IslandRoar

Sunset Salutations

Last Night


 

Let me be very clear. Daughter #1, my 18 year-old, is a smart, talented kid who's never been in trouble. But she can be meaner than a wet, feral cat being chased by a dog. At least, to me. On a very regular and ongoing basis.

Okay, the truth is she has the power to make me cry and she is apparently not afraid to use it. Most days the past year, I was not sure which one of us was looking forward to her going away to college more, her or me.

I know what you're thinking: how can she write this stuff about her own kid? Believe me this is not a secret. D #1 would be the first to confess that, when it comes to her mother, me, she's a tough nut to crack.

But sometimes she surprises even me.

On her last night home, the planets aligned. Her father was on-island and her brother had the night off. I'd told her the whole family would go out for dinner in her honor. Anywhere she wanted.

She chose Menemsha.

Menemsha is a tiny fishing village way up-island. There is also a beach, and in the summer people gather there nightly to witness the spectacular sunsets. They barbecue or bring champagne and lobster, and after the sun has completed its finale, they applaud.

Many locals avoid the spot like the plague, but others, myself included, try and get up there at least once each summer. Several years ago, when the kids were younger and still under my control, a group of us moms would meet there for dinner on Friday nights. Our kids would catch crabs and swim, and we'd sit, bundled in sweatshirts, sipping pina coladas, sharing stories till the sun set.

Yet unless we have house guests to entertain, I hadn't done a sunset at Menemsha in a very long time. I wasn't sure how I felt about driving all the way up there and facing the August, Obama-induced crowds of tourists.

But the air was mild and, maybe because it was a Monday, the crowds were few. We got burgers and chowder at our favorite old places. I forced the kids to pose together for pictures, like tourists, with the sun setting over the ocean behind them. First-Born Son splashed and chased and tortured his sisters, and they banded together to get back at him.

I knew this was the last time we would all be together until Thanksgiving.

Daughter #1 turned to me at one point, smiling, and said, "This was a good idea I had, huh?"

She discovered a heart-shaped rock in the surf and handed it to me for my collection.

Then she found a second one. "I think I'll keep this one myself," she said. "To remember the island. And tonight."

I knew I wouldn't need a rock to remember. This night was going to stay with me for a long, long time.

Gotta Have Faith

Car Trouble

My son's car died the other day.

My ex is in charge of cars. Changing the oil, patching tires, replacing worn brakes, and pretty much any repairs required. This skill alone makes it worth maintaining an amicable relationship with him.

He once removed the entire dashboard on my Expedition to fix the air conditioning, doing the whole job in one weekend with only two miscellaneous screws left over when he was finished.

But this time he couldn't figure out the problem. First he replaced the battery. Nope. Next, the alternator. Nuh-uh. Then he thinks it's the starter, but he's afraid it's way over his head.

The next thing I know, he returns from a nearby gas station with a strange man who is out in my driveway, poking his head under the hood of First-Born Son's Corolla.

I gesture furiously for my ex to come inside. "Who the hell is that?"

"That's 'Joe.' I met him at the gas station." He looks so proud of himself. "He's gonna fix the car for fifty bucks."

"Are you freaking kidding me?"

"Oh, I forgot." His face darkens. "You don't trust anything I do."

Well, duh...

Let me be more specific. I do trust him when it comes to car skills and, thankfully, his business skills at work. But his people skills? Not so much.

One time, when he was driving the very first car F-B Son ever had, and it died and he needed it towed, he wound up buying a huge, old black Lincoln  from the guy that towed him.

Which maybe wasn't so bad in itself, except that the car was a broken, gas-leaking clunker that only lasted a few months (not to mention that my son's friends labeled it his "pimp-mobile," and driving it was like flashing a neon sign, asking to be pulled over by every Vineyard cop).

AND the tow guy he bought it from, whom he had sitting in my kitchen, turned out to be a known heroin junkie on the island.

AND he gave this same junkie one-hundred dollars cash to tow the Lincoln off-island when it finally died for good. But of course the guy took the money and we never saw him again.

This is a man who handles million dollar deals at his job. Go figure.

So excuse me if I'm not gung-ho on him bringing home another stray to solve my latest car problem.

But who listens to me?

Anyway, now we have a new starter, installed by "Joe," and a car that appears to be working.

"See," the ex declared triumphantly. "You've gotta have a little faith in me."

A little faith in him? Been there, done that.

I'll take a rain-check on the faith for now. Talk to me in two weeks, if the car's still running.

Beach Etiquette

Has this, or anything like it, ever happened to you?

It was late afternoon. We were enjoying a wonderful couple of hours at the beach. Like everyone I know, I've had a crazy-busy summer, so these moments sprawled in my chair on the sand were definitely precious and few.

Until a family traipsed over and parked their coolers, chairs, and blankets practically on top of us.

Now understand, it was after 4 o'clock. The beach was emptying out, parents whisking their little ones off for baths and dinner. There were endless wide open expanses of space on which to set up camp.

Daughter #2 raised her eyebrows at me and mouthed the word, "Tourists."

But I refuse to believe that just because a person is a tourist, they are unaware of basic beach etiquette.

I grew up going to Jones Beach in New York with my parents, or the Jersey shore. It was always crowded, blankets laid so close together that sometimes we had to walk single file, one foot carefully placed in front of the other, as we navigated our way to the water, making every effort not to kick sand onto any blankets or sunbathers along the way.

It's not like that on the Vineyard. Even on the rare occasion when the beaches fill up, there is still room for a respectable distance between encampments.

But these folks seemed oblivious. The kids ran off toward the water and the adults settled into their chairs. I could've reached out with my foot and touched the grandpa, who turned, making no attempt at discretion as he eyed us curiously.

There was a sudden tell-tale ripple of noise.

"That wasn't my knees," Gramps announced loudly. His family burst into hysterical belly laughs.

"Let's move," Daughter #2 whispered.

"We'll see," I said.

After all, I didn't want to be rude.

Spin Cycle: Mottos

In 5th grade my sister had Mr. Hartman, who had the curious distinction, besides of being a male grade school teacher, of having his class recite the Golden Rule every day.

Each morning after the Pledge of Allegiance, they could be heard up and down the hallway: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

What a great teacher, I thought. What great words. I wanted to be in his class when I got to 5th grade more than anything.

Instead, I got "Old Lady Lockwood" who was about 107 and yelled all the time and made us play kick-ball at recess instead of jump rope and licked her fingers before passing back stacks of papers so that the first few pages were always stained with her saliva which seriously made me feel like I was going to vomit.

I could hear my fellow 5th graders down the hall repeating those magic word every morning: Do unto others...

Did they have any idea how lucky they were to have a teacher with such an altruistic outlook on life? I aspired to live up to that motto, despite the daily drudgery I'd been sentenced to by 5th grade.

Then, in 9th grade, a friend turned me onto the "old" music of the Beatles. John, with his quirky wife, deep lyrics, and piercing screeches, quickly became my favorite. Followed by Paul with his puppy dog eyes.

The first time I heard the words "And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make ," I was sure I was hearing the true and secret meaning of life.

Now I look back and think Mr. Hartman could've just as easily had his 5th graders recite that line of lyrics each morning in place of the Golden Rule.

Because really, they both pretty much mean the same thing. And they're both, pretty much, a good way to approach life, wouldn't you say?

Number Patterns

Happy Birthday To Me

I turned 48 last week.

I'm not really into math, but I do have a thing for cool patterns with numbers. Especially when it comes to ages.

The twin double-digit ages (11, 22, 33, 44, etc) are fun in a bittersweet sort of way. Even if we live to be 100, there are still only nine of them.

How about if you could live to a triplet triple-digit age, like 111? Only, I think, if I could be aware enough to recognize the occasion. And healthy enough to eat cake.

I didn't realize until recently that 48 is the last age in another pattern: the second digit is twice the first. Only 12, 24, 36, and 48 meet this pattern.

But , if all goes well and I live to a ripe old age, I can still look forward to a couple of ages with the opposite pattern: where the first digit is twice the second, as in 21, 42, 63, and 84.

Ages marking the start of a new decade are always pretty loaded. Everyone talks about the trauma of turning 30, 40, 50, or 60. But I've actually embraced those I've experienced so far, except, that is, for 20. Somehow, no longer being a teenager was far more upsetting to me at the time than turning 30 was or turning 50 could possibly ever be.

Okay, so by now you're either bored out of your mind or you think I'm sort of obsessive-compulsive about numbers. Maybe a little.

Do any of you ever pick up on patterns in numbers, in ages or anything else? What ages have been markers in your lives? Are there any you faced with dread?

Remember the Clairol commercial years ago that said, "You're not getting older; you're getting better?" Some days I feel it's true.

And other days? Well, then I just feel my age.


I'll be away three days this week, off-island bringing Daughter #1 to college. I'll still be posting, but I'm not sure what the internet situation will be where I'm staying.  So if you don't hear from me, I'm still around and I'll be back on Friday. Wish me luck...

My Amniotic Pool

Floating Away


 

I never wanted to own a pool.

I love to swim, but I preferred to do it in a pond or swim club, or someone else's pool. I assumed it would be way too much trouble to keep up.

But when we bought this house it had a pool. Built in, enclosed by an ugly, graying wooden fence almost six feet high.

Well, I thought, I guess I'll learn to deal with a pool.

It's turned out to be the best thing. When the kids were younger, they were in and out of it all day long. Even after a day at the beach, we still like to jump in the pool.

But it's only the last few years that I've learned to indulge in my favorite backyard pool activity: floating.

Yes, that's right. Floating.

There's nothing like coming home from a long day at work, putting on my suit, and climbing onto my floating lounge, complete with backrest and drink holder.

Sometimes I read or write, but mainly I lean back, trailing my hands and feet in the cool water. I shut my eyes, losing all track of time as the raft is pushed about by the breeze, bobbing off the sides of the pool, the sun warm on my skin.

Occasionally I load up my drink holder  with a cold beer (what? you thought I was more sophisticated? that maybe I'd be sipping a fine wine as I drifted about the pool?). I'm not usually a beer dinker, but there's something about an icy cold Coors Light on a hot summer day that is extremely satisfying.

Perhaps it has something to do with the whole return-to-the-womb phenomenon. The floating, I mean, not the beer. I'm nearly 100 percent sure there was no beer involved in my prenatal experience.

I'm always grateful for the shelter of the ugly weathered fence. You see, I like to float in private.

Maybe I don't want anyone to see me indulging in such decadence. Or maybe I just don't like to share.

Seen The Glory

This Week's Spin: Books

This week we're supposed to write about books we love. One of my favorite writers happens to be a very good friend of mine, as well as a mentor: John Hough, Jr.

He lives on the Vineyard, where his roots go back a long time. He makes his living at his craft, not always an easy thing. John's had many books publilshed over the years, most of them novels.

His latest book, Seen the Glory: A Novel of the Battle of Gettysburg, came out on June 30th.  I wanted to write about it then, but I hesitated to use this space for any type of review. But when Jen made books the topic for this week's Spin, I could resist no longer.

I love this book. It is a meticulously researched and accurate portrayal of the Civil War battle, but it is so much more than that.

It's the story of  Luke and Thomas Chandler, idealistic brothers raised as abolitionists from Martha's Vineyard, who enlist in the Union Army. It is a love story between one of the brothers and Rose, their Cape Verdean housekeeper whom both brothers have been secretly in love with for years.

John allowed me to read the galley before the book came out, and I pored through its pages, anxious  to find out the ending for these characters I had come to care about deeply.

If you love coming-of-age stories, love stories, or historical fiction, you must read this novel. I've enjoyed everything John's ever written, but this book is easily my favorite.

It was one of those rare, wonderful times when I was really sorry to reach the end of a book, because I didn't want to let go of these characters or their story. You should definitely check it out.


To read about other people's favorite books, check out the other Spins at Sprite's Keeper.

Warning: This Post Contains Nudity!

Flaunting It

When I was 22 I walked in on my parents "doing it." You notice I wrote "doing it" instead of "having sex," because I cannot write the words "my parents" and "having sex" in the same sentence without believing I will go straight to Hell when I die.

Why bring this up now? Not, as you might think, because one of my children walked in on me having sex. I don't have sex, remember? I am a single woman, currently not dating anyone. Not that dating someone would imply that I might then be having sex (do you hear that, Daughter #2, she who is such a faithful reader of this blog?).

No. What happened is this: one of my children had the bad luck to see me naked last week. I won't say which one, just that it was the only one who would probably rather enter the priesthood than see his mother in the buff.

It's not even like he walked in on me. No, I was parading my saggy middle-aged-mama booty in the middle of the day for all to see. To be fair, I thought he was at work, and it was the upstairs hallway.

I had just removed my bathing suit and had the pressing need to go down the hall to ask Daughter #1 a question. My daughters and I have the very open, and obviously now questionable, habit of walking into one another's rooms, talking, as we get changed.

Until last week, nobody had ever been harmed. But as I returned from Daughter #1's room to my own, there he was, coming up the stairs. He instantly turned away. I screamed and ran into my room, where I immediately burst out laughing.

Maybe that was cruel and insensitive of me, but what was I supposed to do, cry? And come on, let's face it, it's funny. I mean, it's not like I woke up that morning saying, "What should I do today? Hey, I know, I'll make my child wish he'd been born blind!"

Besides, it'll make a great family story. One day. Either that, or, more likely, we'll never speak of it again.

When I finally stopped laughing, I cracked open my door. "I'm so sorry." But he was nowhere to be seen. "Are you traumatized?"

"For life," he yelled loudly, from somewhere behind closed doors.

He doesn't realize. It could've been worse. Much worse. After all, I may have been naked, but at least I was alone.

Miss Manners

Mole Person

My son had a friend from school staying with us for a week this summer. We called him the Mole Person.

Now let me state out front, he is a perfectly nice boy. He's younger than my son, who started college late. So I expected he'd be a little less mature. I know he's been well brought up; his mom called three times to touch base and express her appreciation. And he bought me a little candle before he left to thank me. So I will not judge him for life based on this one experience.

But the thing is, he spent most of the week in his basement room, while my son was at work. He'd emerge around 4, and then tell me he'd been up a while, on his computer or watching TV.

I think guests have obligations the same as hosts do. And I don't believe being a mole person, submerged in my perfectly nice, finished, but practically-windowless basement family room, qualifies as acceptable guest behavior.

"But he doesn't know you." First-Born Son tried to defend him.

"Then come upstairs and get to know us," I insisted.

Here's a clue: If you don't think your mother will approve of your behavior, it's a pretty good sign it doesn't pass muster.

I'm sure his mother would be horrified if she found out. And I think he knows it.

My son is hoping that he and Mole Person will rent an apartment in Manhattan for the upcoming school year. If it works out, I guess it'll be fine with me.

*Sigh.*

But what does one get a mole person as a housewarming gift? Curtains? A blindfold maybe?

Believe me, I won't waste my time worrying about it.

Roommates

Twice as Nice

Daughter #1 has finally received notice of who her roommate will be for freshman year of college. Or rather, roommates.

She has two. Apparently there are three triples on each floor of the dorm, and she's been assigned to one. That's okay. On line, the triples look quite a bit larger. And D#1 is somewhat on the shy side, so two roommates will give her twice the opportunity to make a friend.

The funny thing is both of the roommates are named Margaret. Now what are the odds of that?

Within 24 hours, she'd learned on Facebook that neither of them go by Margaret, but that didn't matter. For the rest of the year I will be referring to them as "The Margarets."

I can be annoying that way. It's genetic, I think. My family has always been great with the nicknames. My sister and I once gave the whole high school basketball team secret nicknames while we watched a game, and we stuck to them all season.

"The Margarets" is just too good to pass up. Even D#1 thought it sounded like a bad sit-com. For me it was more like something out of a novel, maybe The Catcher in the Rye. Holden Caulfield would so definitely be dating a girl who had two roommates named Margaret.

So how do I know I won't slip up and call them "The Margarets" when I meet them? Believe me, after years of secretly nicknaming, one develops a certain stealth.

My ex had a girlfriend that I called "Betty" behind her back (for reasons better left unsaid, but trust me, there was no maliciousness involved), and only once in the two-and-a-half years he dated her did I ever come close to screwing up and calling her "Betty" to her face.

Okay, it's true, I didn't see her that often because, after all, I wasn't the one dating her, and my ex doesn't make a habit of bringing his dates by on a regular basis. But still.

I'm betting The Margarets are decent girls. The kind that don't drink to excess or bring a different guy home every night. At least, that's what I'm hoping.

Or else I'm going to start calling them something else besides "The Margarets," and you can bet it won't be half as nice.

The Way They Were

My Parents

My parents, who live in Florida, are in their mid to late 70's. We see them once a year, twice if we're lucky. That saddens me; I would be heartbroken if I only saw my children  or grandchildren once a year.

When they come to visit there's not a lot of interaction with my kids. They sit and watch TV. Lots of it. Which is ironic, because the television was seldom on in our house growing up, except for a couple of hours at night.

But a funny thing happened when we took our family trip back to NJ last month for my high school reunion. I insisted on taking a little drive-through tour around the town where I grew up. Imprisoned in the car, my kids were force-fed my nostalgic ruminations as we drove by the house I grew up in, the schools I went to, the swim club where I was on swim team.

"Why did you belong to a swim club?" Daughter #1 asked. "Didn't your town have a pool?"

"No," I explained. "My parents and several other families tried to get one built, but the town voted against it. So your grandfather and a few others, got together and created this swim club."

"Grandpa did that?" My kids seemed surprised.

When we drove past my old house, it was hard to miss how narrow the street was. I remembered that cars used to park on both sides, making it difficult for drivers to see kids and animals that might dart out into the road.

After a child got hit by a car, my mother joined with several parents and drew up a petition to change the parking laws on our block to one side. They went door to door and then presented their proposal to the town council, where the new parking rule was voted on and passed.

First-Born Son looked skeptical. "That doesn't sound like Grandma." They were having a hard time matching up the grandparents they knew to this vision of the ones I'd just described.

It startled me as well. I'd forgotten how involved and active my parents had been when they were younger. And while it helped explain some of my present-day frustration with them, it also allows me to back off a little and give them a break.

I don't have to like everything about the way they live their lives. And I'm free to make other choices with my own. But I need to remember: my mother is still the same woman who, when we were at the beach as kids, would take lost crying little children by the hand, and walk them around the crowded array of beach blankets until we found their parents.

And my father is the same guy who, after a long day at work in Manhattan, went to seminars at the high school, once so he could learn and then help us with the "new math," and another time to educate himself on the dangers of the drugs that his daughters might possibly be exposed to, as we headed into adolescence.

They've done their time. They deserve to live their retirement years in whatever way works for them. Whether I like it or not.

Spin Cycle

For this week's Spin we're supposed to re-run our least favorite post. I'm new at this, and I only have three month's  worth of posts, but I could have picked from a few. I chose this one because nobody commented on it. I think I may have come off as a prude. I almost hate to run it again, but here goes...

Read it quickly and then run on over to Sprite's Keeper and see what posts other people may not have wanted you to see again.

The "D" Word

Can someone please explain to me what the deal is with the sudden explosion of the word "douche" on family television? When did it go from the kind of word I wouldn't want to hear my kids use in the casual company of their friends, let alone in front of adults, to being bandied about on the likes of "Scrubs," "How I Met Your Mother," "90210," "Parks and Recreation," "Lost," and "Greek," just to name several of the ones I've actually witnessed over the past few months alone (can you tell I'm watching TV with adolescent girls?)?

I don't know about you, but when I was young, back in the dark ages when we actually had to get up to change the channel, "douche" and "douche bag" were shocking, soap-in-the-mouth inducing No-No's.

But then, other words were loaded back in the day as well. In seventh grade Angie Beals was suspended from our middle school field hockey team because the coach heard her utter the fateful words, "Hackensack sucks." And when I told my mother what had happened, she self righteously snapped, "Serves her right."

For me it was a lesson well learned. To this day I cringe at the uber-casual way adults and kids alike sling the word "sucks" around. Not that I don't occasionally use it myself, but not before carefully glancing around to make sure no one over the age of 65 is close enough to hear me.

I have a friend, just over 60, who does not approve of the expression "to blow something or someone off." I suppose for him it conjures up a tawdry description of vague and illicit sexual innuendo from his youth. But I use it quite complacently, as in, "You better not blow me off (by not showing up to my party, for example)," or "Come on, blow off work and let's go to the beach," without blinking an eye.

So is the shock value of words guaranteed to fade slowly as one generation ages and another pops up to take its place? Is it a foregone conclusion that one day my (as yet unborn) grandchildren may jump off their teeter-totter and run to greet me exclaiming, "Grandma, we're so F___ing glad to see you; we missed you so F___ing much!"

And I will disapprovingly glare at their parents, my children, who will of course merely laugh and say, "Oh Mom, you're soo old fashioned. Don't be such a douche."

I hope not. But you never know. Because the last thing I expected to see last month, when Daughter #2 and I went to the movies, was baby-blue-eyed, teen heart throb Zach Efron calling another character a "douche bag" in the recently released film "17 Again."

Am I the only one? What words are deal breakers for you? I'd really like to know. So please, leave a comment. I'd really rather you didn't blow me off.

The Power of Willpower

One of last May's New Yorkers had a great article on how the prediction of a person's success may have less to do with their intelligence and more to do with their ability to delay gratification.

An intriguing concept and one that certainly makes sense. The article describes a test done on preschoolers in the 1960's, sticking them alone in a room with a marshmallow, and telling them if they can wait 15 minutes and not eat it, they will be rewarded with two marshmallows.

Apparently, the kids who were able to wait did better years later in school, on their SAT's, and were generally more successful. Perhaps not surprisingly, the ones who had to have that marshmallow NOW got into more trouble and had a harder time with life in general.

Of course, the point here was not that we need to value intelligence less, but maybe more that we need to teach our kids the art of patience and delayed gratification.

I like to think I can delay gratification as well as any cloistered monk. I still do all  my boring chores before I do the fun stuff, and as a kid, I could make my Halloween candy last until Easter.

But there are times, for instance when a fresh, warm loaf of bread is cooling on the stove, that I am incapable of self control of any kind. Just get me a knife and point me to the butter before I use my hands to tear it apart.

I see both of these traits in my own kids. First-Born Son, also known as Mister ADD, has definite issues with delaying gratification. He is smart as hell but rarely bothered with subjects in school that he found boring. As a result, he developed some fairly amazing last minute cramming skills, but he was also labeled, time and again by his teachers, as the classic underachiever.

Daughter #1 is the complete opposite. She would let a mountain of marshmallows sit there all day with the right incentive.

When she was in kindergarten I once watched as a bee landed on her hand and stung her. I was too far away to help, and I recall the exact expression on her face as she turned to her teacher for help, only to find the teacher deep in conversation with another parent. I could see how badly she wanted to cry, but she pushed her shoulders back and held it in.

When finally I reached her, moments later, her stoic demeanor cracked into a million pieces and she burst into tears. But I marveled at her self control.

Years later, she is at the top of her class, heading off to college with a carefully mapped out plan of how she wants her life to be. Now, I am sure life will hand her a few surprises. But do I think patience will never-the-less prove itself to be a mighty virtue? Absolutely.

On the other hand, eternal optimist that I am, I'm fairly confident that we can learn to be more patient as we age, and that First-Born Son shouldn't make any plans to move into a van down by the river just yet.

I have done everything short of selling my organs to send him to the perfect college (for him) to study film, and he knows if he screws this up, not only will my pocketbook close, but I may threaten to move in with him in my old age (or, like some time in the next 5 years).

How long do you think you would have been able to wait for the marshmallow as a little kid?

I like to imagine I would've been rock strong, but that probably has more to do with my indifference to marshmallows than my willpower. If they'd have been using chocolate, it definitely would have been a whole other embarrassing story.

The "Curious" Circle of Life

My baby was Curious George last Friday.

Daughter #2 has been volunteering at the library where I work this summer. So they asked her if she wouldn't mind donning that heavy Curious George costume and making the much publicized appearance.

What a costume it was! First, a big, padded pair of overalls, followed by the brown furry suit. Then George's red sweatshirt with his name emblazoned across the front. The hands and feet were separate pieces, and the head was large, with a helmet inside it and not much visibility. D#2 said she couldn't see half the children who attacked her with hugs and high fives.

I was ready with my camera, and so were most of the parents who showed up with their toddlers and preschoolers in the backyard of the library.

"They're so excited," one parent confessed of her two boys. "It's all they've talked about all morning."

I was not prepared for how adorable the whole thing would be. Multitudes of tiny children throwing themselves at my 15 year-old daughter, hidden behind George's benign smiling face.

Apparently little ones that are afraid of Santa are not intimidated by George. They sat on his lap, patted his head, and felt his fur. In one particularly endearing moment, a blond little boy in a baseball cap offered George his own Curious George stuffed toy that he had brought with him to the event. There was a loud, collective "Aw" from the crowd of parents busily clicking away, taking full advantage of the photo op.

More than one mom and dad claimed they were certain they'd just gotten the perfect photo for that year's Christmas card.

And me? I watched my own little girl playing her role to the nines, making the morning of so many parents and children, and I thought back to when she was that age.

The innocence, the wide-eyed wonder.

"Did they really think I was Curious George?" she asked me later, as I helped her out of the monkey suit.

"Oh, yes," I told her. "They really believed you were."

I think her day was made as well. I know mine sure was.

Patients I Can't Forget

Nancy

Nancy arrived on our pediatric unit a shy, sullen, bone-thin 15 year-old. According to her parents, she'd been coming home from school and lying on the couch for months, saying she did not feel well, and complaining of vague aches and pains. They chalked it up to adolescent moodiness and tried to ignore her, hoping she'd snap out of it.

When that didn't happen, they brought her to the doctor, who ran some tests. The diagnosis was cancer, a tumor in her pelvis that had already metastasized into multiple nearby organs. She was given months, but she lasted almost two years.

Even though she was ill, in many ways Nancy remained a typical teenager. Some days she would hole up in her hospital room, the lights dimmed, buried in a mound of quilts and books, listening to her music and scribbling in her journal, offering only muttered responses to our questions.

Other days she'd "ride" her IV pole up the corridor like it was a skateboard, her head scarf off and bald scalp glowing. She'd visit the younger patients on the unit and talk our ears off as we tried to chart, then race back to her room and proceed with some redecorating project she'd just thought up that instant.

Her parents were older. She had siblings in their 20's. If only they'd taken her to the doctor sooner, some of the nurses whispered.

But I couldn't agree. How could they possibly have known? How often did teenage mood swings mask the symptoms  of cancer? If that were the case, every kid would spend their adolescent years being rushed to the doctor, going through test after test. For nothing.

I didn't have kids when Nancy died. But I've thought of her many times over the years. My kids have to complain an awful lot, and over time, for me to stop and say, okay, maybe there's something specific here we need to rule out or get checked out.

Nancy's cancer was so far along that the odds are it would have made little or no difference  had she been diagnosed a few months earlier . But I like to think knowing her helps me be a little more vigilant, always aware.

After she died, her parents found instructions she'd written in her journal for exactly how she wanted her funeral to be. She wanted certain music played and poems read. She wanted them to dress her in her white track suit, and to use her head scarf instead of her wig, so that she would look like her real self.

I didn't go to her service. But I heard they honored her every request.

Birthing My Blog

I'm starting to think that my decision to start a blog was a bit like deciding to have a baby. Do you know what I mean?

I was so excited to have a baby. I prepared for it. I thought I was ready. Really ready.

Then I had the baby. And he was there. All the time. Whether I felt like being a mommy or not. All the time.

Don't get me wrong. I loved my baby. And  I would make that same decision every time. But you know, some days, you just don't feel like being a mother. You're all mothered out. Yet you have to mother anyway.

I'm really enjoying my blog. A lot. It's keeping me writing every day, which was a major purpose in starting it. I've met some lovely people and I'm reading a lot of excellent writing.

And I think this whole overwhelmed, "What have I done," feeling is no doubt typical for being three months into this adventure. At any rate, it's helping me prioritize. Because I'd rather feel as though having a blog was more like getting a puppy rather than having a baby.

After all, a puppy is a big commitment. It requires lots of care and attention. But it doesn't take over your life the way a baby does. And it grows up much more quickly. Some days you can practically ignore it, so long as it's fed.

And, most importantly, you can put it in it's lovely little crate or yard when you leave, and go on about your life without feeling guilty. Try doing that with a kid (seriously, try it. It doesn't work. I know this for a fact).

Have any of you ever felt like this about your blogs, maybe back in the day when you were first starting out? Or am I the only one? Go on, tell me. I can take it. Just be gentle. Remember, I'm a new mom.

This Week's Spin: Favorite Post

Jen at Sprite's Keeper wants us to recycle our favorite old posts for this week's Spin. Considering I've only been doing my blog for just about three months, I have to say I don't really have a favorite that isn't more than a few weeks old. So I'm going to simply re-run my first post ever, and leave it at that. Don't leave without checking out Jen's site for more Spins!

Launching IslandRoar

Cougars? A Collective Roar

Is it just me? Or are there scores of single, middle-aged women out there (and by middle-aged I really mean any woman 35 and over) who enjoy being labeled a Cougar? Because the way the word is tossed about so freely these days, one would think it has a resounding Every-Woman Seal-of-Approval.

Well, not this woman. I may be an unattached female in her 40's, often distastefully referred to as "on the market" (translation: I wouldn't turn down a date with the right guy). I have even entertained the notion, should the opportunity present itself, of dating a younger man. BAM!

That's all it takes to raise society's eyebrows and stamp the word "Cougar" across my forehead in the imaginary social register. As though I am some skulking feline, ready to pounce on my unsuspecting prey.

If there's an equivalent term for an older man dating a younger woman then I haven't heard it. "Sugar Daddy" comes to mind, but it doesn't reek with condescension or contempt like so many labels for women. "Spinster" for example, or "slut."

Making matters worse, the term lately seems to be spreading to include any single woman of a certain age who's not in a relationship, irregardless of whether she is stalking said younger man or not. As if crow's feet and the looming threat of perimenopausal mood shifts weren't trouble enough, now I have to worry what the neighbors will think because I dare to leave my regular Friday night Netflix and pint of Haagen-Dazs to venture out for a drink with a friend? And God forbid I wear earrings (Gasp!), and makeup, or (Oh, no!), maybe even heels?

Women "past their prime" are taken to task if we let ourselves go, or we don't stay in shape, or we don't go out and get a life in the wake of a failed relationship. But when we do take care of ourselves we are labeled "Cougars." There is something raw and insidious being implied here, a penalty for having the nerve to be middle-aged and looking good.

And it seems to me, though I could be wrong about this, that women deemed unattractive are rarely called Cougars. Is this because it is assumed they have accepted their station in life and there is no need to punish them with condescending sexual innuendo? How equally insulting.

Cougars are sleek, beautiful, graceful animals. And while I admire that immensely, I am not fooled for one second into thinking the word is meant to be a compliment when it is applied to women.

What do you think? Does the term bother you on any level, or have you not given it a second thought? Let me know. Because it occurs to me that, by our collective silence, women everywhere are sending the message that it's okay to call us Cougars, that maybe we're even a little amused by the term.

But it's not okay. So I am filing my one-woman protest right here, right now, and hoping it grows from a single voice into many, a tidal wave. One huge collective roar.

I'll have more to say on what I think about a lot of things in the weeks and months to come. I'd love to hear from women (and men) everywhere. So thanks for stopping by and please stay tuned...

Liar, Liar

"Like You Breathe"


  

Lie is such a harsh, cringe-inducing word. When my ex and I went through the long process of unraveling our marriage, I wrote a lot of poetry. It was a great way to get out the pain, sadness, and anger. I always told him I was going to put the poems together into a book and title it "You Lie Like You Breathe."

Because he did. Lied without thinking or planning, and certainly without purpose. As though it was just something his brain and body did for him. Like blinking. Or breathing.

I never understood it. Why lie about something when you know you'll be found out? Why lie about incidental bullshit? Really, and more to the point, why lie? It was almost as if he couldn't stop himself, as if it was beyond his control.

Truth is important to me. "You'll never get in real trouble from me if you tell the truth." I repeated this to my children all the time when they were young. But that didn't stop my son.

He lied as a preschooler. No, really, he swore, he didn't make the baby cry or mess up his toys, when clearly he had. I didn't think too much of it till he was older and started lying frequently about schoolwork. He'd tell me his homework was done when it wasn't, or that he didn't have any when he did. He'd swear he hadn't gotten his grade back yet on a test when he had, or that there was no test that week when there was.

Eventually he was always found out. Again, I didn't get it. Was the momentary reprieve that lying resulted in worth the mess he inevitably had to deal with when his teachers and I made contact, or the report card arrived in the mail.

He didn't lie about too much else. It was more like a matter of convenience, a way to delay my finding out things that were going to mess up his plans to play video games after dinner, instead of studying. He seemed sincerely upset  and contrite when he was caught, but it kept happening, and over time I didn't know what to believe.

I started to seriously consider that this lying might be genetic, or at least have a genetic component. It might sound crazy, but scientific studies have suggested over the years that many aspects of personality, such as temperament, for example, and shyness, are  probably gene-related, .

Doesn't it make sense then, that lying might be as well? I see it almost like a genetic addiction, akin to being susceptible to drugs or alcohol.

First-Born Son and I have talked about this over the years. He remembers lying to his friends as a kid about completely random and ridiculous things, and for no apparent reason. Almost like a compulsion. He has no idea why. 

These days, he seems to have it much better controlled. To his credit, he sees it for the weakness it is, and appears dedicated to battling the impulse. He understands that even if some study proved lying was genetic, that would not be an excuse to give in to the behavior.

At least, that's what he says. I think I believe him, but I realize by now that he is so good at it he can even fool himself.

And that's the real problem, isn't it? Lying eats away at trust. At its worst, it is capable of destroying relationships.

What do you think? Did you ever find yourself lying for no reason? Do you have a spouse, a parent, or a child who who seems to do it without thinking?

Maybe, like my ex, there are a lot of people who "lie like they breathe." Maybe they truly don't know how to stop themselves. But that doesn't make it okay.