IslandRoar

Star Light, Star Bright...

Did you ever wish on a star? Did it ever come true?

When I was young, I had great faith in all things magical and mysterious. I did lots of wishing on stars.

The summer I turned 16 and well into that fall, I made a point of getting outdoors each night to try and catch sight of the first star, upon which I made my wish.

It was always the same: I wish "X" and I would get together.

Every night. "X" was the object of my overwhelming affection (did I mention I was also a romantic fool?).

Whether it was written in the stars, or it was fate, or just coincidence, eventually my wish came true.

And life was good. I'm pretty sure I eased up on the stars for a while.

But the other night, driving Daughter #2 home from some event, it all came rushing back. She was leaning forward, her chin practically on the dashboard.

When I asked what she was doing she replied, "Wishing on a star."

"Oh?" My interest was piqued. "Do you do that every night?"

She nodded.

"The same wish each time?" I probed, thinking how much alike we obviously were.

"No." She sat back in her seat. "I don't wish for myself. I wish for different friends."

She reflected a moment, then added, "I don't need the wish. They do."

Well...I must say I didn't see that one coming.

She's either a way nicer, more generous kid than I ever was, or she considers herself way more lucky.

I'd like to think it's a little of both.

Men I Have Dated

 

Karma

Were you ever tempted, in your deep dark past, to blow off a guy you didn't want to date by telling him "Sorry, I have to wash my hair?"

I never did. Although, if we're being honest, there's that time I hid in the closet while my college roommate told a guy I was supposed to go out with that I'd gone home for the weekend.

Okay, and I may have once disconnected my phone for three weeks so I wouldn't have to talk to a guy I no longer wanted to date.

I know, these were crappy things to do, but I was young and stupid. Besides, these acts of immaturity did nothing but buy me a little time anyway, although I certainly couldn't have gotten away with stunts like that today.

I did feel bad though. I knew I should've just told those guys it wasn't working for me. I'm much better at that sort of thing now, not that I date all that often. But if I do, and I'm not feeling it, I just want to get it over with as quickly as possible.

But Karma is a patient entity, and willing to bide its time.

Several years ago I dated a fisherman. Let's just say he harpooned whales. He didn't and it's probably even illegal here, but it makes me feel better just writing it.

I asked him out, which was my first mistake. But he could've said no, right? You'd think someone who spears whales for a living would have no problem saying "Nope, sorry, not interested" to a woman, wouldn't you?

But he said yes, and we met for drinks and dinner. I thought we had a nice time. We spent hours talking. But what do I know?

At the end of the night we made plans to go out again the following week. He was supposed to call with the details.

Of course, that never happened.

At the time I was pretty new to this dating-as-a-single-woman-over-forty thing, so I decided I wouldn't sit around waiting for him to call. Instead, I'd take the bull by the horns and assert control over my life.

Thus I called him and asked if we were still on for our date.

"Uh, I'm not sure that's gonna work," he stammered (stammering is never a good sign). "I've got to clean my boat." 

There was a long silence. I was pretty sure I heard him take off his shoe to stick his big, smelly, whale-killing foot in his mouth.

"You have to clean your boat?" I really enjoyed repeating his words back to him. So he could more clearly hear how inordinately asinine they truly sounded.

"Yeah, it's really dirty." He sounded defensive now, and a little angry. "Friday's the only night I can do it."

"Well, you have a nice time then." I hung up and put him out of his misery.

And then I laughed. Because his pitiful excuse was at least better than hiding in the closet or disconnecting the phone, even if he was well over 40 years old.

Payback's a bitch, ain't it?

Incorrectly Politically Correct

 

My son's 5th grade teacher thought he was gay. I wouldn't have cared, so long as he, one day, made sure to give me grandchildren.

But the fact remained that my son was born loving women (see this post about him plotting to have sex in 2nd grade if you require further proof). At any given hour, there was always a girl he had a crush on.

At two-and-a-half I could barely restrain him from chasing after a four year-old cutie on the playground, crying out, "Wait, please, stop! I love you."

So it would've been funny that this teacher, let's call her Mrs. Cooper, thought he was gay, except for how sad it was.

The ex and I were well into our separation at the time, and he'd finally gotten a place where the kids could come and stay on weekends. I thought I was doing the right thing to let Mrs. Cooper know some of what was going on at home. You know, on the off-chance it might affect his behavior in school.

I'd no sooner told her the situation than she pounces. "First-Born Son said he takes riding lessons?"

"Oh yes, he loves horses," I naively tell her.

She pauses. "It can be really hard for those boys who don't like to do traditional sports."

"Oh, no," I attempt to interrupt her. "He plays soccer, basketball-"

But she's not listening. "And when there's no male role model at home."

"But he still sees his dad all the time." I keep trying. "He's very involved with him in Scouts..."

"And then there's the way he dresses." Clearly she's on a roll.

"Excuse me?"

Okay. In 2nd grade he was the only boy to part his hair on the side and gel it down like it was 1957.When he was ten he begged me to buy him a cheap black blazer once just so he could casually wear it to school . This was a public school remember, no uniforms; I'm pretty sure clean underwear didn't qualify as a requirement.

"Well, those turtlenecks and sweatpants aren't exactly what the other boys are wearing." I can tell she actually believes she's being kind. That she's the only one who truly understands my pitiful gay son, and perhaps she can at least get me to buy him cool "Boy Clothes" and save him from complete 5th grade social failure.

Have I mentioned how popular he was? And happy? And how, even though I knew these things, after talking with her, I still stood outside at pickup time counting how many other boys were wearing turtlenecks and sweatpants (for the record, plenty)?

It was like she was on some mission, and couldn't hear any of the words I was actually saying.

So I gave up. I thought about having a chat with the principal, but really, what would it have accomplished? At least she believed she was looking out for him, right?

I always thought it was a shame, though, that she never saw who he really was. She'd probably be disappointed today by how much he loves football and by his string of serious girlfriends.

But maybe not. He's still quirky about fashion. And there was that powder-pink tux he insisted on wearing to the prom.

In your face, Mrs. Cooper!

God, I love that kid.

Real Housewives of the Vineyard?

 

Don't Judge A Book

A small group of field hockey moms were huddled on the chilly metal bleachers recently, watching the season home-opener.

Now, I don't know these women well. But our daughters have been together in school since they were little. Over the years we've commiserated on soccer fields and in school auditoriums, about everything from teachers and sleepovers to adolescent attitude.

Last season our girls were the new freshmen on the field hockey team. We sat through games, perplexed at the ref's never-ending whistle-blowing, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. A couple of us, myself included, even played the game (briefly) back in the day, and we still couldn't figure out half the calls.

Our banter became sort of a joke. And this year we fell right back into it, trading horror stories about our daughters' belligerence, joking about the game as we tried to figure out the ref's calls, and loudly cheering the Vineyard team.

At first we didn't pay any attention to the lineup of four moms a few rows down from us. We could tell by their cheering that they were from the off-island team.  After a while though, I started to notice them sneaking glances back at us and then looking at one another meaningfully as we giggled.

At one point they turned around and set us straight regarding the foul we were wondering about out loud. We thanked them politely.

Okay, I admit it, we were being silly. But we weren't hurting anybody; we weren't being "mean girls." It was simple fun, damn it.

The women stood to go shortly before the game ended (2-0 Vineyard, BTW). We assumed they had a boat to catch to get off-island and home at a reasonable hour.

"Did you see the way they checked us out?" one of the Vineyard moms remarked when they'd left. "Talk about judgmental."

"Oh my gosh." It suddenly dawned on me. "They think we're The Real Housewives of Martha's Vineyard!"

We all laughed when I said it, but we shared the distinct impression it was probably true.

They had some preconceived notion about what women that live in a place like Martha's Vineyard must be like. And based on our shallow bleacher-behavior they'd no doubt decided we fit the bill.

If only they knew...

But they didn't, and that's really the point, isn't it?

I would've liked to tell them I'm originally from New Jersey and see what they'd think then. I have it on good authority from friends who follow the show, that those are the women they'd really need to watch out for.

Go Vineyard.

Parenting Commandments

 

 

 

Jail Bait

When I was young (25, 18, maybe even at 7), I was sure I knew everything I could possibly need to know about parenting. Seriously.

However I've now been a parent long enough for that Miss-Smarty-Pants attitude to come back and bite me in the butt.

These were my rules. I've had many, but these are the ones I'm referring to; they were written in stone not unlike the ones Moses might have used:

            Thou shalt not date until tho art 15.

            And when thou dost date, thou shall not date persons that art

            too old for thee.

            Thou shalt not date seniors when thou art a freshman.

            Thou shalt not date in cars until thou art 16.

Reasonable, right?

First-Born Son and Daughter #1 had no problem with this. There may have been some of that ridiculous "Going Out" crap in middle school that never actually involves dating, as well as the ever-popular "a bunch of us are going to the movies" type of Group Date. I allowed these to fly just barely under the radar. I am nothing if not a benevolent dictator.

But last May, just days before her 15th birthday, Daughter #2 got her first real boyfriend. Not just any boyfriend, mind you. No, this "boy" was weeks shy of 18, a high school senior. And yes, he drove. A car. It may have been a clunky battered old station wagon, but it was still a car if you know what I mean.

She swore she was going to tell me. But D #1 arrived home from school first and announced, "Maybe you need to ask your other daughter why she was seen holding hands with (insert name of evil boy-villain here) in Assembly today."

Her tone clearly implied I needed to step up my parenting game. "You didn't have this problem with me," she gloated. Of course not. She was too busy studying, smart girl.

"Your father and I will discuss this," I told D #2 when she finally confessed. Which basically meant I would inform my ex and he'd say, "So what are You gonna do now?"

In the end I caved. I mean, it's not like she couldn't sneak and meet him at her friends' houses or the movies or wherever, anyway. That's what I would've done.

Besides, I merely had to wait it out till he left the island for college (and am I ever grateful for that ocean in between), when they would no doubt do that whole friendly break-up scene. Which they did.

In the meantime she had a strict curfew, and I drove her at least one way whenever they went out. And, despite the eye-rolling, I lectured her yet again about waiting to have sex.

My mother disapproved. Noisily. She obviously thought I was a better, stronger mother than I am.

But she underestimated my secret weapon. There is nothing more dangerous than an over-protective, 21 year-old, older brother. An older brother who was not afraid to show up unannounced in the most unexpected places.

Let's just say he had it covered.

But now he's back at school. Apparently he values his education over his sister's virtue. And, although "the boyfriend" is gone, I've got a sneaking suspicion that there may be others before long. Like tomorrow.

Well, she is 15. Which leads to 16...

I guess I'm on my own. Any suggestions?

Please?

Family Tree

When we bought our house in New Jersey, there was a tree on the corner of the front yard. Its trunk split into a V at about the height of my shoulders. The people who sold us the house said it was a cottonwood tree, and this type was very rare in NJ. As far as they knew, our cottonwood was one of only three or four in the whole state.

We loved that tree. The trunk sloped gently up to the point where it split, and I held the hands of each of my three children as they took baby steps up its trunk. They would sit perched in the V and then jump into my arms, growing braver as they got older until they were jumping down themselves.

Other kids on the block were drawn to the inviting shape of the cottonwood, and I would often look out the window to see some neighborhood kid carefully inching his or her way up its side.

At least once, and sometimes, twice a year the tree would produce its cotton. White, wispy, and soft, it would whirl about the neighborhood, coming to nest on all our manicured suburban lawns. If it bothered anybody, they never complained. I thought it was beautiful.

Every so often the town would send tree guys up an down the streets to clip branches that were interfering with power and phone lines, or those that looked precariously close to falling on someone's head. My cottonwood always needed plenty of pruning. The tree guys told me it was dying.

"You should just take the whole tree down before it falls," they warned me.

"But it still makes cotton every year," I'd insist. "And it's home for so many animals."

This was true. It had a hollow spot about 15 or 20 feet up which housed a family of squirrels in the winter and the same two starlings each summer. Higher up in the branches other birds built their nests.

The tree guys would shake their heads at my ignorance, and continue pruning. They knew I was peeking out the windows, watching them, making sure they didn't get carried away.

One year the doorbell rang, and there stood a tree guy holding a deep, intricately woven bird's nest. "It's an old oriole nest that was hanging off a branch way up," he confessed sheepishly. "I thought your kids might like to see it."

They did. We treasured that nest, and it came with us when we moved here to the Vineyard.

We'd already been here several years when our old neighbors told us the cottonwood had finally come down, just keeled over in the middle of one day without causing any harm.

When the tree guys were called in to saw it up and cart it away, our neighbors ran over and took a large piece of the trunk, which they passed along to us. I polyurethaned it and use it as a plant stand in front of my fireplace. I can count every ring in that trunk, and see the years it grew like a weed, and the years water was scarce and it barely grew at all.

We went to a barbecue at the home of those neighbors this summer when we were down in NJ, and I thanked them again for saving us that hunk of our cottonwood.

"You should go take a look," their 22 year-old son told me. "Another cottonwood is growing in its place."

We traipsed out to look across the street at our old front yard. Sure enough, there is another cottonwood growing right where they cut down the old one.

It even looks like this new cottonwood trunk is splitting into a V. With  any luck, one day, like its parent, it too will be perfect for climbing.

Warning: This Post May Be Sexually Explicit

 

The FACTS of Life

How do you talk to your kids, if you have any, about sex?

I thought, when First-Born Son was small, that I'd done a pretty good job. He'd been through my pregnancies with both his younger sisters before age seven. I'd read him the books and answered his questions without providing too much extra information. I was sure I'd covered all the age-appropriate material, and no doubt qualified for some type of major award in the Parenting Hall of Fame.

But then, in the middle of 2nd grade, I was looking through his backpack for the inevitable missing notices and homework assignments, when I found a note.

It had apparently been passed back and forth between him and his friend, let's call her Jezebel Rhonda.

"Yes," it read, "I would like to have sex with you too. But I think maybe it would work better if you could sleep over."

Okay. What to do?

I made a cup of herbal tea, put on some Mozart, and sat down to think. Oh wait, that must have been Julia Roberts or Susan Serandon in one of the many movies out there showcasing the perfect parent.

But me? I ranted and raved and threw First-Born Son up against the wall with a 150 watt spotlight aimed at his face.

No. Not really. Fortunately for him, he was at Sunday School at the time (I know, ironic, right?), and I had an hour to mull things over.

That's when common sense hit me over the head with a big hammer, and I realized he obviously had no idea what he was talking about.

But how could he not? We'd gone over this, and I'm fairly sure he'd even aced the quiz.

When he got home, I sat him down and showed him the note. He looked sheepish, but not at all embarrassed.

"Honey," I said, "do you know what sex is?"

He rolled his eyes but did not, to his credit, say the word duh.

"Okay, tell me what it is."

He sighed, like I was a three-year old, trying his patience. "It's when you lie down with someone you like and you kiss and hug."

Not bad, I thought. Except for the part where you're naked, and that little detail about the penis-in-the-vagina. Oh, and most important, how you have to be at least 30 and own your own home.

I proceeded to re-enlighten him regarding the few small facts he'd forgotten. When we got to the whole penis-in-the-vagina thing, the shock and horror displayed on his face was all the proof I needed that he hadn't had a clue.

"So you understand why you and Rhonda shouldn't be talking about, or writing about, having sex?  And that it's not your place to explain to Rhonda, or anyone, what sex really is? You just tell her to talk to her mom."

My son nodded solemnly.

It may not have been the first time we had a conversation something like this, and it sure as hell wasn't the last. But it was the time I fully realized that some some parenting lessons bear repeating. Over and over again.

We ended our little discussion and moved on with the rest of the evening: dinner and homework for him; valium and vodka for me.

Life goes on.

 

Babysitting 101

A few months ago one of our old babysitters "friended" me on Facebook. She was our second regular babysitter, hired when we came home early one night and found our first regular sitter smoking in our living room with her 18 year old brother and some of his friends.

Our new babysitter, Kelly, was only 13 at the time, and First-Born Son was not yet 2. It was her older sisters Katie and Karen who were actually recommended to us, but through a series of cancellations, the job was handed down to youngest sister Kelly.

Thus we learned the Golden Rule of Babysitters: never rule someone out (within reason) because you think they're too young. It's the perfect time to grab them and train them and endear them to your children. Before they become over-enthralled  and over-scheduled with cars and jobs, social lives and members of the opposite sex, and all things "teen."

To say Kelly was shy would be a vast understatement. I could coax a smile, but it was nearly impossible to get more than a one-word response.

But she was devoted to First-Born Son. She read to him, played with him, and listened to his endless babbling. She became such a fixture in our household, albeit a quiet one, that when I was stuck in bed with a migraine and couldn't go with my husband and F-B Son to see Peter Pan on Broadway, something we'd planned on for months, we immediately thought of asking Kelly if she would like to go.

"She didn't say much to me, my (now ex) husband later reported. "But the two of them had a blast."

Well, Kelly is in her early 30's now, with a child of her own. She is one of about four old babysitters, once treasured favorites, that my kids have re-connected with on Facebook.

She posted a photo the other day. In it, she is holding Daughter #1 who can't be more than a month old. F-B Son is clinging to her side.

I was touched beyond measure that she had kept it all these years.

Once we have children, so many people pass in and out of our lives as a result. How comforting to know some of them who have left their mark on us, still, in turn, hold us dear in their hearts.

Spin Cycle: Hate

 

The Spin topic this week is hate.

The omnipotent and mysterious "They," say hate is very close to love, but I don't know.

For me, hate is something that suddenly boils to the surface, overflowing in a short, horrific moment of rage. Seeing red.

It passes quickly and doesn't come often.

As I've grown so much older and wiser, I've learned to wrap  my arms around it tightly and run like the wind. Lock myself up somewhere alone to keep from acting on it. Roll up in a ball-like state until it slowly ebbs away, leaving me raw and spent.

Maybe that's why they say it's like love. Because it takes so much out of us.

I hate the feel of raw clams sliding down my throat, and I hate people that seethe silently and never tell you when they're angry at you.

But that's not really what we're talking about, is it?

When my marriage ended, there were moments I was sure I hated my ex. Once, I was so certain, that I threw the phone at him. But it went through the living room window instead.

"You ducked!" I yelled. "Now look what you did!"

That's much closer I guess, but still, I think real hatred is more than a ten second, or even a five minute, rage. It persists long enough to be destructive. I believe I've been fortunate, so far, not to have felt that.

So, I'll stick to hating businesses with poor customer service, and those flies at the beach sometimes, that bite the hell out of your legs.

And I'll consider myself lucky.

Want to see what other people hate? Go check out their Spins over at Sprite's Keeper .

Potluck Memories

 

We had a neighborhood potluck the other night. It was hosted at the home of my same friend and neighbor who threw my birthday surprise party three years ago, just to show you what kind of spectacular person she is.

Everyone showed up: the couple down the road who summer here and I invite down for drinks when my parents visit, because they're about the same age and my parents are happier when they have a playdate; the guy and his wife who live on the bend in the road, who magically showed up with a new baby, and most of us didn't even know they were pregnant (can't see a belly when you're waving car to car); the kids whom I no longer get to see every day at the bus stop since Daughter #2 started high school last year.

There was tons of awesome food and a bonfire for the kids to roast marshmallows. When it grew dark, we sat around the fire and told stories about our neighbor, Bo.

Bo always wore a cowboy hat and had a long white beard. He lived in a tiny cabin on our road with his beloved dog, Fraulein. We'd drive around the bend and see him playing with his remote control, battery-operated toy car, Fraulein chasing after it. He always tipped his hat in greeting, cigarette in hand.

Bo couldn't drive so he rode a moped, and when that broke, a bike. Or else he hitched. My kids were shocked the first time I picked him  up in our car.

"I thought you said never pick up hitchhikers," they protested.

"Yes, but it's only Bo," I explained. Everyone knew Bo.

We baked him cookies every Christmas.

When he got sick with lung cancer a couple of years ago, they didn't give him much time. But he was back on his bike before long.

Then he went into the hospital last spring and didn't come out. My neighbors brought Fraulein in to visit him every day. She was in bed with him when he died.

Then they convinced their friends to adopt Fraulein. And they arranged this potluck in his memory. We all got to talk to people we generally only wave at. And we got to share stories about Bo.

Our neighborhood is just that little bit different without him. Something missing.

I keep driving around the bend expecting to see him in the road, waiting for him to tip his hat one last time.

Hell Week

 

Hell Week(s) 

Those of you with highs school-aged kids who participate in fall sports know what I'm referring to.

Hell Week: a period of time in the last dying days of summer set up by high school coaches to torture parents.

Who invented it and why? Winter and spring sports-parents don't have to go through this crap. It's not fair.

Every morning for the last two weeks right up until school began, Daughter #2 had to report for field hockey practice at 5:30am. Yes, that's right. I said 5:30. 

Did you know the sun doesn't rise until after 6:00?

Have I mentioned that I am not a morning person? My brain doesn't even pretend to function until 7am.

Last year during Hell Week I got off easy. I managed to bribe Daughter #1 into getting up each morning to drive her sister at 5:20. She asked for $100. She didn't realize I would've given her twice that. It was money well spent.

But this year she's off at college, selfishly living her own life. And First-Born Son has returned to NYC, the ingrate. That left cranky old me to take D #2 every morning.

I was not a happy camper.

The first morning we arrived before anyone else. It was pitch black, and, as tempted as I might have been, I ws not about to leave her there alone with only her hockey stick for protection.

"Why are we the only ones here?"

"I wanted to make sure I was on time," she told me.

I stared at her. Who was this child?

"I understand." She nodded, clearly humoring me. "I will never be the first one here again."

"Where's the coach?"

"Oh, she doesn't get here till 5:45."

Excuse me? If she expects them to be there at 5:30, the least she can do is haul her skinny little ass there on time, don't you think?

Do you know how cold it is at 5:30 in the morning? Even with the heater blasting, we sat there shivering. I thought, with great longing, of my winter coat, hanging at home in the hall closet.

"Maybe you'll get to see the sun rise," D #2 suggested hopefully, interrupting my daydream.

Does she even know who I am?

"I'm not one of those people who need to see the sun rise," I told her. "I can watch it do the same thing in reverse at sunset. I'm good with that."

By now four or five cars had pulled up, but no players got out. Clearly no mom wanted to be the first to leave their daughter there in the dark. Finally, two dads drove up in trucks, and I knew things were about to start rolling along. They wouldn't put up with this waiting crap.

Sure enough, their daughters were booted into the pitch blackness and the trucks peeled away.

"Okay, go," I said.

"But I can't see who's out there," she whined. "It's too dark."

"I don't care." I pushed her towards her door. "They have sticks. Get the hell out of the car."

Now, I am not a napper. I cannot just go home and go back to bed. Even the cats and the dog were still asleep. Not one of them raised a furry little head when I arrived back home each morning.

Hurricane Danny pelted the island that weekend with torrential rain and wind. But the coach was actually there, greeting parents as we pulled up.

"Only 40 minutes today," she announced. Like we should be happy.

Wait, I wanted to get out of the car and get in her face. If I was the kind of person ballsy enough to do that type of thing. You got me out of bed on a Saturday morning during a tropical storm, and now you're saying I've got to turn around and come back in 40 minutes? Are you F-ing kidding me?

One of the last mornings, after I dropped her off and was driving home, I noticed the full moon setting on one side of the flat open road, and on the other, the sky streaked with burnt orange and yellow as the sun prepared to make its grand entrance.

It was an amazing sight.

That is, if I was one of those people who cared about things like that.

 

Spin Cycle: What Are YOU Good At?

 

For this week's Spin we're supposed to post about something we're good at.

Right away I thought of my writing and poetry. So please forgive me if I post a poem as my Spin. I wrote this about working nights as an RN on a pediatric unit, something I did for many years, something I also think I was pretty damned good at.

 

Nights on Pediatrics

One-year-olds with their knees
folded under their chests,
backsides high in metal cribs

shrouded in croup tents
hissing drops of mist.
Toddlers tossing with fever.

Adolescents clawing the sheet in search of
the next decent breath.
Kids with cancer swallow Tylenol

in their sleep while
fat drops of blood fall
from the bag through their veins.

The high-pitched screams of septic babies
blend with the deep-throated moans of sickle cell in
a young adult.

Nights on Peds.
We stroke their hair.
Tuck up covers.

Watch chests rise and fall with sleep,
brows wrinkled in dreams.
It’s all that we can do.

                                            *************************

Now you can go on over to Sprite's Keeper and check out what other bloggers have to say about the things they're good at.

 

 

Live and Learn

 

Live and Learn, one of the oldest expressions in the proverbial book of life, no?

But have you ever learned something that changed how you've viewed a specific experience for almost a decade?

The last autumn we lived in New Jersey, my son was invited to a friend's bar mitzvah. It wasn't a really good friend, but we'd known him for a few years from scouts. I'd only met his parents once. They were older and had immigrated years ago from Russia. First-Born Son always described them as "a little weird."

I knew the bar mitzvah gift of choice was cash, but I wasn't sure how much to write the check for. I consulted a friend of mine who's Jewish. This friend had grown up essentially without any religion, but when she married her Jewish husband, she was drawn to the rich history and tradition of his faith, and she converted.

I told her I thought $25 was too little, but $50 seemed a lot. "How about $35?" I compromised. "I don't want to insult anybody."

"That's good," she told me. "You won't insult anyone."

So F-B Son goes to the bar mitzvah and has a great time. Life is good.

Then, a month later, F-B Son has his friends over for his 13th birthday. Mostly, they bring gifts.  But the bar mitzvah-boy brings a check, signed by his mother, for $36.

What the hell? I give $35 and she turns around and has to give one dollar more? What's that about?

Again I consult my friend, but she's as confused as I am. And, for the last nine years, I've assumed I made some major cultural faux pas and insulted this woman enough to make her feel the need to return my money to me, plus one dollar.

Until last week.

I was flipping through a new book at the library (yes, I was supposed to be working; don't tell anyone). The book was Bad Mother by Ayelet Waldman, and in the introduction she explains that in Hebrew, every letter has a number value.

And the letters that spell life, or chai, equal 18. So Jewish monetary gifts are often given in multiples of 18, to symbolize life.

Thus F-B Son's check for $36. This Russian Jewish woman had not been insulted. She had been giving my son a gift steeped in tradition.

And I hadn't had a clue.

Live and learn.

Take a Tour of the Vineyard

 

Today I'm posting over at The Locals Love It. It's a new site started by King's Mom. People write about the places where they live and why they like living there.

This was a no-brainer for me. You all know how completely in love I am with this amazing island, even with its gray winters and endless March winds.

King's Mom has some fun features on the site, like Friday's Top 5 , and she provides lots of cool links for traveling anywhere.

So please go over there and check it out. And don't forget to read my post on the Vineyard while you're there

 

 

I'm Fabulous!

 

My friend over at F8HASIt recently bestowed this award on me. I read her blog every day, enjoying her cleverly written thoughts and observations. She makes me feel sane.

She wrote she wishes "we were sisters from different mothers," which I consider a great compliment. And who knows? Stranger things have happened.

I am supposed to reveal five obsessions I have and pass this award on to five other worthy bloggers.

The blogger part is easy; I read so many wonderful blogs. These five are some of the ones I make sure to check out every day. I enjoy everything they post.

-...A Mom on Spin: she blogs about her adventures working in a rectory and raising three teen daughters. She is absolutely hysterical.

-Privilege: writes about fashion, career, and life, all from the point of view of the High WASP, in a cool, sophisticated manner, sprinkled throughout with warmth and humor.

-Gloria's Spanish View: this is a newer blog whose author upended her life and moved to Spain. She's got fascinating stories and amazing photos to share.

-Life and Times of a Wicked Step Mom: this blogger is stepmom to 3 daughters. Her tales of life show both the frustrating and poignant moments.

-only a movie: I just discovered this blogger recently. Her words are honest and funny, and she is a fellow New Englander to boot.

Now for the harder part. I'd like to claim I'm not obsessive about anything, but who am I kidding?

1-My writing: this has been my life's passion since I was eight. Can't add anything to that.

2-Gardening: I need to have flowers blooming spring through fall. This summer I was so busy working (and blogging) that I slacked off, which makes me feel guilty, which proves my obsession.

3-Taking photos: I'm not sure why. Maybe some part of me feels that if there's no picture of it, it didn't happen. I actually went and bought a new camera two weeks ago when my very good one suddenly died and I had to bring it in to be fixed. Daughter #1 was going off to school; I obviously had to have photos.

4-Shoes: enough said.

5-Daughter #2 says I should put "my kids," but even though that may be true, it doesn't mean I have to own up to it. 

The blogs I listed are so fabulous that at least a couple of them probably already have this award. But I wanted them to know, anyway, how very much I enjoy reading what they write.

Now you need to go check them out, even if you already know them.

Go on. I'm serious!

 

The Drop-off

I turned to the Ex as we were getting into the car, ready to make the trip home after depositing Daughter #1 at college.

"We're just supposed to go back to New England and leave our kid in another part of the country?" I was precariously close to losing it. "What the fuck is that about?"

Not that the whole drop-off experience hadn't been completely positive. It had.

Upper class-students obviously trained in positivity and cheerfulness had met our overloaded car outside the stately, brick, pillared dorm. By the time we'd checked her in and gotten her room key, all her stuff was waiting in the hallway outside her door.

As D #1 was ordering me to the car to fetch her new beta fish (purchased in transit the night before in New Jersey), a smiling young woman in an orientation T-shirt magically appeared, bearing said fish. "He's so cute," she breathed, carefully handing him to me.

Twice I had accompanied First-Born Son to first days at two different colleges. Never had I witnessed such a well-oiled machine.

At the end of the day, before sending off the parents, there was a convocation ceremony,  to formally welcome the new students to the school, on the quad. The freshman class of 700 had been instructed to dress for the occasion, and they filed in by dormitories, a seemingly endless line of fresh-faced young women and men, all a little too eager and nervous, and all trying desperately to appear nonchalant.

Their class flag flapped in the breeze from its perch over the historic building in front of which we convened. It would not be raised to that spot of honor again until the day of their graduation in 2013.

Faculty, in their academic robes, filed in after the students. I was prepared to endure boring speeches, but instead stirring words floated over us, as more than once my eyes grew blurry, and I was grateful for the bright sunlight and the excuse to be wearing my shades.

So why then, did I feel so vulnerable, as though my body was one big bruise? What was my problem?

"She's mean to you, remember?" The Ex joked nervously on the ride back, trying to make me feel better. Attempting, as men do, to fix the problem. "She's 18. And you said yourself, she's been ready since she was five. She'll be fine.

Shut up already, I wanted to scream. The last thing I need right now is for you to make sense. 

But I didn't say that. I said nothing. See, I've already been to college. And life. And some days, it even seems I've learned a thing or two.

Presidential Power

President Obama has come and gone from here on the Vineyard, bookended by tropical storms Bill and Danny.

Whether or not you're a fan of the President, it's hard to escape the excitement of knowing he's so near.

Driving up-island, for instance, we have to go past the entrance to Blue Heron Farm, where the President stayed. At the end of the road were police officers, state troopers, and Secret Service, all standing guard, as well as barricades and, at night, the brightest spot lights this island has ever seen (I took the above photo as we drove by; sorry, we couldn't slow down, and it's the best I could do).

And every day, of course, the reported sightings, either of the presidential motorcade, or the first family, or the big man himself. On an island this size, information and gossip both travel at light speed, but what never ceases to amaze me is the overwhelming amount of time that the word on the street is completely accurate.

Before opening a newspaper or clicking on the news, we knew each day which town Obama had been in, what sights he'd seen, and where he'd played golf or eaten a meal (and the man plays a lot of golf, people; he hit each of the island's 3 courses at least once. I thought this was supposed to be family time).

But the most exciting things for me personally, were First-Born Son's very own Obama sightings, three to be exact.

One of F.B. Son's jobs is way up-island in the town of Aquinnah, home of the beautiful Gay Head lighthouse. It sits atop the stunning, multi-colored clay cliffs that are considered sacred to the island's Native Americans, the Wampanoag.

Apparently the President climbed to the top of the lighthouse and waved to the crowds near and far, F.B. Son among them. He saw people pulling haphazardly off to the side of the road and abandoning their cars, running to get a glimpse of the prez.

That same evening, and again the next day, he was stopped for a security check on his way into work at his wait job, his first clue something was up. He and the rest of the staff were patted down by the Secret Service. There were bomb-sniffing dogs, and special security forces packing heat, hidden everywhere.

When the President finally made his appearances, he was preceded by a bevy of Secret Service agents, all carrying large duffel bags.

F.B. Son said someone called out, "What's in the bags?" and was met with a cynical smile by one agent who replied, "What do you think?"

Obama stopped to chat with the crowd during one of these encounters, and as he started to walk away he turned and looked in F.B. Son's direction.

"Then he did a double-take, I swear," my son reported with sincere excitement. "He looked right at me and smiled. Right at me. It was pretty cool."

I don't doubt it for a second. Who wouldn't notice him?

The President is obviously a very smart man.

Spin Cycle: Birthdays and Anniversaries

I did not have birthday parties when I was a kid. My mother always said that, since my birthday was in August, it was pointless to have a party because everybody was "on vacation." I didn't question this until I got a little older and noticed that we were the only family on my block who ever vacationed in August. Oh well.

The only exceptions to this were: when I was nine, and got to bring three friends to see 101 Dalmatians, then sit on the curb and eat ice cream at Dairy Queen; and when I turned 13 and had three friends sleep over. We went rollerskating and then played Strip Poker in my living room where our sleeping bags were laid out.

And, if I recall correctly, my sister spied on us and threatened to tell my parents about the Strip Poker, and I had to promise her my first-born child, or punch her really hard, or something like that, to keep her quiet. It's all a little fuzzy.

But I was never bitter about the lack of birthday parties. I mean, it wasn't like I didn't have food or a roof over my head, right? And, although there were no parties, there were presents, so I wasn't about to complain.

But deep down I secretly longed for a surprise party. It just seems like people really have to love you an awful lot to go to all that trouble. I'd given a few surprise parties in my life, but I'd never been lucky enough to be on the receiving end.

Until three years ago, on my 45th birthday. I thought I was going out to have lobster ravioli at my favorite island restaurant with my kids. My daughters and I had just gotten home from the Fair, and my son greeted us in the driveway.

"Come quick," he said. "There are baby ducks in the pool. They're so cute. Hurry!"

I know; you can't believe I fell for the old "baby ducks in the pool" routine. But when we lived in New Jersey, each summer this mama duck laid her eggs in the bushes at our swim club. Then she'd parade her little tribe up to the pool and they'd take their first swim in the lap lane. My kids thought this was the cutest thing. We looked forward to it every year.

So you see why I fell for it. I followed my son around to the backyard, where my pool is surrounded by a tall, ugly, gray wooden fence. And when I barreled through the gate, everyone shocked the hell out of me, yelling "Surprise!"

My wonderful friend and neighbor Karen, who knew of my secret longing for just such a party, had planned the whole thing. There was food and Mai Tai's and a cake.

And yes, I am happy and relieved to say there were presents. Because even though I know you're not supposed to care about the gifts, I am just shallow enough and immature enough, that I still do. They don't have to be big or expensive or fancy. They just have to Be.

It was the best birthday. Ever. Although I have to admit, I was a little bummed there weren't any baby ducks.


Now go read some more Spins on Birthdays or Anniversaries at Sprite's Keeper. If you're lucky, maybe one of them has some baby ducks.