Life's classroom

Sure, I felt a little guilty about sending my older child, E down that steep hill on his bike. I knew that scraped knees and elbows were probably waiting for him at the bottom. On the other hand, this child is my risk-averse, fearful, 9 year-old not confident on his two wheeler. My child who fears failure so much that most of the time he won’t even try. I gave him this push, metaphorical and literal, towards the boundaries of his comfort zone and beyond. I sent him down that hill to show him that failure is the worst that can happen.
As it turns out, always the overachiever, E, failed in fantastic style. In snow skiing, his fall would have been known as the ski chalet-various paraphernalia splayed around him like in a shop. I ran to the scene of blood and sweat and dirt and tears and anger and failure. I consoled, I assured, I praised him for taking the plunge. I convinced him to get back on, and while I couldn’t get him to try that steep hill again, we did finish the ride. Back home.
Summer, the season of bike riding and exploring, of collecting frogs and beetles, of jump rope and swimming races and stickball and secret picnics in secret forts is the true classroom of our childhood. As these glorious (though unreasonably hot) months draw to an end, kids and moms alike bemoan the return to the stifling air conditioned classroom, the drudgery of homework, uniforms, haircuts, and carpool. We’re saddened by the end of that freedom.
While we, as responsible parents, are supposed to allow our children to fail, to experience hardship and persevere, we are also concerned about grades, and notes home from teachers, and the school district‘s permanent record. Summer is the best classroom, because failure is allowed. It’s not graded or ridiculed or lectured over. The kids are at liberty to blow it--epically--and be consoled and reassured and convinced to go on. Summer is learning with our peers and parents rather than unfamiliar teachers and intimidating principals.
As I wrapped my arms around my nearly-as-tall as I am son, snotty nose, filthy hands and bloody knees I swallowed a chuckle--the wipeout was truly spectacular--and smiled. For even as he sobbed and sniffled, he had just experienced the best lesson of the whole year. And all it cost him was the skin of his knee.
　

Parents back to school: grade C+

It's back to school, here in Alabama. I wish I could say we go back to school so early because our education is longer, better, or in some way distinctive from other places--in a positive way--but, alas. In mid-90 temps, the kids go back to school, instead of waiting until after Labor Day when temps and therefore the cost of air conditioning would be lower, but no. We end school in the lovely month of May and go back in the soupy, hot August. I will never understand.

By and large, there's a good vibe around here about going back to school. While the kids aren't doing the 'woohoo' dance around the living room, I do think there's a general consensus that it's time to do something besides lounge around the house, play Wii, watch TV, swim, and eat bonbons. In fact, if school started later in the day, and the boys could just chill in the morning instead of being herded out the door, school would be mighty fine. Nobody, but nobody wants to get up before 6:30.

I hate packing lunches in the morning. I hate pouring juice, opening the bag o' ham and smelling deli meat before coffee. I don't like trying to think of something new and exciting to send. I don't like not being able to default to peanut butter and jelly. Not that I want to actually kill the allergic children at school with my pb&j, it's just that I'm lazy. I don't like signing a jillion papers and sorting through the 20 fliers and handouts. And I'm not even a kid.

But, yesterday the house was quiet. Really, really quiet. I could hear the refrigerator kick on and off and the ice maker deposit the ice into the bucket. I lounged. I ran errands in a timely, efficient fashion without being interrupted, begged to stop, harrassed for lunch and/or snacks, or having to referree.

I got a latte and ran errands in civilized clothes. I browsed at the shoe store, since I was out, and though I found nothing, I didn't have to hear, "BUT YOU PROMISED WE ONLY HAD TO MAKE ONE STOP AND THIS ISN'T IT!" Which was a relief.

I washed laundry and put it away. I picked up Legos without having a new trail laid out behind me. I went for a walk. I listened to music I like in the car. And when there was no music that I liked, I sat in silence. Life is very different without the kids.

Not once did I get begged for a (unhealthy) snack, did I have to break up a fight, did I have to play Lego or Wii, or in any way intervene in the childhoold plague of boredom. It was a big contrast to the whining and bickering of Sunday.

I ran into a friend at the grocery who said I looked "liberated" without my kids. I felt liberated, too. Like I could enter into a conversation without my children turning into clinging interrupters. I felt adult, and decently dressed and ready to be out "in the world," rather than rush-showered, unmade-up and frantic to finish everything before the kids became unruly. Everything was rather zen and relaxed, and kind of the way I expected it to be on the first day of back to school.

And then some woman had to wreck it. She overheard my friend and me talking about the return of school and what a relief it is to have a break, however short, from our kids and to move through the day as adults. But, there was this woman. Late 40s, maybe, clucking her tongue and reminding us how fast everything passes by. How she's taking her third child off to college. And how her heart is breaking. And how just yesterday, her college student was a toddler.

I GET IT. But, nostalgia, people, is for people who have the luxury of looking back. Those of us with elementary-aged kids, are still in the midst of 'the shit.' We have no light at the end of our tunnels, and feel as though we will be running errands, chauffering to activities and participating as PTA parents forever and ever without end. I know, your college student/adult child grew up so fast, you just blinked and it was over. This is the process of parenting. I WILL, surely, feel the same way when I take my baby off to college, but for now, parents of adult children: STOP TELLING ME TO ENJOY THIS.

Did you enjoy this? Running around to lessons, activities, whatever after school birthday/event/thing was going on? Did you enjoy buying whatever obscure school supply the teachers have sent you scavenging for? Did you enjoy kids growing out of shoes, and complaining about the seams in the socks, or whining about dinner, or complaining about bedtime, or "forgetting" to wash their hair in the tub, or flooding the bathroom, or hating their uniforms, or, or or or? No, this is the grind. This is the elbow grease of parenting that will, someday, gods willing, lead to the joy of accomplishment: having a successful child who wants to continue a higher education and, simultaneously, still loves me enough to want me to drop him off at said college.

There are moments--we all have moments--of pure happiness. When a child is so sweet, so likeable, so smart, so kind, that we never want him to change. But those moments are scattered among the realities of life, and the challenge of being a good parent--oh, fine, of being a mediocre parent--is to remember those moments when your child has left Legos in the tub, or underfoot, or has left food crumbs for the cockroaches, or has failed to let the dog out before the dog's bladder gave out, or or or. Mediocre is my realistic goal. It's back to school, and I'm shootin' for average.

To toss or not to toss

First of all, as I write this at 8 in the morning, it is dark, dark, DARK outside. Really...all the lights are off in here and it could be the middle of the night. Which I hate, but I do love the rain.

Anyway, what was I saying? Right. I have holed myself up in the house for spring cleaning. Before you leap to the comments section, I know it is not spring. But when spring comes, I have to go outside and clean the outside before it gets hot as hades out there. Ergo, my cleaning seasons do not align with Earth's seasons. (Does this surprise you at all?!? Sometimes I wonder if I even live on this planet.) Winter=cleaning inside house, Spring = cleaning outside house, Summer = cleaning anything with a hose (it's hot!) Fall = organizing clothes.
Yesterday, I worked a couple of hours in E's room. I moved the furniture, vacuumed and wiped down all the baseboards behind and under the bed. I washed the interior windows, vacuumed the valances, washed the curtains, cleaned out the drawers, sorted clothes to save for S and to give away, culled 'treasures' from trash, washed and ironed bed skirts and comforters, flipped the mattress, hand washed the floor. Today, I have to brave his closet, and then start on my bedroom. (UGH)
Kids have funny ideas of treasures. E had an Oriental Trading catalog with pages that had furred from his constant rereading. (I pitched it.) He saved M's broken watch. He saved a key he found on the ground in NYC. I remember having treasures in my room, too. When you have so little independence, when you can't go buy something meaningful or receive something valuable, I guess you have to assign meaning to things you find. E's drawers were like a homeless person's grocery cart: tattered scraps of paper, unusual bottles, broken beaded necklaces, old rabies tags from the dog, remains of art projects long faded, rocks. Surely, some items found their way in to his underwear drawer on accident, but clearly others were stored there, ferreted away to be studied later. I didn't throw away most of it, and collected it for him in a jar.

I truly didn't want to pry, and won't ask him about his treasures. I wonder what he thinks about when he looks through those dear collections. I wonder if he'll remember those odd objects as an adult, the way we sometimes do: ordinary things completely imbued with mystery and meaning, recalled as shinier or larger, or somehow better than they actually were. Tokens that became talismans.

It's hard to put myself in my kids' shoes on a day to day basis. I do remember so much of my childhood, but not in a readily accessible part of the brain. I remember having an entire playroom full of toys. In that room, though, there were other things that stand out so clearly. Things I yearned to touch but wasn't supposed to, things on shelves up high, so that I could only see their lids and was left to wonder what they were like. A lot of those things didn't make it to my parents' new house. One was a piggy bank, but it was metal and heavy and in the shape of the John Hancock Building in Chicago (where was that, anyway?). Another thing was probably (in retrospect) a small brass pitcher for olive oil (coffee?) in the middle east. There were strange things too: a pelican bone that stayed in a pitcher on the bar, and (what I later discovered to be) a roach clip and rolling paper in the very very back of a drawer. (tsk tsk)

My parents recently brought a couple of totes full of crap from my childhood room. There were souvenirs from vacations, photos of people without heads, (when I was shorter, I failed to angle the camera up, so the photos were a child's-eye view of people's abdomens) small gifts. One of the things was a heart shaped ceramic box with a rose. As soon as I saw it, I knew what was inside: the torn corner of an envelope with my 3rd grade teacher's return address. I thought it made me terribly special to know exactly where a teacher spent her out of school life.
In any event, I was merciful with most of Ethan's squirrelled-away goodies. I collected a bag of clothes for the Goodwill, and a smaller bag of trash. I filled a pickle jar with his odds and ends. And realized, too late, that a winter cleaning is a battle with the dust bunnies, sure, but also with nostalgia.
I know treasures lurk in my own closet. I dread having to sort them. My closet has rescued stuffed, very loved animals (Boys: "I don't want this anymore, it's for babies.") and a Ziploc of the tooth fairy's prized baby pearls, first art projects with "moom" scrawled in crayon, locks of hair, chewed-on board books, and favorite baby outfits. There are treasures from my own youth: a favorite stuffy, my blankie, the velvet box proffered on bended knee.
When I think of all the stuff in this house (and there is a LOT of stuff) and all the times I've screamed, "don't touch that!" I think of S, too short to see the things on the lower shelves, climbing up on stools and tiptoes to explore what's there, and I have the impulse to save everything forever.
Not the best mindset when tackling an eight year old's closet.

Time travel with the Beav

Note to 21st century self: tablecloths, linens, and other merchandise are available online. All the time.

Note to 18th century self: you'd make a shitty bride. You carry no dowry, you can't carry a tune, and you can't sew worth a lick.

I haven't blogged since Sunday for many reasons, but mostly because I have gotten crafty. Sadly, I don't mean Fantastic Mr. Fox crafty; I mean hunkering down and trying to make crap myself crafty.

Project #1: Fix pillows. Annoyingly, I ordered custom pillows when we moved here (Aug 2007?) and they took 6 months to make (economy was better then, EVERYONE had custom pillows). Not long after I got them, the seams split. I mended them. They split again. (See memo to antique self). I finally got tired of stuffing the stuffing back in and repaired them. They're SO FLUFFY now. Check.


Project #2: Recover box valances for guest bedroom and S's room. Since I painted and redid these rooms, I thought I'd pick a more unifying fabric for the valances. Besides, S was not going to abide Lightning McQueen much longer. I found great (CHEAP!) fabrics. Unfortunately, I got a stripe for his. Do you have any idea how freaking hard it is to work with stripes? Grrr. The downstairs got a big floral with a cute trim. It's SO FLUFFY! S's went up easily with M's help and we got super cute black roller shades, that cost marginally less than the arm and the leg required for roman shades. His room turned out super. Downstairs will require husband help this weekend. It's almost transformed, that effing bedroom, from usable bedroom to flood zone to storage hellhole, to usable bedroom again. Sheesh. Check.

Project #3: cute tailored tablecloth to cover world's ugliest table. My Columbia friends might recall WUT. It was in in the living room, had a marble-ized top, and 3 fugly goldfish-tattoo-y looking things on the base. I chose a neutral burlap fabric for some texture and started out on my quest to hide the WUT.

For those of you who (wisely) do not craft or sew, here are some lessons learned.

1. Who the hell managed to invent the sewing machine like a hundred years ago? (Actually, prior to that, per Wikipedia. Howe patented his in 1845, and since he's American and that's all that really matters, I'll go with him.) Seriously? It's so freaking complicated, I can barely thread it and run it. In fact, sometimes I can't do that. Bobbin? What kind of sadistic accessory is this? It tangles, unwinds, frays, jams, and just when you think you're sewing, the mother is out of thread.

2. Sewing is tedious, detail oriented business, best reserved for people with patience.

3. Sewing requires math skills. I lack math skills.

4. A seam ripper should be purchased at the same time as any sewing machine purchase. Expected ratio is 3 rips for each seam sewed. But, as you can see from #3, that estimate might be off.

So, one day this week, 21st century me and 21st century friend, MT met for some decidedly mid-20th century activity. She brought her sewing machine, I dragged out mine, and we parked them at opposite ends of my kitchen table. She sewed on Brownie patches for her troop. I wrangled with the effing burlap. MT is incredibly neat, well-organized and patient.
I am not.
I was cursing and sweating, and MT, with the exception of slight frustration of her clear thread, had her machine humming along smoothly. I mean the woman bought CLEAR THREAD, for pete's sake. That way, she wouldn't have to change thread for each patch. Hello? They're Brownies. Use brown thread. Their den leader isn't Martha Stewart is she? Are 8 year-olds going to notice? Care? But, no. MT struggled through her frustration and had 6 or 7 neat little vests with perfectly stitched and tidily arranged little patches on them. Fittingly, all the patches represented all the crafty little skills her daughter's troop had mastered.

I wrangled with the effing burlap. I was not a Brownie.


We ordered pizza and ate and visited. MT ironed her little vests, and for a moment, I swear I was hallucinating in black and white

Annoying. I mean, I am sewing, and ripping and sewing and ripping, and cursing and sweating. And MT is sewing on patches like June Cleaver. Dammit. I nearly broke down and ordered online:

But, I thought, if a 12 year old in Malaysia can make this for $194, then I can make it for $3 a yard. As it turns out, the 12 year old Malaysian would make a hell of a 17th century wife.

Today, two days later, and lots of cursing and starting over, I finished. I'm not photographing mine. It'll have to sit right under this professional photo, and I won't subject myself to feelings of inadequacy and failure. To sum up, I approximated the results for $12 and 16 hours of my time.

MT, I salute you. You make a rockin' wife in any century. Me?



And can't sew a lick.

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The Greatest Meh on Earth

Come one, come all, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls to see the Greatest Show On Earth (TM)!
Meh.
Last night, we took the kids to the circus. Not just any circus, but the Ringling Bros. and Barnum and Bailey Circus....The Original Greatest Show On Earth (TM). Home to the most prestigious clown college in the U.S. The CIRCUS.
Meh.
Granted, the boys were tired from swimming all day. But I accidentally bought front row seats and we were "circus celebrities" and got to sit IN the main ring for the most of the first act. I could see the clown's crazy eyebrows. CIRCUS CELEBRITIES.
Meh.
During the tiger bit, S fell asleep. E had a faraway glazed look in his eyes, and it wasn't enthrallment. The motorcycle in the steel globe bit barely registered on their cool radar.
Meh.
M, who is bitterly opposed to clowns, reported only that he found it exactly how he imagined a circus to be. He wasn't bored, exactly, just mostly unimpressed (except for the motorcycle thing). The tigers WERE beautiful, but he just saw some at the zoo a couple of weeks ago.
Meh.
Me? I love the circus. I love the idea of performers from all over the world, living together in caravans, traveling the country and sharing their talents with one and all. I like the idea of the woman and her 8 cute white ponies having this special bond with her animals, and spending her days nurturing, rehearsing and loving them. I love the risk, however mitigated by lawyers, that still remains: the man alone with 12 tigers and a skewer of raw meat, 8 motorcyclists in a teeny cage at 40 miles an hour, a woman spinning by her hair.
But.
I concede this: the circus is a throwback. It is what remains of a simpler time, a simpler audience, a simpler world. It represents a time when the world's performers were assembled andwe went to see them, rather than now when we sit on our couches and the world is brought to us. We are jaded, and worldly, and easily unimpressed. We have seen BiggerLouderFaster already. We have been Supersized.
So, indeed, in the several occasions I've seen Cirque du Soleil, I have seen superior aerialists, gymnasts and freaky flexible people. I have been to the world's finest zoos and seen tigers and elephants (and there are many even luckier people who have seen the animals roaming free in Africa while on safari.) I've actually even seen an elephant paint a picture before.
Apparently, I am not the only one who feels this way: the bottom tier of half of the Mobile Civic Arena was not even filled. Concessions were a fortune. The experience felt Disney-fied, and overly rehearsed. Maybe even a bit tired. Some of the clowns put in a lackluster performance.
But then I think, surely, these people dreamed of being in the circus. They clearly trained for it for most of their lives. I know that there are institutes in China where young children with an aptitude for gymnastics train for hours a day. Certainly, those clowns who studied at the clown college and competed against other would-be clowns had this singular goal in mind: they must have WANTED to arrive in the circus. They must still experience the thrill of riding around the ring on an elephant or performing feats of strength and balance upon a horse, or while hanging from the ceiling. If not, then what? Is the circus a relic? It is a nostalgic remnant of times past? Are we just Wall-E-esque consumers lined up to buy overpriced sno cones and watch the circus like a tv show, idly wishing we would change the channel, if only there were a remote control?

Memory Loss

An all time first: S fell asleep on the sofa last night while the rest of us were hanging out. By himself. At 6 something. No, no, no--you don't understand--he fell asleep. By himself. Early. Before he even made it to bed. The child who "just doesn't like to sleep." My night owl.
At first, I was worried. I was thinking cold, swine flu, sudden onset death. But no, as it turns out, four hours of swimming, two hours of running around like a monkey, and a crappy previous night's sleep will actually result in an S so tired that he will put himself to sleep.
Amazing.
I carried him up to his bed, tucked him in and was completely struck by how simply beautiful he looked. His little lips were just slightly apart and his little freckles looked so cheerful on his cheeks. Feeling thus inspired by the wonder of a child, I went into E's room: nope. Still awake. And talking. No magic there.
It wasn't until my bedtime that I could go into E's room and see his simple beauty. He sleeps with limbs flailed out as though he's parachuting in his dreams. His long eyelashes brushed his cheeks, and the gape of his missing tooth could just barely be seen between his perfect lips.
Much like there are chemical processes in the brain that help to conceal the agony of childbirth from our memories, there are processes that allow us to appreciate our children in rare moments of sleep or silence and forget how completely obnoxious they are to be around nearly all the time they're awake.
I know, I know. It's mean to say they're obnoxious. It's only partially true: if I could be with each of my children separately, and alone, I would enjoy it. Each one is funny, clever, curious, bright, and wonderful. Put them together, and it's like a territorial battle to the death a la Discovery Channel. Together, they spend a day locked in endless struggles of "am not, are too" and "not me, he did it." Not to mention the chronic complaint of the child: "it's not fair." Only at night when they are sleeping, or if I sneak into their rooms and spy on them as they read intently, or are absorbed in play can I see that sweetness, that near angelic perfection of childhood. Instantly, I can forget the irritations of the day, and I sincerely wish that I could freeze each of them at this ideal moment in time.
Unfortunately, as parents, we don't get to see those moments often. When my kids are quiet, I usually run in the opposite direction: why question silence? I hardly ever check on them in their sleep, as they have laid landmines of Hot Wheels and Bakugans that result in calamitous noise and god forbid I wake them. When they are playing nicely, I usually thank the powers that be and promptly make a cocktail. Because the little spawns of evil are likely to rear their nasty heads at any moment and I had better be prepared.

I Want My Kids' Life

My dad used to say that if there is reincarnation, he wants to come back to life as his kids. I never understood what he meant. I mean, we were sometimes in trouble, we had to clean our rooms, we had to eat broccoli and stroganoff (sometimes at the same meal!)--who would want THAT life?
Now, as a parent, I get it. And I want to be reincarnated as my kids. This week, I am introducing myself as Julie, the Cruise Director from the Love Boat. The most immediate similarity between me and Julie, the Cruise Director from the Love Boat, is that I am always ready to avail myself of the services of Isaac, the Bartender. But on a deeper level, I am coordinating my kids' week like they were paying for an all-inclusive cruise to Puerto Vallarta. Today, they went to summer camp and had swim lessons. Tomorrow, they are going to luncheon at a restaurant of their choosing and see the movie Up! and then have swim lessons. Tuesday afternoon, E's best friend will be coming to the house for a sleepover and swim lessons, and Wednesday, he'll stay here to play with my boys. Thursday, S's beloved girlfriends come over to play, and Friday more friends come over to play. I am the personal assistant and activity planner for the youngest socialites since Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen.
I bought s'mores ingredients and a tent for an at-home camp out. My kids don't even have time to be bored! On the one hand, it's easier to have them on the go with their friends than it is to sit inside at home with them. But, on the other, it takes a lot of energy to coordinate, schedule, and pay for every summer activity known to man.
But it's all good, because their daily signs of gratitude make every second worth while. Oh, no wait....

An Open Letter Regarding Facebook

When I joined FB, it was really to keep in touch with people--not to find old flames, check up on old classmates, or really 'rediscover' anyone. I did it to communicate with the same people I email, by and large, only more often.
So, this weekend, I exchanged emails with a friend from Chicago. I tried to persuade her to join FB, and she declined, insisting on her "dinosaur" ways. This is the email I sent her, slightly edited, to convince her to join. I have converted it to an open letter to my friends and family to join FB to keep in touch:
Dear Friends,
The thing about FB is this. Yes, it is a gigantic time suck. Guilty guilty guilty. I mean the other day, I actually invested time to take the quiz to see which totally awesome animated film character I am (Edna from The Incredibles) and making lists (5 things which everyone seems to like that I don't: anorexic girls, Hollywood remakes, winter, televised high speed chases, and American Idol)
But, I NEVER spend time looking for old friends, because if they want me they can come and find me.(Good luck spelling my married name, losers from high school!) and I get short, brief updates every day from people, like a 5 minute conversation while dropping the kids off at school. It's more natural than having to remember everything I've done for the last 6 months, condense it into letter/email and sending it off. Like, for example, MC (who I NEVER see or talk to unless college friends are getting married) has a massive nesting instinct at the start of her third trimester. And that's cute. I feel involved. It's also voyeuristic--I know NOTHING about another friend, LSJ, except that 1. her wedding pictures were gorgeous and 2. she just joined a Professional Women's Group on FB. So. There ya go. I always have photos on my page, for one thing. You can also find critical information about me revealed through quizes: which zoo animals do I like? I know you're wondering. The answer is Okapis--find out why on my FB page...., my favorite smells: plumeria, beach smell, bleach...You can also find non-essential information like what my hippie name is, or what my birthdate reveals about me, what character from The Office I am like.
Also, don't you dare join Twitter. I will not read something, no matter how profound, if it is called a tweet.
Love,
J

No Thru Traffic

One of our friends, JJ, once told us this story about his family which has generated a catch phrase in our house. I'll retell it now, but I'm really not doing it justice. If you see JJ in Chicago, ask him to tell you this story--you'll be howling.
JJ's mother is a very proper, conservative woman. She was driving and JJ was in the car (he was already an adult, or nearly so). She merged on to a crowded, multi-lane highway from the far left. Upon merging, she realized that her exit was on the far right, but only a short distance away. As cars whizzed past, she of the trim gray hair and glasses, she of the tentative merging tactics, yells out, "we're dooooooomed!"
OK, it totally sucks in the retelling. JJ does it so much better with his pacing and imitation of his mother.
ANYhoodles. I looked at the calendar this morning to get an idea of the week ahead and realized that holy crap! it's the end of May! I am feeling a little like JJ's mom--in the fast lane, and speeding by exits.
Usually, I employ this forum to complain about how slow time is passing by. And true, on a day to day basis, the clock crawls. But this year is FLYING by. Just MetaphoricYesterday, I was looking forward to a trip to Toronto. And then complaining about our catastrophic trip to Montreal. And psyched for S's birthday. And dreading the end of school. And now, it's May. My birthday came and went. M's is coming up. Time is flying by. It's also possible that it's accelerating. That we're getting older faster. I will have a child in "real school" in the fall.
Looking ahead to this summer, it's only a few days until M's Dad comes for a visit, and then we're going to the beach for a few days, and then SoCal to visit my folks and then--poof!--that's it. Summer's gone.
But on a bigger scale, my baby S is growing up. I confess, I infantilize him more than I ever did E because I know he is my last baby. And buh-lee-heeve me, I would not want another for any amount of money. But he is so sweet at this age. The boys have two little ARR-TOO-DEE-TOO units from Star Wars. They're cute robots. Anyway, they have some sort of learning built into their computers and yesterday afternoon, they were both on and talking to each other. S thought it was cute, and last night, I walked into the den to find the units together, their little robot arms intertwined around a juice box. S thought they might be thirsty together. It was bittersweet, of course because he's old enough for the ARR-TOO, but young enough to make them a pretend picnic. And soon he will be in "real school" and then he and E will be grown and I will be old (ish) and then we will all die. (What? It's true.)
I try to soak up these moments of cuteness, to preserve them for times when I'm tempted to throttle the boys, and it's hard. I do cherish them, and there is not a night that goes by that I don't think I have the sweetest, cutest, most wonderful children on the planet (sorry, friends. It's true.) And part of me wants every day to creep by so I may savor every second. The other part, naturally, wonders why it isn't cocktail hour yet for God's sake.
But for whatever reasons, today, looking at that calendar, I felt I was going 70, turn signal flashin', nobody yielding. On a grand level, I hate to say it, but we're doomed.

Little People

Sometimes it's hard to think of your children as independent creatures. Creatures with preferences, self-tuning biological clocks, creatures who form meaningful bonds and relationships with other small creatures.
I don't know why it's so easy to minimize your children's existential "being." Perhaps it's because we so painfully bear the responsibilities for their actions at this age (yes, that is the avalanche of applesauce jars that we started,) or because we feel so "in charge" of them. And, realistically, we are in charge. We dictate where they go, how they get there, what activities they participate in, where they go to school, and even what they wear. (I have previously documented my boys' style preference for hobo chic. But despite their own flair, they are choosing outfits based on clothes I bought for them.) Occasionally, we see our children from a different perspective, and a particular gesture or expression, or something reminds us that they are themselves. Miniature people, developing their own personalities. Shockingly, they may develop personalities that despite our best love and parenting are not compatible with our own. Weird to think that my boys, completely immersed in the things that M and I enjoy most (except for freakin' Disney Crap Live); completely immersed in our lives may not ever feel connected to those things.
Today, S's best friends in the world, his three girlfriends from school, came over to swim. He asked me every ten minutes if his friends were here yet. He was so excited that they were coming over--they weren't his brother's friend's siblings or anything; his very own best friends were coming to HIS house. He asked if we could go to Target to get the girls toys they might enjoy more than his Hot Wheels. He asked if we had snacks they all liked. He even asked if we had gotten rid of the peanut butter cookies Grandma had baked because of one friend's severe peanut allergy. I mean, this kid was on it--he was ready to be the host.
This whole preparation surprised me a bit. For one thing, he was incredibly thoughtful and accommodating to other people's needs and wants. For another, it was very well thought out. He had clearly been mulling these things over. Who knew?
Then, when the girls got here, he was so pleased. He brought the girls juice. He wanted to put the dog away when Clooney scared one of his friends.
It's not like he was perfectly behaved or anything: he didn't morph into Alex P. Keaton, uptight kid extraordinaire. He just was keenly aware of other people.
I know it's not in kids' natures to be aware of their parents' needs. Or wants. Or desperate desire to sleep past 6 AM. But I didn't even know they had the capacity to tend to other people in that way. It was sweet, and thoughtful, and made me look at S in a whole new light. And I understood why he and his three girlfriends are such good friends--they all treat each other like that. And in their own little way, are in a very grown up relationship. One that doesn't involve me at all--his own little independent friends.

Movies and Volcanoes

The other night, Sam announced out of nowhere that, "love is like lava." We could not get him to elaborate, and I do not know if he meant that love is metaphorically like lava or if love and lava are similar words. Regardless, I am thinking it is a profound statement for a four year old. He is either right on with his phonetic skills or he is a big thinker/Pele worshipper.
I believe his metaphor is apt. Love, especially the love for a child is like lava. Explosive and ferocious. Slow and mushy. White hot. The foundation on which he will build everything else for his entire life. Unpredictable. All over the place. The Hawaiians have like 20 words for lava--all the different textures, viscosities, temperaments are differently labeled. The more intimately you live with something, the more specifically you identify it.
But anyway, back to love. M picked movies for this weekend. Let me preface the rest of the story by saying I know NOTHING about movies. I do not like trailers, movie theaters, movie theater popcorn, previews, art films, horror, or drama. I do not read about movies, I do not want to know about them. I haven't seen the "100 Movies You Must See." I am the customer Netflix loves--I keep movies for weeks because M thinks we "should see" something and then it arrives and I put it off and put it off until finally he watches it alone or sends it back unviewed. I really hate movies that are about wrongful imprisonment, movies with dramatic irony, or movies in which bad things happen to children. I find them too emotionally draining to watch.
So, knowing that about me, let me say that M picked Slumdog Millionaire to watch. I knew nothing about it except that the red carpet fashions for the cast were exciting at the Oscars. (I watch the red carpet stuff--I love celebrity fashion failures.) He said it would be "light" and "fun." It was chock full of bad things happening to children, wrongful imprisonment and dramatic irony. I cried and cried. And then I went upstairs and crawled into my kids' beds and loved on them as they slept and cried some more.
THEN we went to see Disney's Earth. Humans suck. Global warming sucks. Climate change sucks. Dying polar bears SUCK. I cried and cried and hugged my kids and cried some more.
Needless to say, next week we are going to watch Harold and Kumar and maybe Roman Holiday. Enough with this gritty realism.
But back to lava. Those movies drew up in me that primitive love that I have for my kids. That ferocious protect-them-from-all-pain-and-suffering, that desire to make the world safe for them. It draws up the slow moments of tenderness that will not last much longer as they age. The evils of the world are dwarfed when I realize how fiercely I would fight them to protect my babies. All those words we have for the love of our children--tenderness, adoration, spoiling, affection, cherishing, devotion--I thought of them all as they slept in their giant beds enveloped in the childhood scent of sleep. The more intimately we live with some one, the more intensely we feel for them, the more specific our language is to describe them.
Love IS lava.

Chumming and Other Spectator Sports

What the hell happened to Thursday? I was home, running, cleaning, showering. Then I was eating lunch. Then, I picked up S at school, and got sucked into the Twilight Zone. I mean it was 1 PM when I walked out the door with him. It is now 4:05. What the hell happened to Thursday? Did I ask that already? Was that a minute ago?
I wish the Internet were my time suck. It seems there are many interesting things I could be learning about...destruction from Gustav, VP candidate in a bikini, destruction from Hanna, VP candidate in the nude, destruction from Ike, VP candidate's pregnant daughter, destruction from Josephine, VP candidate calling play-by-play at her last job (she was a sportscaster before politics.) The world is filled with such endless variety of information. Ms. Palin seems to be chum in the ocean. I'm filming for Shark Week. Watching people skewer her is not nearly as eye popping, though, as watching people defend her so vehemently. I can't look away.
M's cousin's wife has been in labor for 36 hours (don't worry, there's a common thread, here people. Stick with me). Eventually, when the baby gets here, that poor thing is going to hear about how her mom struggled to bring her into the world for the rest of her life. Amusingly, though, M's cousin and his wife are rookie parents. Much like the political chumming of Ms. Palin, I feel like new parents are also lay bare as bait to the newborn infant. Instead of sharks, though, I prefer the zebra/lion analogy. Poor parents-zebras, weary from pregnancy and delivery, tired of grazing the Serengeti of maternity wear, fatigued from heartburn and being kicked in the ribs are just walking steaks to a newborn-lion. The newborn lion, gestating, healthy, full of lung and empty of food are just waiting to pop out and attack. Food, poop, midnight madness, all the ways of the lion to wear down the exhausted zebra until finally, poor parent-zebra winds up as a rug in the foyer....with baby spit up on it.
And we veteran parents, we have seen the weak in the herd fall. And now, we can sit back in wisdom and wry smiles as these eager rookies break into parenthood armed with boob maxi pads and pumps, million-pocketed diaper bags, and all the newfangled gadgets that every parent doesn't need. Experience has made me wiser, yes. But mostly it's made me kind of a bitch. So, sit back, turn on the TV, and savor all the tortures you are not now enduring.
Tally-ho!

Three Day Weekends...When did I stop liking them?

In my naive, pre-child bearing days, I always thought that Labor Day was a holiday named in the great Democratic tradition of protective unions, worker reform, and the common man. I thought it was a day in honor of labor--a day designated to let laborers rest.
As with all my pre-child ideas--including Mother's Day being a day of rest for moms, family vacations being, you know, vacations, and bathrooms being a haven of privacy--this, too has been dispelled.
Labor Day is thus named, because it is another freaking day of labor! More laundry, more meals at home, and this particular Labor Day, another day of being rained in. My best efforts at having an indoor fun day were sapped yesterday. I have fantasies of turning on the TV for 8 hours and then putting the kids to bed. But of course, we have satellite TV. Gustav is blocking my reception. Damn you, Gustav! We have rented some movies, and I planned on doling those out for meritorious behavior. Still waiting for the good behavior. But may dole out the movies anyway.
I am cranky and crampy, and hoping the storm continues to be an inconvenience in our area rather than the menace it represents for New Orleans. If things continue on the path they are on, school should resume tomorrow for the kids, work has already been canceled for M and he and I can enjoy a leisurely, coffee-filled morning together.
I look to the week ahead and see normal school days and reasonable after school-activities. Relief in the familiarity of routine. Relief in the steady pattern of silence and noise, contented playtime and arguing, chaos and quiet. These are the days of fall school years.
I am ready for those days to resume.
Rain, rain, go away....

Do you HEAR that?

It's nothing. Silence. Merely the clickety clack of my keyboard. My children are at school. My husband is at work. The dog is sleeping. The rain pours down, providing a perfect white noise on the roof.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

The Final Weekend

Well, this is it. Weeks of summer that seemed to inch by now seem gone in a blink. The last weekend of summer.
I remember the ambivalence of this weekend as a kid. Eager to go back to school (I was a nerd, hence blogging. Big surprise.) I wanted to see my friends, I longed for the organized, crisp new boxes of markers and pens. I always had a clean, new bookbag and clothes. I would gather and regather the new supplies. Pack them in the bag, set it by the door and carefully plan the first day's outfit.
Of course, it was the end of summer. Our summers were great as kids. We vacationed--usually a road trip plus a long stay at the beach--we were tanned and blond (with green highlights from the pool). Our little feet were practically raw from days jumping and playing in the gunnite pool. The house was cool, the outside was hot, and my sister and I had free reign over the outside kingdom of our house. Dad grilled, mom relaxed, and the sun still hadn't set by the time we collapsed in our beds. Summer was incredible.
Now, of course, I see summer from an entirely different perspective, in a different place. Here, it's unholy hot during the days. My kids still play outside, but it's a play dulled by the heat and the humidity here in the south. They've adopted the lazy pace of the south as dictated by the weather. They play in the pool. We have a vinyl pool now, and their little feet still have the calluses of running barefoot. We grill, I hope I relax the rules, and my kids are brown little bears. I have restocked E's school supplies. He has a new bookbag, clean and crisp. He has beautiful new clothes, a proper haircut, and trimmed and clean fingernails. He has lost the wildness of summer, and has been reclaimed for a civilized life. His first year of Kindergarten. "Real" school. He's apprehensive about making friends, but he always has a bunch after the first week. He's eager to learn more math, he says. I am eager for him to go. Not only because I am ready for my kids to leave me alone for a few hours a day, but because I want him to enjoy that great first day of school. A place all his own. A cubby or a desk, even a coat hook with his name on it. Dressed in his favorite outfit. Ready to go.
Part of what makes the anticipation of school so sweet is knowing that you had an amazing summer; that it wasn't wasted. I always felt that summer was finished, I had completed it, that I was ready for school. I hope E feels that way. I hope our trips, our movies, our ice cream breaks, our afternoons in the pool make him feel that we somehow did it all. That when you enjoyed yourself to the utmost, school is a welcome change. I hope he goes off with the same freshness and enthusiasm that I had in September.
Though I still have a little ambivalence....a different kind now. But much like the glory of summer must turn to school schedules, so must the glory of my little baby transition to a school aged boy. But, I think we did the preschool years well. We did it all, we enjoyed ourselves to the utmost, and school is the next step. I think I'm ready, too.

Going Down with the Pequod

Look, I don't want to be Chicken Little here, but there is something really wrong with the economy. I mean, there are PROBLEMS, people.
Sure, it costs an arm and a leg to fill up my car. And, yeah, I've noticed the cost of milk and meat among other groceries is up there. But, I think the bellwether of the financial gloom and doom is the closing of my Starbucks.
Starbucks is CLOSED. Cerrado. As in, no more lattes, lady. Mocha is a no-go. Cafe away.
I have an elaborate home coffee ritual, which in my own way is an economic stimulus package. I buy pounds of beans from a plantation on the island of Kauai. They are so freshly roasted, they glisten. Their aroma scents the entire mailbox when they arrive every month per my bean o' the month arrangement (let's not talk about the ridiculous money I spend to do my part to prevent overdevelopment in rural Hawaii). I have a stainless steel burr grinder that produces perfectly measured even grinds for my coffeemaker. The maker itself, timed to lure me from bed, heats water to the ideal temperature for extracting aroma and flavor from the grounds. I add milk and a touch of sugar to my cup and cuddle it in my hands, as though it were fragile. I love my morning coffee. I love the ritual. I love the final result of it. I don't need Starbucks.
Despite this, I am upset about the whole Starbucks thing. First, Starbucks is a good company; they treat their employees well. Second, I have always felt it elevated us a little as Americans. It is drive through (very American) but also chic. It is cooler, more stylish, more refined than McDonald's and every other drive through on every corner in this country. Third, their product isn't instantly palatable--it isn't cloyingly sweet or nauseatingly fatty. In fact, the product is bitter, perhaps even too harshly roasted. But, we of the dumb palettes went anyway! It is undoubtedly a vice, a frivolous luxury of the western world, but it certainly isn't our worst.
Also, it is (sniff. was) a social destination. I could always meet someone at Starbucks. There is something reliable about that.
Everyone always wonders how Starbucks survives. My dad, for one: "People stand in line and spend more than 5 bucks for horrible tasting coffee? What the hell?" But in the face of common sense, Starbucks thrived. And grew. And spread.
But now. Now, when we need the comfort of economic boom more than ever, Starbucks is failing. Apparently, people are too busy standing in line paying 5 bucks a gallon for gas. But, I'll miss it. This will be the second town I've lived in that had no Starbucks. How statistically odd of me. Who knew there WERE two towns without Starbucks? It's gonna be tough. Tighten your belt, pa. There's hard times ahead.

The Past Comes Clicking

I knew it was a gamble, but I thought it was controlled. I thought I weighed the odds, and was comfortable with the possible outcomes.
I was wrong.
Today, I looked in my inbox on Facebook. There it was. A name I hadn't seen, heard, or thought of in at least 10 years. PersonFromHighSchool wants to be my friend. Confirm? Ignore?
The cursor of the mouse went back and forth. Confirm? In fact, I do exist. PFHS as my friend? Can't really speculate. Ignore? The button should say Denial. I deny this person exists. I deny that part of my life exists. I deny admitting that I care.
PFHS. It was a jolt. I mean this person had to have sought me out. My maiden name is not listed. My home town is slightly different than the one most frequently listed.
I GET IT. Creating an identity on FB is, in essence a renouncement of my privacy. It's a way of putting myself out there, in the interwebs. But still, I wanted to communicate with the people I wanted to communicate with, not now-strangers. PFHS undoubtedly has grown and changed. She appears to actually have done quite well for herself (she was very smart, gregarious, and so social). I have grown and changed. I feel secure in life (except for aforementioned internist) and have made good choices. I have a beautiful family and a happy life.
So, what's the deal? I can't finger it. The ambivalent feelings that swirl back to me about PFHS herself? High school in general? Is it more the process by which she found me? Do I feel foolish for being out there? Not being private enough? Ambivalent about being found? Will others find me? Is this the first raindrop in a torrential storm of shadowy now-strangers?
I think it's as though I feel spied upon. Like someone saw my photo, weighed the odds, wondered if I were the same person, new name, thought about what I was doing, wondered if I were the same.
I checked out PFHS's profile. I noticed there were like 8 new friends in her feed, most of whom were from high school. Maybe she went on a Facebook binge last night, looking for people. Maybe she was feeling nostalgic. Maybe the intentions are friendly and not nefarious, as I always suspect.
Maybe this is the chance to grow and change, and not be suspicious and cynical.
The cursor moves to Confirm. I click. I hope for the best.