IslandRoar

Friendships Made of Steel

I had an email from an old friend from New Jersey last week. One of my best friends.

Her middle son will be going to college in Boston next fall, a stone's throw away from Martha's Vineyard. And her oldest just graduated from Rutgers.

She sent photos of her three boys at the graduation. The pictures made me cry.

I still remember the day I saw her pull into the driveway of the house across the street, the house she was moving into.

I grabbed First-Born Son, who was four at the time, and ran across the road to say hello. She had one son balanced on her hip, another at her side. It turned out they were were locked out of the house and her five year-old needed to pee. Now.

So they came back across the street with us, and the rest, as they say, is history.

It is always this time of year, right around the time I moved away, that I miss her most. Miss her, miss New Jersey.

 Don't get me wrong, I love Martha's Vineyard, and moving here is the best thing I ever did. But I see the photos she sent and I am transported back in time.

 A time filled with sweet baby faces and small sticky hands. Backyard barbecues and wading pools. Christmas cookies and birthday parties.

But also, there was my crumbling marriage. And the fifty-odd parenting crises each week. The angst over careers and writing, and what was it we wanted to do with the rest of our lives.

She was there for all of it. Even when she had no idea what I was going through, it helped to know she was just across the street. And all I had to do was look out my windows and see the lights on in hers.

How is it possible that both of our oldest children are young men in their early 20's when it seems like only last month they were conducting scientific experiments with kitchen products in my bathtub?

We have navigated this last almost-decade of our lives without the benefit of daily sightings and weekly check-ins. But some bonds, because of where we're at and who we are at the time they're formed, remain steady for life.

Bullet-proof, like Superman. If he was lucky enough, and strong enough, to be a woman.

 

A Better Beach Blanket

First-Born Son recently went with his GF's family on their annual vacation to the Outer Banks. He was gone for almost two weeks and he barely called the whole time.

I know, I know; he's 22, I'm expecting too much. Damn straight!

Apparently cell phone service was difficult to come by. "Have you ever heard of a pay phone?" I asked. "I don't suppose you looked for one of those?"

"A pay phone?" Even through the phone I could hear him shaking his head, albeit with great affection. "You're funny Mom."

Well, I thought, anything to entertain.

He went on to tell me what a great time they were having. How wonderfully he was getting along with the family. Everyone was taking turns cooking dinner and it was his turn that night. He had to get off the phone so he and the GF could go food shopping.

I was happy for him, really I was. Yet at the same time microscopic pinpricks of jealousy jabbed at my heart.

He liked their family better than ours. He wanted to be with them more than us.

I envisioned us, years down the road, me begging him to come visit. So I could see him, see my grandchildren. Him patiently explaining that they had "other plans."

You don't have to tell me I'm a big fat irrational baby; I've got it. But I can't help it.

"It's the potato-chips-on-the-beach-blanket all over again," The Ex said, when I confessed my petty complaint.

He was right.

It's always been like this with First-Born Son. When we brought him to the beach as a baby, we couldn't keep him on our beach blanket. He'd crawl off across the sand to someone else's. Someone with a better blanket, one offering oreos or potato chips.

"Oh, you can leave him here. Please, " people would say when we tried to retrieve him. "We love having him."

That's always been the problem. Everyone loves having him. He's everyone's friend. The life of the party.

So it's not as though I haven't had lots of practice sharing him with the world over the years. Whether I wanted to or not.

But he's so seldom home these days. And even when he's here, he's not really here. His heart is in NYC. With his friends, his work in film school, his beloved GF.

As it should be.

There will always be another beach blanket to crawl off to. One with better chips than we could possibly ever have. I know that.

But it doesn't mean I have to like it.

 

On The Precipice

The 2009 holiday season was the first since my three kids were small that there was no holiday concert for me to attend.

First-Born Son was always in band, and he and Daughter #1 both took chorus all through high school. Daughter #2 wound up dropping chorus this year to accommodate other classes, other interests.

Thus no holiday concert, and no spring concert this month.

This is also the first year I have no one in dance class. Both of my daughters started dance in kindergarten. Daughter #1 went all the way through high school, but Daughter #2 was always on again/off again. And this year she's off.

So, no new dance shoes with their fresh leathery smell. No tap-tapping around the kitchen while the table's being cleared. No year-end dance recital next month.

It's kind of sad.

I felt the same way about basketball when First-Born Son was no longer on the Vineyard high school team. I missed everything about it. The smell of the gym. The squeak of their sneakers on the polished wooden floors as they ran up and down the court. The horn that blares out to end the half.

Of course, there is another side to all this nostalgia.

I don't have to fork out the cash for those very expensive dance or basketball shoes. I don't have to drive kids to and fro to endless practices and classes, go to parent's booster meetings, or write monthly tuition checks to dance schools.

I've enjoyed a good run at this parenting thing being a main focus in my life. But now I'm down to one kid living at home full time, and for only two more years at that.

I try and remember this when I sit shivering through her field hockey games or drive her to weekend play rehearsals.

Things that seemed destined to go on forever were, in fact, fleeting.

It's bittersweet. I need a moment or two to take it all in. Digest. Look back with longing.

Then ahead with anticipation.

 

Space Monkeys?

Maybe you saw the title of this post and knew immediately what I'm talking about. Maybe I'm the last one to find out about this outrageous game kids are playing all across the country, if not the world.

For those of you who, like me, are not yet in the loop, Space Monkeys is a choking game. And kids as young as 10 or 11 are trying it. It's called "the good kids choking game," because there are no drugs or alcohol involved.

I learned of it recently when a friend of mine told me a story about some middle school kids on the Vineyard she knew who got caught trying it in school.

Space Monkeys? I thought she was joking. Then I googled it. It already has a place in Urban Dictionary and there are numerous videos that illustrate the many different ways to do this on You Tube.

Needless to say I won't link them, but I looked at a few and they're really disturbing. Essentially, kids try a variety of different methods  to temporarily cut off the oxygen, on themselves or their friends.

They briefly lose consciousness. To the nurse in me, some kids look like they're even mildly seizing. Eyes rolling, limbs twitching...a great high, huh?

I mentioned it to Daughter #2 who claimed it was a stupid fad confined to middle school kids, at least out here on Martha's Vineyard.

She knew all about it. I was floored.

Once at a party when I was 15, a tough cigarette-smoking acquaintance of mine tried to get a group of us to hyperventilate into a paper bag while we sat bent over, our heads between our knees. Then we were supposed to stand up quickly, throw our heads back, and achieve some amazing high. That is, if we didn't faint.

I breathed into the paper bag, feeling ridiculous. Then I decided to quit. It didn't look like much fun and besides, I didn't trust that this girl even knew what the hell she was talking about.

The point is, the purpose of this Space Monkeys game isn't new. But the ways of inducing loss of consciousness by choking, whether with or without rope, with or without the help of "friends," appear to be multiplying. Dangerously.

Kids have sustained permanent brain damage. Some have died. WTF?

Space Monkeys. Have you heard of it? Have your kids?

 

Boys

I always wanted a daughter. There, I said it.

That doesn't mean I wouldn't have been happy if I'd never had one. Life is all about adjusting expectations, no?

My point is, I subconsciously spent years preparing myself to raise a daughter. She would be smart and assertive and grow up empowered as a woman. Which of course would serve to fulfill me as a woman, as well as make me a shoe-in for Mother of the Year.

Then I had a son. A son?

This was not in the plan. What did one do with a boy? There were whole volumes of issues I'd never before considered:
  How did I feel about circumcision?
  Would I allow him to play with toy weapons?
  Not to mention that whole burping-farting-spitting thing boys insist on 
  doing.

Fortunately, while pregnant, I dreamed I was having a boy. This gave me a few months to readjust my expectations and prepare (yup, I was that confident my dream was accurate).

MY son would be different.

He would be brilliant, brave, strong, blah blah blah. But he would also love women. Without ever underestimating them in any way. He would be enlightened. My personal man-gift to the future and women everywhere.

Then he was born.

I swear I must have intrauterine parts capable of being used as weaponry, because from the moment First-Born Son emerged, he seemed absolutely convinced he was an action-adventure superhero.

I read him Free To Be You and Me. He preferred books on dinosaurs.

I bought him a Doctor Barbie doll. He stripped her, bent her in half, and shot the cat.

His favorite game at age three was to make me lie on the couch and pretend I was Sleeping Beauty, while he, Prince Phillip, kissed me back to life.

At the time, I was pregnant with Daughter #1 and on bed-rest so this worked out quite nicely. For a while.

But there's only so many times  in one day a modern, liberated woman can tolerate this fairytale crap before she balks.

"Okay, my turn," I'd finally say, after about 50 wake-up kisses. "Now Prince Phillip lies on the couch and Sleeping Beauty kisses him back to life."

Smooth. Subtle. I know that's what you're thinking.

He didn't buy it for one minute. But, to his credit, he'd indulge me a time or two before we moved on. That is, if he wanted me to ever play with him again.

Yeah, I admit it. Manipulation, coercion, bribery: these are all part of my parenting repertoire. For my boy and my girls.

But the boy thing seems to have worked out okay. At 22, First-Born Son is a smart, generous young man who never underestimates women for a single second.

Not if he wants them to keep playing with him...

If you're a parent, did you have any preconceived notions about how you would raise your kids, and if so, how has that worked out for you so far?

 

Spin Cycle: Confessions

I'm not big on confessions. Maybe because you already know everything about me there is to know.

 

I tend to share the small stuff freely. The big stuff you probably couldn't pry out of me with a ten-foot pole.

 

So this post is really about the ability to withhold a confession. A major confession.

 

Over ten years ago my mother got a call from her brother informing us a long lost cousin had popped up. Well, she really couldn't be classified as long lost. More like never-before-heard-hide-nor-hair-of.

 

This cousin, who supposedly resembles my mother, had been given up at birth for adoption. She'd had a good family, a happy childhood, yet always wondered about her birth parents.

 

When, as an adult, she'd managed to get a copy of her birth certificate, she'd discovered she was born at a baby hospital in the Bronx. Her mother was my beautiful, eccentric great aunt, my grandma's baby sister.

 

Little by little the story emerged. My great aunt, whom we'll call Mary, was unhappily married with two small sons. Apparently she'd had an affair with the Italian grocer, gotten pregnant, and given the baby up for adoption.

 

I try to imagine how trapped she felt, her anguish at finally having a daughter, yet relinquishing her in order to save her marriage.

 

My mother recalls Mary and her two boys coming to live with them at my grandmother's for several months when she was a child, no doubt during the pregnancy. No questions were asked, but she insists there were long talks between Mary and my grandmother. Voices raised. Tears.

 

Imagine how strained the marriage must have been when she went back. But also, what joy she must have felt, nine years later, when she gave birth to another child, another daughter.

 

What amazes me most is how Mary and my grandmother, and lord only knows who else, kept this secret. Literally took it with them to their graves. Both of them were long dead before this cousin found our family. Before she discovered she had two brothers and a sister.

 

How did Mary go the rest of her life without confessing this to her children? To anyone? And what other secrets are out there in my family, your family, that might change everything, yet will never be revealed?

 

Got any to share? Click over to Sprite's Keeper and see what other bloggers dare to confess.

 

Martha Norton

Brothers and sisters torture one another. This is a fact of life. It's that whole love/hate thing. Maybe it's practice for the real world. Toughens us up so we can take whatever life might throw at us.

I used to tell my sister really outrageous lies. That we were moving, or that we were getting a dog. Things I knew she would start out not believing. But that was the fun part. I  would then spend the next half hour convincing her they were really true.

I would be solemn, straight-faced, and back myself up with fabulous false logic. Finally she would believe me. At which point I would pounce. "Gotcha! I can't believe you thought that was true."

Mind games. The worst type of torture. My two older children, First-Born Son and Daughter #1, have a habit of banding together against my youngest, Daughter #2. Before she understood much Spanish, they had her convinced, at age seven, that her name translated into Spanish as La Idiota.

Until the night she proudly announced it at the dinner table. "Well my name in Spanish is La Idiota." I couldn't help it. I laughed. Then so did she. The two older kids were visibly relieved. They were safe. This time.

For the last nine years since we moved to the Vineyard, they've been telling Daughter #2 she's adopted. A common enough sibling torture treatment, I realize. But they've added their own special twist.

They tell her she was adopted from Russia. Her real parents had 11 other children. But because she was hearing impaired (an injury apparently sustained when she was accidentally shot with a potato gun), her parents gave her up for adoption. Cruel, I know.

Her real name, they inform her, is Martha Norton. Now, Norton is an old Martha's Vineyard name, not exactly Russian. But Daughter #1 swiped it from a gravestone, and Daughter #2 never questioned its ethnic origins, so Martha Norton it remains.

This convoluted tale brings laughter or tears, depending on the day. Or hour. D #2 might scream, "I hate you," at her siblings, and run from the room sobbing as they high-five one another.

Or she may actually go along with the story. As she does when her sister's friends remark on how different the two of them are. "But that's probably because you're adopted," they'll say, completely in on the ruse. "Yeah," she'll nod. "I'm really Russian."

I try and stay out of it. No matter which side I come down on, I can only make things worse. And, as D #2 likes to tell me, no doubt only her real family, the one from Russia, would truly understand.

Got any good sibling horror stories, either your own or those of your children? Or are my kids perhaps more evil than even I could have imagined?

 

 

Spin Cycle: Fear?

I am not a fearful person.

Sure, there are things I don't like, such as heights, slasher movies, and stories about real life serial killers. But fear? Not so much.

When I was a young nurse working on pediatrics, one of my colleagues commented that she was afraid of dying.

I'd thought about this one a lot. "I don't really fear dying," I said, with the naive self assuredness that one can only possess in his or her 20's. "I mean, I don't want to die. But I''m not afraid of it."

To her credit, she did not slap me. "That's because you don't have kids," she said kindly. "Being a mother changes that."

"Maybe." I shrugged.

Maybe?

My son was probably only hours old when my fear of dying set in. If I died, who would raise him in the manner that I so carefully envisioned?

I felt a little better when I gave him a sibling, but I now had two souls whose very existence hinged on me being alive and well. And then, soon enough, three.

It's not as though it's some neurotic phobia. Rarely, if ever, does it creep into the forefront of my mind.

Yet somewhere in the dark recesses of my brain, it's always there: I must stay alive at least long enough to see these three people into the realm of independent adulthood. Anything less would leave them vulnerable, exposed to emotional and psychological scars that might never heal.

Am I blowing this out of proportion to increase my own sense of importance? Possibly.

But it has always seemed to me that the loss of one's mother, before a certain age, is one that few recover from completely.

When Princess Diana died, I felt this pain for her as well as her sons. I was reassured that they were old enough to have lifelong memories of her, but felt she would've been devastated not to be there for the joys and pain of their teen years, and to cushion the angst of their early adulthood.

I'm sure I was internalizing big time.

So what is the magic age, the one my children need to reach before I'll feel comfortable giving up this fear? Well, at 22, I feel First-Born Son may be close. But Daughter #2 is only 15.

Believe me, I'm not about to stand up, arms wide open, beckoning the Grim Reaper, the day she turns 25. I fully intend to live to a good and annoyingly ripe old age.

And yes, I'm aware my grown children will never stop needing me in one way or another. But the major leg work, so to speak, will be complete. And, I think, I'll finally be able to let go of my fear.

To see what other bloggers fear-or not-go take a peek at Sprite's Keeper.

 

"Mother Mary"

When my kids were younger and we lived in New Jersey, our church organized a Christmas pageant each Christmas Eve for the children's mass. An older child read the Christmas Gospel while an assortment of small shephards and angels, Wise Men and innkeepers, made their way down the aisle to the altar.

By the time First-Born Son was in third grade he was one of the older kids. He'd only stuck it out this long because he aspired to be Joseph.

There was one short "rehearsal" two days before the pageant, during which the parts were announced and costumes sorted out. To keep the whole thing fair, parents were allowed no input as to what part their child might receive.

I sat with the other moms and dads, trying not to pump my fist and exclaim "Yes!" when First-Born Son scored the role of Joseph.

The director then announced which little girl would be blessed with the part of Mary. The lucky child looked to be about seven. Her mother beamed with pride but the girl looked downright alarmed.

"No," she said. "I can't do it."

"Are you sure?" the director asked kindly.

The little girl nodded.

"Wait," her mother sputtered frantically. "Let me just talk to her."

But it was too late. The director consulted her list and announced another name.

"Daughter #1," she said. "Would you like to be Mary?"

Daughter #1 stood next to her brother, much too far away for me to nudge her and say, "Of course you would."

She was only five. I'd had no idea she was even in the running for Mary. There'd been no warning, no time for me to prep her to eagerly pounce on this role of a lifetime.

I held my breath, frozen, and tried to interpret her stoic little face. But her body language gave not a clue.

I needn't have feared. Already Daughter #1's competitive spirit had kicked into gear. She wasn't about to let this golden opportunity pass her by.

"What do you think?" the director prodded. She looked back down at her list. But without so much as a glance in my direction, D #1 gave one quick emphatic nod.

Discreetly I collected their costumes and shooed them out the door. I think some neurotic part of me feared that if the director realized her Mary and Joseph were actually sister and brother, she might rescind the offer.

Over my dead body.

Christmas Eve arrived. Mary and Joseph walked solemnly down the aisle and sat on either side of their baby-doll Jesus as he lay in the manger.

From our seats in the congregation, my mother and I exchanged wicked grins of delight. I was so proud.

Never had something so wrong seemed so very, very right.

 

 

The F-Word

Do you know what the F-word is?

Oh, you may think you do, but I'll bet you don't know what the F-word is in our house. 

It's Focus. As in: my 5 year-old/8 year-old/18 year-old son cannot, apparently, do it.

First-Born Son, also known as Mr. ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder for those few of you lucky enough to have no idea what I'm talking about), was not formally diagnosed until fifth grade. But of course by then I'd been dealing with it informally for years.

"I just start staring out the window while the teacher talks," he'd confess. "And the next thing you know, I'm thinking about Star Wars and Darth Vader and light-saber battles."

The irony was that at two or three he would sit in my lap for hours while I read to him. Book after book. On dinosaurs. Sharks. King Arthur. He could play Lego's or act out James Bond all afternoon.

But ask him to sit for a 20 minute lesson on fractions or write an essay on osmosis versus diffusion? Well, that was another story.

His incredible kindergarten teacher (who I believe was actually capable of walking on water) gave me the heads-up in my first Parent-Teacher conference. She never used the letters ADD, but she did use the F-word.

"He's a smart, wonderful little boy," she said, "who has trouble when it comes to being able to focus on things he'd rather not do."

"I want you to be prepared," she went on. "Some teachers will see this as a problem. You're going to hear this word again and again."

She was right. It became downright predictable.

The first time I came home from a conference and announced, "Your teacher used the F-word," he looked at me like I was insane.

His teacher? The F-word? No F-ing way! 

"Focus," I explained. "She needs you to focus."

And we both laughed our F-ing heads off.

It's not that we didn't take it seriously. Or that I wasn't constantly searching for new strategies to try and help him deal. 

"Look at me," I still say to him when I need him to pay attention. "What did I just say?" To this day I try not to give him more than three directions at a time. AND make him repeat them back to me.

Still, he'll wander in sheepishly 20 minutes later. "Okay, I fed the dog and vaccuumed the pool. What was that other thing again?"

And we laugh.

Because really, what are we going to do? Cry about a little trouble focusing?

Today First-Born Son goes to film school where he's learning the art of making movies. Movies that, one day, other young children will be thinking about, drowning out the words of their teachers, as they stare out the windows of their classrooms.

It's a lot to hope for.

His kindergarten teacher would be so F-ing proud.

 

Spin Cycle: Wish List

 

What do I wish for? Ha! A better question might be what don't I wish for?

I know admitting I wish for anything is probably mucho politically incorrect. So let me say right up front: I love my family and I'm grateful to be blessed with my wonderful life, blah blah blah...

Now that that's out of the way, I have to say it'd be really nice to replace the crappy carpeting in my house with hardwood floors. What were the people who built this place thinking! And on that same note, tile for the kitchen and the bathroom, because apparently they considered that a luxury as well.

While I'm on a roll, let me add a hot tub and a sex life (I don't believe the two have to be mutually exclusive), and a car that runs so that people won't actually laugh at me or want to scream obscenities about me murdering the environment when I drive by.

And how about a MacBook, a Kindle, and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of (they exist, I know they do. Ask Twenty Four; she sees them every day in Money Town).

Let me not forget a successful writing career, generous stock dividends, and children who are cheerful, always polite, and eternally grateful.

Wow, I'm exhausted. Who knew being shallow was this consuming?

Of course, I'd have to tag onto the end: no more wars or hate or poverty, and public acceptance by all world leaders that women really are the superior sex. No wish list would be complete without those.

Anything else?

No, actually, I think that'll do.

 

For more inspired and infinitely more generous wish lists, go see Sprite's Keeper. I really wish you would.

 

Story Time

 

A few weeks ago the librarian at work who runs Toddler Story Time was off-island at a conference. They asked me if I would be willing to fill in.

As I generally aspire to be an optimistic, fearless sort of person, I smiled and said, "Sure."

Yeah. Right.

I had about two minutes to prepare. Okay, maybe it was closer to 30, but clearly I needed more. The parents and their tiny offspring assembled in the children's room, eying me with suspicion.

Perched with only half my ass on a kiddie-sized chair, I began reading from the pile of books the children's librarian had left for this purpose.

It was a tough crowd. The kids were all under two, but they were the least of my problems. I spilled out a bag of puppets onto the floor. Passed around bells. They were putty in my hands.

But their parents? Well, they expected more. Clearly I did not know the routine. Naively, they expected singing.

"Oookaay," I exclaimed brightly. "What should we sing?"

Then I drew a complete blank.

How embarrassing. There I was, a veteran mother with three ancient children. Not to mention the thousands I've cared for in the hospital. Although to be fair, sick or injured kids don't frequently require lots of singing from their nurses.

Maybe things would've run more smoothly if I could've administered IV antibiotics or listened to their lungs?

Meanwhile, the toddlers were waiting, bells at the ready. One adorable little babe sporting round pink eyeglasses stared at me with wide-eyed expectation. My heart melted.

"How about Itsy Bitsy Spider," one grandmother not much older than me suggested helpfully. And off we went. 

"You had to sing?" First-Born Son remarked incredulously that night on the phone when I recounted my tale of woe. "Those poor kids."

Do you see what I have to put up with? And he's the nice one.

Now that it's over, it doesn't seem quite so bad. Maybe I'll even do it again some time. Although I'll definitely bone up on my kiddie songs first.

I get to see that sweet little baby with the pink glasses each week when she and her mom check out their books. She always gives me a huge grin. I'm convinced she remembers who I am.

But I'm not quite sure if she's laughing with me or at me.

 

Spin Cycle: Holiday Newsletters

 

Let me preface this by saying that I have, on occasion, sent out holiday newsletters and I may again some day in the far off future. I receive a couple each year and I'm always eager to find out what people are up to. But let's face it, some newsletters read more like an ostentatious listing of Can You Top This rather than a warm friendly note of catch-up.

This then, is my tongue-in-cheek version of how one such holiday newsletter might read. I know none of you would EVER send out anything even remotely like this...

 

To all our wonderful friends and family,

Can you believe another year has rolled by? If not for the photos of little Chloe's Yale graduation (magna cum laude of course,) and the new addition to our summer "cottage" finally being complete (see photos on other side), it wouldn't seem possible.

In this time of financial hardship for so many, we're blessed that Tim has received not one but two promotions. His Christmas bonus will just about cover next year's college tuition for the twins. Hughie, that little braniac, got into Harvard and is cruising toward clinching class valedictorian. But poor Louie is another story. He was wait-listed at Princeton and it looks like he may have to settle for either Brown or Columbia.

Baby Stewie is now president of his middle school class and captain of both his soccer and basketball teams, as well as first chair cello in the orchestra. He's raising funds for a class trip to Every-Country-in-Europe and he'd really appreciate it if you could purchase some candy or wrapping paper to show him you care (brochure enclosed).

Tim's work keeps him so busy that he's only been able to compete in three triathlons this year. His new BMW is small consolation. And Peg is her usual hectic self, running the PTA and the Junior League. But she still manages to volunteer at the hospital AND do her weekly Meals-on-Wheels deliveries. Her new organic beauty-care product-line has been a huge success (website below). You should definitely check it out!

Well, we hope everyone's had a terrific year. We're sorry we didn't get a chance to see you all, but with our Family Volunteer Vacation to rebuild New Orleans in February, and our two short weeks cruising the Virgin Islands in April, time just seems to fly by. Maybe next year...

If you're ever up this way please give us a call. Barring scheduling conflicts, we can meet for coffee or brunch at your hotel. Or maybe a drink at the airport before you leave. That will give us a chance to really catch you up on our lives!

Sincerely, The Mimi-Mee Family

 

For more heartfelt and less jaded Spins on holiday newsletters, check out Sprite's Keeper.

 

Spin Cycle: Turning 3

Because Sprite's birthday is coming up, Jen has made this week's Spin Cycle an open forum. So when you get done here, you should check it out.

Sprite is turning three. Which got me thinking. Three is such a magical age. No longer a baby but still so small.

When each of my two daughters turned three, I had to stick them on a school bus and send them off to special pre-k programs.

Now, I grew up in suburban New Jersey and walked to school every day. And when my kids started school, I drove them or we carpooled with neighbors. Except for field trips, I had no experience putting anyone on a school bus. Let alone my tiny, just-turned-three year-old daughters who, except for my parents and a couple of trusted friends and sitters, had essentially never been out of my sight.

Daughter #1 was born with Benign Hypotonia, basically a muscle weakness causing significant delays in her gross motor skills. She didn't roll over for a year, she walked at two, and rode a bike at 12.

Daughter #2 had her speech and hearing issues. Both girls were fortunate to be eligible for excellent pre-k programs modeled for their particular needs. These included door-to-door transportation.

I drove Daughter #1 her first couple of days. But I was seven months pregnant, sick and exhausted, and D #1 wanted to take the bus with her friends. 

I thought I would throw up the first time the big yellow bus pulled up in front of our house and I clipped her into the car seat on board. I waved as it pulled away, then hopped in my car and followed it all the way to her school. I needed to see just how traumatized she would be by the time  she got there.

Instead, she was smiling, proudly carrying her little backpack as she was helped down the steps and led by the hand into her classroom. I, on the other hand, was shaking and nauseous, and could've used a shot of something strong (damn that pregnancy ban on alcohol!).

I never got used to putting her on the bus, but it did become a part of our routine. And after Daughter #2 was born, it was pretty nice not to have to haul her out two extra times each day for the pre-k run.

When it became apparent D #2 needed a special school for her auditory issues, the fact that I would be putting her on a bus, while no less traumatic, was a no-brainer. Her school was farther away, and between getting the other kids fed and out the door to their school on time, the bus (or van in her case) was a life saver.

Then again, she was my third child and I was more laid back. I only followed the van her first day. Although there was that time I passed it on our block as I was on my way home from picking up the other two kids from school. The cops had pulled it over for speeding.

I'd already reported the incident to her school and was waiting in my driveway, arms folded, foot tapping, by the time the driver finally made his way up the road to drop her off. He didn't appear very sorry but no matter; there was a new driver the next day and speed was never an  issue again.

I look back now, amazed that I was able to place these two small girls on a school bus at such a tender age. Part of me still shrieks, what were you thinking! But most of me realizes that at the time I simply could not take one more thing onto my plate.

And somehow, they have both survived.

So congratulations to both of you, Jen, on Sprite's turning three. Does that make her a big girl, or still a baby in your eyes?

I have no idea, but judging how I feel about my own little girls, now 15 and 18, my guess is that it's probably a bit of both.

 

At A Loss (part two)

 

If you haven't read Part One of this post, you can find it here.

 

After she got her hearing aids, Daughter #2's speech grew by big fat leaps and bounds.

In those first few weeks, she would cock her head to the side, exclaiming, "I hear sum-tin!" Then run to the door or window to check out what it was. I couldn't believe how much she'd been missing.

I steered myself for the years to come, the negotiations I would need to engage in, and the accommodations that would be necessary for her in the school system. In life. The uphill battle certain things would be for her, things I had so taken for granted with my other kids.

Do you know some people treat children with hearing aids like they're mentally disabled or slow? Yeah, they do. And some people are uncomfortable at the mere site of a kid with hearing aids.

Fairly or not, I came to judge my older children's friends by how they handled D #2's disability.

"Is she retarded?" One little boy asked, sneering. As though she wasn't even in the room. STRIKE OUT.

"What's your sister got in her ears?" another asked.

"Those are her hearing aids." I could see First-Born Son almost holding his breath as he said this. "To help her hear."

"Oh." The boy shrugged. "Like bionic ears. Cool." HOME RUN.

I started saving for the tiny, but enormously expensive, hearing aids that would fit inside her ear and be practically invisible, the kind the audiologist assured me would be perfect for her as an adolescent.

Then, before she turned five, on a routine audiogram, her hearing tested almost normal. We'd been going every three or four months, to our same amazing audiologist, Ellen, each time.

Ellen didn't know what to make of it. Neither did the specialists she sent us to in Manhattan.

"I guess you might call it a miracle," one doctor said. "Except I don't believe in miracles."

The director of her school took me aside and quietly suggested that I not share what had happened with the other parents; she didn't want to encourage false hope.

Today, D #2 still has fluctuations in her hearing and does much better if she can look at someone as they speak, but she no longer wears hearing aids. She sits in the front of the class by choice, and she works really hard to overcome the learning difficulties she has as a result of those early years. Really hard.

And really successfully. She is driven in a way my two other children never had to be. She wants it. Bad.

This then, is my very un-scientific theory to explain what happened: I was so sick for that entire pregnancy. I only gained 13 pounds, and she was 7lbs, 14oz, with the biggest placenta the nurses had ever seen. Looking back, I think I may have had some viral infection that was passed on to her, affecting her hearing.

Unknowingly, I continued to pass on this virus to her through the next year and a half of nursing. Gradually, after she was weaned, the virus dissipated, leaving only residual damage, in the form of fluctuations in her hearing.

At least, that's my attempt at a logical explanation.

But as for what I really think happened?

Well, let's just say that, unlike that doctor, I do believe in miracles.

Wouldn't you?

At A Loss (part one)

The following story will be told over the next two posts.

 

Daughter #2 was born hearing impaired.

We had no idea of this at the time. All I knew was that her cry was the most high-pitched, piercing sound I had ever heard.  I was a pediatric nurse and she was my third child; I knew my newborn cries (I later learned this cry is common in newborns with hearing loss).

As she grew, we would lean in, cup our hand to her ear, and murmur, "Sssp-ssp-ssp," like we were telling her a secret. We called it the "Whisper Game," and I'd played it with all my kids. They loved it, and eventually, at about a year, leaned over to "whisper" a secret back to me.

D #2 did the same thing. Except she merely opened and closed her tiny lips, never uttering a sound. Foolishly, I found this quirky and adorable, not realizing she wasn't making the whisper sound because she couldn't hear it.

"That baby looks at your face so intently when you speak," my mother would say. Of course; she was trying to read our lips, attempting to make sense of the jumbled sounds she was able to hear.

I should've known. My two older children had spoken several words by the time they turned one and were chattering away by two.

There is a video of D #2 on Easter, only weeks before her second birthday. She picks up a candy egg and says "num-num." And I nearly erupt with joy. "Do you hear that? She said num-num," I inform the camera. "She means candy!"

That video will never be easy for me to watch.

Thinking maybe she just needed speech therapy like her cousins, I took her for an evaluation. Part of this was a routine audiological screening.

It was anything but routine. I held her while the audiologist directed sounds through speakers into our soundproof booth. As they grew higher in frequency, D #2 sat in my lap, thumb in her mouth, oblivious.

There was shock, guilt, sadness. Not necessarily in that order.

But other people took it harder than I did.  As an RN I knew what was out there: brain tumors, cancer, diabetes, cerebral palsy...

Hearing loss? We could do that.

I got her enrolled in a special school for kids with speech and hearing issues. I wove multi-colored friendship bracelets to clip her hearing aids onto the collar of her clothing with so they wouldn't get lost. I learned to use my stethoscope to test her aids and batteries each morning. Taught the babysitter, The Ex, and First-Born Son how to put them in and turn them on.

The first time she cupped her hand against my ear and "whispered"  to me with real "sssp-ssp-ssp" sounds, I nearly cried with relief. With her aids, her hearing was almost normal. Other kids at her school were not nearly so lucky.

My mother was appalled whenever I put her hair in ponytails. "But then everyone will see her hearing aids," she complained. "Don't you want to hide them?"

"She wears hearing aids," I said. "This is her life. If we don't accept it, how will she?"

More next post...

Death-Defining

For her Freshman Seminar at college, Daughter #1 is taking a class on death and dying. Because she is just that lighthearted, laugh-a-minute type of girl.

As an assignment, students had to interview a person who has dealt with death as part of their work. D #1 took the easy way out and chose me.

She called me late the other night and grilled me for a half hour about my experiences as an RN working with dying patients. I don't know how she felt about it afterward, since she's about as forthcoming as the CIA, but I found the experience enlightening.

One of the questions was did I feel that working with the dying had changed my attitude about death. I didn't really think I could answer that. See, I started working in a nursing home at 16, long before I'd thought much about death at all. I have to say I'd been pretty sheltered from death; I'd never even been to a funeral.

From that, I was thrust into this world where it was commonplace for at least a couple of patients to die each month, often when I was on duty, and frequently requiring me to do post-mortem care, which basically involves washing and wrapping the body before it's transported to the funeral parlor or morgue.

I continued to work with elderly patients through college and my early days as an RN. Then I moved to pediatrics, where I had to readjust my views toward death to include young people, even children and babies. It was difficult but I considered it a privilege to work with these patients and their families. A blessing even.

As hard as it is to conceive of, I came to believe some people can live a life filled with more purpose and meaning in 8 or 18 years than others might in well over 80. I'm not saying it ever got any easier to see kids die. But I did start to see age as only one factor (albeit a significant one) in the big picture of death.

Another question Daughter #1 had was whether I thought doctors and nurses viewed death differently.

"Like night and day," I told her.

Generally speaking, physicians have an adversarial relationship with death, even those working with the terminally ill. And that's probably as it should be. Most of us count on our doctors to help us fight like crazy to avoid death.

Nurses, on the other hand, are more often the ones present when death occurs. And while we rarely welcome it, we learn to accept it as an inevitability. Having seen enough of it, we realize it's not always fearsome. And in some cases, when we know it's coming, it can even be poignant and memorable.

Don't misunderstand me. I realize the gaping difference between dealing with death on a professional versus a personal level. For all the dying I've witnessed, I've still been incredibly sheltered from it in my own life so far.

And when that changes, as it obviously will, I can only hope some tiny bit of the strength and courage I have witnessed in those I've cared for might be found within myself.

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.

 

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.

 

 

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.