to tell relatives the good news. 

This was a remarkable day for a team that shows tremendous promise for the future.  What’s next? Quipped coach Laura Erle, “I’m going to Disneyland!”

Beware Old Men with Sporting Goods

Travel with my family is never uneventful.  There is always a story to tell, and usually a pretty good story, too.  Living it isn’t so great, but the telling is good.  I am going to have to take a trip soon, to Anaheim, for a synchronized ice skating competition.  I’m remembering last year’s trip to Anaheim, and thinking maybe I should just stay home.  Holy smokes, that one was for the record books!  Read on, and you’ll be glad we are not related (unless you, the reader, are a family member, in which case it’s too late for you).

          I made friends last year with a very nice Japanese lady, whose daughter was skating on the beginning synchro team.  Even though Chizu has lived in the U.S. for many years, her English is still halting, and she struggles sometimes for vocabulary.  Chizu’s family lives in the same city as mine, and we carpool to the ice rink, which is a 30 minute drive on a good day.  She asked me about travel plans to Anaheim, and I told her just Julia and I would be going, not the whole family.  She decided to book the same flight so that we could travel together, since I was the veteran skating mom.  I was renting a car, and I also offered to transport her to the hotel.

          We met at the airport gate around ten in the morning.  I had my Starbucks, a book, and a magazine to pass the time.  I was an old hand at this.

          “I am so nervous,” Chizu told me in her heavy accent, “I check Ayane suitcase many time for skates!”

          I smiled reassuringly, and as I flipped through my magazine, thought back to my crazy morning.  I remembered hurrying to cut new skate guards to fit Julia’s blades.  She had lost so many pairs at the rink that she rarely used them anymore, but they were needed for the competition, where the skaters would have to walk a good way from the locker room to the ice.  My boys had been interrupting me every two minutes, and I was pulling my usual super-mom routine (which has been steadily going downhill), trying to do everything for everybody, all at one time.

          I pictured in my mind Julia’s skate, and dropping it into her suitcase along with the new guards.

          Wait.  I could only picture one skate.  I put the other one in there, too, right?

          We have to pack the skates with our luggage, because they usually won’t let you take them on board, although I hear some security agents are more lax than others.  To be safe, we unload the skate bag into the suitcase for travel.  I was sure I had packed both skates, but of course now I had to worry about that, because it wouldn’t be a day in my life if I didn’t worry about something.

          Just to be sure, I called my husband.  He was returning from a trip to the batting cages with the boys (sheesh, they didn’t waste any time starting their bachelor weekend, did they?).

          “Just check Julia’s skate bag and make sure both skate pockets are empty, okay?  I left the bag in the kitchen.”

          We boarded, and the plane was being pushed back from the ramp when my husband called.  I wasn’t supposed to be using my phone, but I had left it on hoping he would call before we took off.

          “Yeah, it’s here,” he told me calmly.

          “What?!!, “ I cried.  “It’s there?  There’s a skate in the bag?  A skate there at home?”

          “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

          “Oh, crap! Oh my God!  Jerry, you have to get that skate to Anaheim.  You have to find a way to send it down overnight!  I need that skate!”

          “Can’t she just rent a pair?”

           Okay, how long has this guy been a skating dad?  Does he pay attention to anything the females in his household do?  No, you big oaf, you cannot rent a pair!  Skates are fitted precisely to your feet, and it takes weeks to get used to a new pair.  Get with the program!  We’re in full blown panic mode!

          “NO!  NO! No, she has to have her skates, or she can’t compete, and the whole team will be in trouble!  She has to have that skate!”

          By this time, my husband was really annoyed.  Hey, he didn’t expect the ladies to take a trip without somehow involving him, did he?

          “Fine, get off the phone so I can figure out what to do.”

          That was the worst flight of my life.  I cried like a baby almost the whole way, because I just couldn’t believe how stupid I was.  I was so tired, and I worked so hard, and here was the result.  Total meltdown.  Chizu offered me tissue, and kept looking at me with a worried expression.  That poor woman.  Her Japanese upbringing just didn’t teach her anything about overtly emotional Greek-Italian peri-menopausal women.  I can’t even imagine what she was thinking.  Okay, I can, and it’s not pretty.

          As soon as we landed and were rolling toward the gate, I pulled out my phone and called home.

          “Okay, it’s taken care of.  Your dad is on his way with the skate.”

          What?  My dad?  Was he kidding me?  What about Fedex, or UPS, or what about my husband flying down with the skate, or loading the kids in the van and driving it down?

          “Nobody will do it overnight, I tried everybody.  I panicked, okay?  I couldn’t think of anything else.  He’s already in the air.” My husband’s tone was turning nasty.

          “Okay, okay,” I backed up. “Thank you.”

          My poor dad was 76 years old, and walked bent with a cane.  Not that he wasn’t up to the challenge, but making him rush onto a plane for us…well, it just wasn’t right.

          My daughter hadn’t spoken to me since I told her we only had one skate.  Now at 13 years old, she really could have checked for her own gear, but I was the one who had made the mistake, and I couldn’t have felt worse.  Her attitude, however, was making the mom police come out in full force.

          “Wipe that snotty look off your face!  Your poor grandfather is flying your skate down!  You’re old enough to pack your own gear, for heaven’s sake.  Everybody’s doing what they can to fix things.  Stop being such a brat.”

          Julia stomped off like she usually does when she’s ashamed, and walked ahead of us as we all headed toward baggage claim.

          I found our bags, and looked for my daughter.  She wasn’t there.

          “Where’s Julia?” I asked the air in general.

          “I think she went to the bathroom,” one of her skating friends said helpfully.  “Upstairs, before we came down here.”

          Great.  Julia was still by the gates, and we were downstairs by baggage claim.  You can’t go back up once you come down.  Well, you can, but security gets very uptight and takes you away to a locked room where they do a cavity search.  Or something like that.

          I knew my daughter had not been paying any attention to what we were doing or where we were going.  She never pays attention.  She probably had no idea where we were, and I couldn’t reach her.  She didn’t have a cell phone, and pay phones are alien to her generation.  Now what?

          By this time I was hyperventilating.  I mean, come on, was this a hidden camera stunt?  Wasn’t the day bad enough already? Nervously, I crept part way up the stairs.

          “Excuse me”, I called to the guard.  “Excuse me!”

          The guard turned.  “Get back down, you can’t come up here!”

          “Okay, I know,” I said, backing down a step, “but I need help.  My daughter is up there and she doesn’t know where I am.”

          “Get back down the stairs!’

          “Okay, okay, but can you help me? “ Tears sprouted again.   “I’m separated from my daughter,” I said chokingly.

          “Get down!”

          I backed to the bottom of the stairs, and looked imploringly up at the security guard.

          She relented, looking annoyed, and called another guard over for assistance.

          Just then my phone rang.

          “Hello?”

          “You have daughter, Julia?” a heavily accented voice asked.

          “Yes!”

          “Mom?  Mom, where are you?  Why did you just leave me?” Julia’s voice came on the phone.  Apparently she had looked distressed, and a stranger had taken pity and lent her a phone.

          I told her where I was and how to get there, and soon Julia was back with us, no longer glaring, now acting silly with Chizu’s daughter.  Wish I had that kind of rubberized rebound in me.

          Deep breath.

          “Okay,” I said.  “My dad is on the next flight.  I need to get you to the hotel because Ayane has off-ice practice,” I said to my patient traveling companions.  “Then I’ll come back for my dad.”

          “Your father come next flight?” Chizu asked.  “We stay for when he come.”

          “But I’ve made such a mess of things already,” I protested.  “I don’t want Ayane to be in trouble because of me.”

          “We stay, okay?   We stay your father.”  Chizu nodded her head, smiled encouragingly, and reached for the tissue in her handbag just in case I started up again.  I thought she was being nice, but in retrospect, she was probably afraid to get in a car with me until I had that skate and had calmed down!

          So we went and got the girls a snack, and when it was time for my dad’s flight to arrive, we returned to baggage claim.  I saw his flight number come up on the carousel light, and people began coming down the stairs, waiting for the baggage to be off-loaded.  My ordeal would soon be over!  I didn’t see my dad, but I figured he probably was waiting for others to get off first, to make it easier for him.

          The luggage started arriving.  I watched each bag, but never saw my daughter’s skate bag.  Soon there were only a few left, and my dad was nowhere to be seen.  I checked the remaining bags, but none had his name.

          And where was Dad?   Oh my God, please don’t tell me something bad happened while he was trying to bail me out!   Like a traffic accident, or a stroke on board the plane!

          I called his cell phone, but there was no answer.  Panic rose again in me.  Had he even made the flight?

          I tried his cell one more time.  This time he answered.

          “I’m here,” he said.  “I’m in the airport.  I’ve got a little problem, but I’ll be there soon.”

          “Are you alright?” I asked anxiously.

          “I’m fine, I’ll explain later.  It’s kind of funny, actually.  Just stay put.”

          Well, I was relieved he was okay, but I knew my dad.  If he had fallen or had some sort of accident, unless it was life threatening, he was going to make light of it.  I put my head in my hands and silently berated myself once again for my harried, hectic ways.

          We waited, and about 20 minutes later, my dad slowly limped down the stairs, carrying my daughter’s skate bag.

          Well, that was unusual.  It never occurred to me to tell my husband you can’t take skates on board, because he already knew that.  I had no idea during that first panicked call that somebody else would be in charge of the skate.

          “I have the skate!” he said proudly, holding the bag high.  “Sorry it took so long, I was arrested.”

          “You were what?” I exclaimed.

          “I was arrested by the TSA,” Dad explained.  “When we got to the gate, the pilot asked us to remain seated because there was a passenger issue.  Six guys in suits came on board, and asked for Mr. Caldis.  I got up, and they escorted me off the plane.  I was being searched and questioned when you called.”

          No way.  No way!  Arrested?  For what?  For not checking the stupid skate bag? Come on, what was he going to do?  I could picture my dad standing crookedly in the aisle of the plane, all 5’ 6” of him, leaning on his cane and waving my daughter’s skate above his head.

          “Everybody sit still and nobody will get hurt!  I’ve got a skate, damn it, and I’m not afraid to use it!”

          I must have woken up in the Twilight Zone that morning.

          As my dad explained, I learned what really happened:

          He barely made it to the airport on time.  He went through security, they took out the skate, examined both the skate and the bag, then put the skate back and returned the bag to the conveyer.

          My dad’s gate was the farthest it could be from security.  He could walk it fine, but he needed to run if he was going to make his flight, so he paid a skycap twenty bucks to grab a wheelchair and hightail him down to the gate.

          He made it as the flight was boarding the last passengers, and rising from the wheelchair, he saw that the skate bag was not hanging off the back as he had thought.  The skycap told him to get on board, and he would run back and get the bag.  Soon the flight attendant was putting the bag in the overhead storage, and they were on their way.

          Well, apparently a skycap running full speed, grabbing a bag from security, and taking off again full speed is not a usual development for the TSA folks.  They didn’t like that.  They didn’t know which bag that was, and were not sure if they had checked it or not.  So, they made a report of a passenger boarding with a bag that had not gone through security.

          But here’s what I don’t get.  If there was something dangerous in that bag, what good does it do to wait until the plane has reached its destination?  I mean, if the bag had explosives or something, the plane would never have made it to its destination!

          Still, it’s comforting to know we will never be hijacked by an old man with an ice skate.  Blown up by a guy with a bomb in his underwear, maybe, but we’re safe from old men with a single skate in a pink and purple skate bag

          Good to know.

          To continue in style, I got completely lost on the way to the hotel because the freakin’ LA freeway system is so difficult to navigate.  Fortunately, Chizu used to live in Anaheim, and she was able to get us back on track.  Can you believe she not only still talks to me, but even carpools with me?  She’s a strong woman.

          So, I hope you see why I’m a little nervous about this year’s trip, although I think I can guarantee that forgetting a skate isn’t in the cards.  That fiasco could only have happened to my family, and I swear, every word is true.  We’re goofier than that funny cartoon dog, and this is the crazy kind of life we all lead.  This is just one example.  I’ve got a million of ‘em.  Give me time, I’ll write them all down.

Mr. Deity Driving

Anybody who knows my dad, knows he is a menace behind the wheel of a moving vehicle.  He’d likely take offense at that, citing his excellent driving record.  No argument there.  He doesn’t hit much.  It’s the years he shaves off people’s lives that make him dangerous. 

When we were kids, we would go up to Clear Lake a lot.  I can still remember my mother sucking in her breath with a whistling sound, like the last breath she would ever take.  She would slam her foot on the floorboards of the passenger side of the car, instinctively reaching for a brake pedal that was not there, as my dad passed “that damn camper” that was keeping him from “making good time”.   We would have the whole family in the car, including a cat, a turtle and a bird.  The cat invariably got carsick and would alternately puke and use the litter box.  Dad would waggle his hand at Mom and tell her to “Relax, and enjoy the view.”  OK, but when the view is distorted by speed, it’s not very soothing.

Surprisingly, those are fond memories.  Hey, don’t judge!  When you come from a family of kooks, you’re bound to be one yourself.

“Making good time” is very important when driving.  The drive itself is not to be enjoyed; it’s a race against the clock.  The destination is irrelevant.   Several years back we all took a day trip to the giant redwoods of the Northern California coast in my parents’ minivan.   When we reached the state park, there was a numbered driving tour, with regular stops about a quarter mile apart.  You could get out of your vehicle and read the posted historical information, and I suppose observe whatever the sign talked about.  I wouldn’t know.  We didn’t stop at any.  My mother and I kept an eye out for the first sign, and had not finished saying “There it is!”, before we were past it.  In a flash we had shouted “There’s another one!”, but that was gone in a blur, also. 

Apparently the ranger station was the destination, because that was when we found a place to eat our picnic lunch.  We took a couple of pictures, and then it was time to head back the way we came, so we could make good time going home.  Well, the rest of us put up a fuss, we went a different direction, my son got carsick, I’m pretty sure we hit a rabbit in the dark on a winding road, and we made terrible time.

But the pièce-de-résistance is the speed boat.  After a disappointing experience as a sailboat captain, my dad bought a speed boat, hoping that would be more appealing to the family than the sailboat (which is its own story).  He judged rightly.  My sister, brother-in-law and I liked to water ski, so we were very enthusiastic.  We have many happy memories getting sunburned on the lake in that boat. 

But of course, my dad was always the driver.  He can control a boat very well, actually.  The problem for us passengers was where he liked to drive.  Like, away from the calm shore and straight into the middle of the lake, where there are nice big waves.  That’s uncomfortable as a passenger, but if you are being towed behind the boat with boards on your feet, well, even the life vest isn’t much comfort.  I can remember thinking “Where the hell is he going?” and frantically pointing back toward the shoreline, all the while bending my knees and preparing for each wave, while the sound of my skis striking the downside of each swell assaulted my ears.  Your skis are supposed to make a pleasing swishing sound as you cut through smooth water, not a harsh “Smack!” as you navigate swells.  Water skiing doesn’t traditionally include moguls.

The depth of my father’s driving mania became clear on the lake.  One weekend, I invited a friend to come up with me and enjoy some sun and boating.  As we lounged in the sun in the cushioned bow of the boat, once again our demented captain started heading into dangerous waters, literally.  You see, the bow of a speedboat is not a good place to be in rough water unless you are strapped in, and unfortunately, seat belts are not standard equipment on recreational boats.  As the front of the boat started to rise and fall abruptly, we hung onto the mooring hooks and braced for each impact.  It wasn’t safe to stand up and move back, either, so we just hung on.  We were young and stupid, and we just laughed, but it was uncomfortable to say the least.  We looked forward to read the waves, but at one point my friend glanced back at my dad, and said to me in a low voice, “Look at your dad.  He looks crazy!”

And there was Dad.  He was bent low over the wheel, his head forward, eyes squinting, with this strange teeth baring grimace on his face.  For all the world he looked as if he were trying to bump us out of the boat.   In retrospect, I think he was actually having trouble seeing in the bright sun, but it was a classic moment, nonetheless.

Wait, there’s more.  None of us will forget the time an argument ensued about how safely my dad was driving.  I don’t remember if it was about tackling mid lake swells instead of hugging the shore, or how close he came to another boat, but the subject was about being cautious instead of overly aggressive.  My sister said hotly “Well, you’re not God!”, to which my dad replied as he once again bent low over the wheel, “In this boat, I am God!”

Well, then, that pretty much sums it up, doesn’t it?  Dad’s omnipotent behind a wheel.  OK, well at least we understand where we are with that.

Just the same, I think I’m gonna wear a seat belt and a life vest.  You know, just in case God doesn’t know about this.

Do You Smell Something?

My life stinks.  Literally.  I am assaulted daily by the malodor of my life.  My home emits odiferous breath where there should be none.  You will not sense soothing ocean breezes or cinnamon wafting from my Glade Plug In.  Far from it.  In fact, if you plan to visit, I suggest you bring a clothes pin.

To begin, there is an unholy funk coming from my laundry room.  Dirty laundry by definition should smell dirty.  Our laundry, however, surpasses all expectations.  The first problem is the sheer mass of it.  I have a six section sorter and a hamper in the laundry room, but you’d never know it.  They are completely buried in a mountain of clothes, which spills over and out the door.  Unfortunately, my children have a habit of tossing wet towels anywhere on the pile, which inevitably get buried by more dirty stuff, and  begin to stink.  However, I consider my self fortunate that they at least now know that laundry goes in the laundry room, not on the floor, hanging off the back of chairs, or even, heaven forbid, behind the couch.  I’ll keep working on the towel issue, but I’m keeping the kids, so I guess I own this one for awhile.

The next problem with the laundry room is the cat.  I have a 17 year old male cat who has developed some very unpleasant ways of expressing his dissatisfaction.  He yowls, and he pees.  He pees on laundry.   Clean, dirty, he doesn’t discriminate.  If his litter box is not just so, or he is not happy with the catch of the day, he will pee on the laundry mountain.  If he’s really unhappy, he pees in baskets of clean clothes, which then become peed-on dirty laundry in the laundry room.  

You might be thinking, “Close the door, idiot!”, but I can’t.  The mountain spills out the door, remember?  You should see us pushing and cramming the beast back through the door when we are expecting guests.  The laundry, I mean.  Not the cat.  He’s a pain, but he’s been my friend longer than my husband, and I love him. 

Speaking of the cat, there’s a nasty scent that comes with kitties of all ages, which is the litter box.  We have two kitties, hence twice the volume.  The old guy is showing his age, drinking more, which means peeing more, and his poops have developed a truly pungent aroma that is almost visible in its intensity.  I can tell immediately when I walk in the door if there’s a Boo-Boo poop in the box.  But we’ve discussed that; he’s old, and he’s staying. 

My son, on the other hand, is only 10.  He’s very athletic, and just at that age where his body is starting to produce new things, like BO.  Holy Crap, that kid reeks!  He’s got the kind of BO that snakes out from him in a hostile coil of invisible gas that both clings and spreads at the same time.  After soccer practice, I usually have to open the car windows and run the air conditioner full blast just to get home without suffering brain damage.  I know, I know, deodorant is the key, but try to get that into a 10 year old’s head!  He just doesn’t get it, or care, that if you use deodorant after taking a shower at night, you still need to put it on again in the morning!  And if you used it yesterday morning, it’s not going to tide you over until the weekend!  He’ll figure it out when he starts noticing girls, and realizes they don’t like boy stink.  But in the meantime, he’s my smelly guy, and like the cat, he’s staying.  

So you can see that there really is no quick and easy solution to these problems.  I’m not getting rid of the cats, or the kids, or my husband, whose own particular brand of rankness doesn’t make for good story telling.  I love them all, and so here we are in one big, happy, reeking group hug of rancidness.  Because, like the song says, love stinks.  Yeah, yeah.

I’m Mean, and I Don’t Get It

Puberty is hell, especially when it’s not yours.  You may think it can’t be worse than going through it yourself, but unless you are a perimenopausal woman with a pubescent daughter, you have no idea what hormonal hell really is.  The mood swings, the acne, the attitude…and that’s just me!  You ought to see my daughter!

Julia keeps telling me I don’t get it, and you know what?  Sometimes I don’t.  Sometimes I don’t get it.  I don’t get why she is so snotty, and I don’t get why she cannot remember anything except the words to her favorite songs.  I don’t get why it takes her all the time she has in the morning to get ready, plus an extra ten minutes so that we are late, no matter how early I get her up.  If she has 30 minutes, she takes 40. If she has an hour, she takes an hour and ten minutes.  And what I really don’t get is the total loss of the ability to communicate.  I’m not sure which one of us has lost it, but there’s definitely a problem.  Here is a typical scene at the local ice rink, where my figure skating daughter spends a lot of time:

She walks down to the ice, then comes back up, and stands in front of me.  Her eyes dart anxiously to and fro, her brow furrowed. “I have a problem.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Shhhh!” she says, eyes moving even more frantically.  Angrily she jerks her head at the nearest group of people, who are two tables away and talking loudly in Chinese. 

“Honey, they can’t possibly hear me.” 

“Mom, stop!”  She’s looking really distressed now. 

“OK,” I whisper, “What do you need?” 

“Stop looking like that, and be quiet!” 

I school my face to be as neutral as possible, and as close to ventriloquism as I can muster, I whisper even more quietly, “Are you going to tell ‘e ut is the ‘atter?” 

“Mom, please!” 

“ ‘Isser in ny ear,” I suggest. 

“Oh my gosh, you just don’t get it!” she exclaims, hands clutching her temples in anguish. 

Now people are looking.           

So I say nothing, waiting patiently for her to tell me what’s bothering her.  I look  at her with an expectant, encouraging expression. 

“Well, aren’t you going to help me?” she says accusingly, throwing up her hands in frustration. 

“Julia,” I say in a quiet but normal voice, “I’d be happy to help you with whatever is bothering you, but if you don’t tell me, I can’t do that.  Nobody can hear us, but your dramatics are calling more attention than anything else.  Sit down and talk to me. 

“Why do you always have to be like that?” she says, clearly furious with me. 

Be like what?  Concerned?  Helpful?  Normal?  Now I’m starting to lose patience with the guessing game.  “Look, Julia, if you need to talk to me about something, then I’m listening.  Otherwise, get down to the ice and warm up.  You have a lesson in five minutes.” 

“You don’t have to be so mean!  Just nevermind!” she says loudly, and stomps off to the ice. 

Several parents look our way, and I can see their thoughts in little bubbles above their heads. “Oh, that mean old mother just can’t get along with her daughter.” “Not a nice, respectful girl, like my daughter.” “Tsk.  Must be a dysfunctional family.  How sad.” I turn away and look down at the ice, where my daughter is smiling and laughing with a friend between salchows and toe loops.  

Laughing out loud, I think “She’s schizophrenic!” 

When I was a kid, I remember thinking to myself that I would never forget how it felt to be that age, and that when I was a parent, I would remember and be very understanding. 

But somehow, after all those new neuropathways of adolescence are through developing, some sense of the anguish is lost.  I remember with a grown up mind, not the mind of someone whose body is morphing into some unknown territory.  Well, actually, my body is morphing, too, but in a less pleasing way.  And I’m pretty sure I know what it’s morphing into.  

But back to Julia.   I am trying very hard to be supportive, but also to keep her to boundaries.  We can rage against the world, but we can’t punch our little brothers for laughing about our bra.   We can throw ourselves on our bed in inexplicable tears, but we can’t scream at a baffled Daddy “Go away, you big poop!”.   We can hate our math homework, but we can’t expect to understand how to do it when we spend the entire class time drawing pictures of the math teacher hanging from a noose.  It’s fairly simple, it seems, but I guess that’s because I’m all developed neurologically, and everything.  At least for now.

Doggone Funny

Lately, my humor has been lacking.  The burdens of life have crushed in so close and tight that no gurgle of laughter in response to the goofiness of that same life could escape.  I couldn’t taste the sweetness, or savor the beauty.  It took a big glob of mucousy slobber that leaves a trail of slime like a snail to clear the way, and open up the bubble around me.  God bless slobber.  Especially with a piece of kibble hanging from it. 

This gift came from Maggie, a one year old, 83 pound black Labrador.  She’s a big, furry, undisciplined beast.  Jumping up on her hind legs, she is taller than I am.  Okay, okay, everybody is taller than I am, just go along with the imagery, will ya?  I’m writing a column here. 

Where was I…  

We have three kids, two elderly cats, and two goldfish.  For years the kids and the husband have begged for a dog, and for years I have said, “No more living creatures until something goes to college or dies of old age.”  Hopefully, the kids would be the ones to go to college.  I just didn’t have it in me to care for any other being dependent upon me, or to clean any more messes.  I was empty.  Worn out.  Used up.  Nothing left to give. 

Then my husband started showing me pictures of Bob, a golden retriever featured on the website of Tony La Russa’s Animal Rescue Foundation. 

“Look at Bob.  Bob needs us.” 

I had to admit, Bob was cute, but my stress-bubble encased heart was untouched.  However, this time Jerry wouldn’t give in to my pained expression or tight lipped response.  One Friday he tracked me down at the playground , and in way of greeting me, looked at my with big morose puppy dog eyes. 

 “Bob needs a home,”  he said sadly. 

Then my daughter got down on her knees, and begged, promising all sorts of miraculous personality changes that would result in me spending the rest of my days soaking my feet and eating bon bons, while she took care of every household detail, if only, if only… 

Ahh, crap.  We were getting a dog. 

So, reluctantly on my part, and joyously on the part of the other four humans in the family (the cats were not consulted), we went to look at Bob.  Bob’s a looker, all right, but Bob has issues.  Seems he’s on puppy Prozac to cope with his anxiety.  Well, he’d fit right in, but Mom’s anxiety was going to cross the line into psychosis if we had a mentally ill dog.  Luckily, or unfortunately, I thought, there was another retriever perfectly suited for a family with children.  This one was a black Labrador, and the shelter was calling her Orangutan. 

I don’t know why they called her that.  It’s not like she has a big red butt, and picks fleas off her friends for entertainment. 

Anyway, she slobbered all over us, grossed me out, and won the hearts of my children and spouse.  Mine remained in its stress-bubble, but I saw how good she would be for our family, and I relented.  We asked if she responded to her shelter name, and were told that was the name they gave her there, but we were “welcome to change it.  Please, change it.” 

So Maggie, aka Orangutan, came home with us. 

She has destroyed the screen door.  Left in the yard with an open window at five feet above the ground, she stretched herself to her full human height, tore through that screen, and pulled a potted plant basking in the filtered sunlight out onto the patio.  She ate my glasses, and digs in the vegetable garden. 

And she adores us.  She slaps the wall next to her bed with her big strong tail every time we walk by, making a huge thumping noise.  She puts her head down so we can rub her ears, then rolls over for a good belly rub.  If we leave her home alone, upon our return she wags so hard her hiney goes one way while her front end goes the other.  Her eyes light up with love and joy, and she scarcely knows which part of which one of us to kiss first. 

That damn dog has wormed her way with those big muddy paws right into our hearts.  Our hearts.  She’s one of the family now. 

So my chewed up specs are looking kind of funny.  The enormous muddy paw prints are clearly ridiculous.  And that piece of kibble hanging from a glob of slobber, well, it’s a downright knee-slapper.  My funny bone has been found, and it’s currently being chewed on by a huge hairball of love.  Who knew.

Reconciliated

Contrary to popular belief, Catholicism has changed in the past thirty-seven years.  Let me take you back, back to 1970, when I was seven years old.  Yes, you did the math right, that makes me 44 years old. Hey, I’ve got nothing to hide.  Besides, you can’t see the 24 ounce mason jar of diet coke and the three empty 100 calorie Chips Ahoy packages that litter my desk, or the spot on my hairline where the hair is really grey and grizzled.  Oh, wait, there’s another empty package under the monitor.  Make that four.

But back to sinning, and Confession.  Because that’s what I was leading up to.  When I made my First Confession, in the embers of the riotous ‘60’s, and the blaze of “free love”, hip hugger bell bottoms, and The Partridge Family, the Catholic church wasn’t buying into the social changes of the times, and was really big on sin, in the time honored fashion of Catholicism.  The pastor at our Church, Monsignor Varni, was educated and ordained pre-Vatican II, which is to say, before the church tried to come into the twentieth century just a little bit.  Some of those changes initiated by Pope Paul included recognizing a loving and forgiving God, versus the angry, penitential deity who’d launch you to Hell in a heartbeat if you didn’t follow all the rules. 

Monsignor had many admirable qualities, but his sermons were not among them.  His were of the “You are truly flawed from birth and God can only forgive a selfish, sinning butthead like you if you cry, pull your hair out in distress, give a lot of money to your Monsignor for his church, and pray every waking moment for forgiveness.  Otherwise, you’re screwed.”  And he was an intimidating presence, in his Monsignor cap, or whatever it’s called (hey, I went to public school, we didn’t have time to learn all the little details in just one hour a week of religious ed).

In those days, Confession meant going into a tiny dark room, no bigger than a small closet, and kneeling onto a padded kneeler that creaked with your weight.  In front of you was a small window, frosted and screened.  The room on the other side, where the priest sat, was lighted, and as you sat in the dark, and it was really dark, you spoke through this window to the priest beyond.  I can’t remember if there was an opening of some sort so that the priest could hear you.  Anyway, he seemed to hear pretty well, so I guess there was something.

As you kneeled, there, shaking in the dark, because what little kid likes to be alone in a dark room, you told the Father your sins.  You were given absolution, and a penance, usually some specific prayers to recite quietly in the pews after you left the confessional.  Monsignor, bless his soul, might have scared the crap out of you, but he gave the lightest penance of any priest.

Now all of this is really odd to non-Catholics, and I could go into religious theology, and tell you why we do this, and what it is that Jesus said that led to all this, but this isn’t a lesson in theology, and I’ve already admitted I’m a little shaky on my theological history.  The point here is that if the experience didn’t scare you into sainthood, you were pretty much a lost cause anyway.

So fast forward to the present day.  My seven year old son just had his First Reconciliation.  That’s what they call it now, Reconciliation.  Because that is what it is supposed to be about, reconciling with God, not beating yourself with a switch and ditching your Gap sweater for a hair shirt.  All of the kids who were to make their First Reconciliation, and all of their families, gathered in the church.  A joyous service was held.  The theme was more “Hey, let’s think about what we might like to do better in our lives, and isn’t it great that God forgives us for all those times we punched our siblings and back talked Mom?”.  When it came time to actually do the deed, several smiling priests sat in chairs at various locations around the church, each with an empty chair next to him.  One at a time, we took our children to a priest, introduced our child, who was warmly welcomed by the priest.  The child was supposed to name one or two things he thought he probably shouldn’t have done. 

At the point where the priest gives absolution, he raises his hand.  Watching from the sidelines, I saw my son look at this raised hand, hesitate a moment, and then give the priest the old high five.  The priest didn’t miss a beat.  He finished his piece, patted my son on the shoulder, said something softly to him with a smile, and that was that.

My son came away with a big grin.  I didn’t tell him he wasn’t supposed to high five the priest.  He was proud of himself, and who was I to take that away?  At the time, I was torn between laughter, and chagrin that everyone would see I had not fully prepared my son.  But now, several weeks later, I think how appropriate this was.  Isn’t this what faith in God is all about?  “Good job, I forgive you, now give me five!” 

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?

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.

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?

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.

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.

Pass the Kryptonite, Please

I’m hanging up my cape.  It hurts to admit this.  I’m not even sure if I can really do it.  The ugly truth is that I stink at being Super Mom.  I’ve always been an over achiever, but I just can’t pull this one off.  I cannot meet my own expectations.

God knows I’ve tried.  I bake cakes, cookies, and cupcakes for all sorts of occasions and school events.  Help in the kindergarten classroom, although only once a week, and I feel badly that I cannot handle committing to more.  I spent hours this fall putting together gift baskets for the school carnival silent auction.  I sew Halloween costumes.  Make Christmas ornaments with the kids.  Help get holiday gifts for my parents to give others since shopping is harder for them now.  Chauffeur to soccer, ice skating, basketball, dance, and birthday parties.  Help with homework.  Discipline, encourage, laugh and cry. 

But when I am not dressed as the caped crusader, no Bruce Wayne with faithful butler Alfred is left to fill the void.  More of a very mortal Oscar Madison with Felix aspirations.  My home is a pigsty.  I clean every chance I have, every spare moment.  Going to the bathroom?  Well, I’ll just grab that laundry basket and empty the dryer on my way.  Phone call?  Fold clothes or do dishes while talking.  Four mornings a week are devoted exclusively to serious cleaning.   The two oldest children are pushed to do what they can to contribute, although I have to threaten dire consequences to get results.  My husband works long hours, but spends his weekends vacuuming and doing yard work.  Despite all this, we live in a landfill. 

I know there are worse homes than mine.  I’ve seen them on TV.  They make me look like a pretty good little housekeeper.  Ever seen the show “How Clean Is Your House?”  with the two British ladies who go to the nastiest abodes in the U.S. to clean them up?   Having seen how those more than two standard deviations from the mean approach household hygiene, I think I am safe in saying the health department will not be putting yellow tape across my front door and taking my kids away.   But my hovel is bad enough that I live in fear of unexpected guests.  It takes me a week to get ready for a play date.  

There are so many other tasks left undone.  Lots and lots of papers to be filed.  The blinds I keep meaning to put up in the boys’ room because Jackson thinks his window is scary.  The ancient and filthy sheers in the office window I need to replace.   Pictures never hung.  The disaster I know awaits me in the back of my closet where the cats have been sleeping.   The mystery boxes in the garage that have been there since we first moved into this house four years ago.  The dust on my floor-to-ceiling shelves.  The huge box of photos where every memory is stuffed haphazardly.  The pants that need mending,   The toys that need to be sorted and donated, or dumped.  

And then, there is me.  I am gaining weight and breaking out.  My hair needs a cut and at least a quickie home dye job.  I am so tired at night I fall asleep with my two year old, before I’ve had a chance to brush my teeth or take nightly medications.  I look like hell and I know it.  So, I am going to have to re-prioritize and learn to live with what I cannot do before I find myself drooling in a hospital bed somewhere.    Somehow I am going to have to forego some of those things “I have to do.”  Of course, as Mom my children will always come first, but I am going to have to draw the line and make room for me.  I feel guilty even saying that. 

I would like to know how other moms pull it off.  The ones who are active in every possible school event, teach Sunday School, and are Girl Scout Leaders.  When you stop by to return something their child left at your house, they come to the door with makeup on and invite you in to their tidy home for a cup of tea.  What is their secret?  Is it a God given talent I was born without?  I can’t find any other moms who are so obviously as discombobulated as I.  

One mother I know had to rush off after helping with the kindergarten Halloween party to have her “brows done” before meeting her husband for lunch.  My plans after the party involved the grocery store and a bottle of Pine Sol.  I don’t even know what one does to ones brows that needs to be done by a third party.  I mean, I pluck the unibrow and hunt out strays, but that’s as “done” as my brows get.  I can’t imagine having the time or funds to even consider anything more.  

Another friend was commiserating with me, laughing about mom’s whose children’s scrapbooks are always up to date.  Huh?  My kids don’t each have a scrapbook.  Unless you consider their whole rooms scrapbooks.  Oh, my mistake, I was thinking of scrapheap.   I’ve already told you where the family photos live.  If my children want additional mementos of their youth their mom has saved, they will have to look in the manila folders and plastic storage boxes where handprints and crayon drawings are tucked away, in mom’s jewelry drawer where plastic bags with names and dates hold tiny teeth, and in their own memory. 

Yet my children are bright, happy, and healthy.  They are well cared for and well loved, and they know it.  My husband and I are best friends.  There is enough love and laughter around our house to please Johnboy Walton.  I know in my heart that the rest of it is just window dressing.   And that is why I’ve decided to stop trying to ditch my day clothes for a leotard and tights every time I pass a phone booth.  The desire to do it all will probably never go away, but I am going to have to work harder at not doing it all than I ever have at trying to be Super Mom.  Our family memories will be of meals shared together, human pile ups on the sofa with Daddy at the bottom, good smells from the kitchen, and the same overall warm fuzzy feeling my parents gave me as a souvenir of my youth.   They will not be of how clean the carpet was, a skinny mom with great brows, or of our lovely décor.  

So be it.  I don’t look good in a cape anyway.