IslandRoar

Doggy Diet?

So, we took the dog for her yearly checkup and the vet discovered she'd dropped 15 pounds.

Fifteen pounds!

The vet was very excited about it, congratulating us for being such conscientious pet owners.

I hadn't really thought Savannah needed to lose weight last year, but if they were happy, I was happy too. I'm easy that way.

The only thing was, I couldn't figure out how the damn dog had lost all that weight. I've been giving her the same amount of dog food each day, every day, for years. It's not like she's started training for a marathon or anything. At least, not that I know of.

"Well, whatever it is," the vet said enthusiastically, "keep doing it."

Sure, easy for him to say.

But then Daughter #2, brilliant sleuth that she apparently is, experienced an Ah-ha moment.

"It's Daughter #1," she exclaimed. "She went away to college. She's always the one who gave Savannah too much food."

Well, I'll be damned, she was absolutely right. Daughter #1 not only provides Savannah with too much kibble when it's her turn to feed her, but she's the only one of us who regularly slips her forbidden human treats.

It's like how I used to nag all three of my kids about the way they seemed to trash their bathroom. First-Born Son vehemently denied having anything to do with the mess, but as a wise and weathered mom I found that impossible to believe.

Until he went away to college that first year. It then became abundantly clear that his sisters were slobbing up the kids bathroom totally and completely on their own.

First-Born Son was self righteously thrilled to be exonerated, and I really couldn't blame him. It's a good thing I'm so seldom wrong like that.

So. Another mystery solved.

If only moms could drop a little extra weight when their kids went away to college each year. Not only would it soften the blow of missing them, but just think of what a happier place the world might be.

 

Virtual Parenting

My son called me from his cell phone the other day. He was walking on the Lower East Side in Manhattan, shopping for a Halloween costume. He wanted me to find him a certain costume store on-line and tell him how to get there.

So, from my couch in my house on Martha's Vineyard, I directed him to a couple of places within blocks from where he was. Next, I transferred the necessary funds right then and there on-line into his account so he could make the purchase.

I still find all this technology pretty trippy at times. It can bring people together in incredible ways.

I had to laugh a couple of weeks ago when Daughter #1 called from college to tell me she had just downloaded Skype onto her laptop. Skype, for those of you as technologically challenged as I, is pretty much a live video-chat via computer.

Since I have it on my laptop too, Daughter #1 wanted me to video-call her. But wait; not, as one might naturally assume, so she could see her much-longed-for and loving mother, but rather, so I could show her the dog and cats, significant beings she is apparently pining away for.

Then, the night before we went off to Parent's Weekend, she had me do the Skype thing again, this time carrying my laptop upstairs here on the Vineyard to her bedroom, and holding it in front of her closet so she could see and tell me what clothing she wanted me to bring to her at school.

"Show me the scarves behind my door," she ordered impatiently. "Hold that one up. No, not that one. Yeah, that one."

It was arduous work. I think I prefer the telephone.

"Why are you in your pajamas already," she demanded. "It's too early. You need a life."

It was enough to make me want to shut the laptop lid in, or literally on, her face.

Technology is an awesome thing. But I shudder to think what might be next.

Perhaps my kids won't come home for Thanksgiving dinner; we'll just put laptops on the table in the places they should be sitting, and we'll Skype our way through the turkey and cranberry sauce.

Maybe the pumpkin pie will be virtual? Less calories, yes, but I'm not so sure about the taste...

Sibling Sleepover

When we finally pulled into the parking lot of Daughter #1's dorm for Parents Weekend, Daughter #2 had jumped out of the car and was hugging her sister before I could even swing my car door open.

Daughter #1 returned her sister's embrace in her typical cautious manner, but the smile was spread wide across her face.

Who were these girls? They chattered away like two long lost friends all weekend, walking together far ahead of The Ex and me, who were strolling lazily and snapping photos as we made our way across campus Saturday.

Daughter #1 had to report to the Biology Lab to check on her paramecium, and we tagged along to watch our hard-earned collegiate dollars in action. She assigned D #2 the chores of cleaning her slides and putting her supplies away, and I watched in amused wonder as D #2 nodded and set to work.

If we'd been at home and Daughter #1 had bossed her around like this, she'd have told her in no uncertain terms to stick her slides where the sun don't shine.

Later, D #1 called us at the hotel before we picked her up for dinner, and reported that several kids in her dorm had decided to have a sibling sleepover. Daughter #2 was invited to spend the night. She was elated.

But first we had tickets to a show at the college. My daughters sat side by side in the row in front of me, heads bent together, whispering and giggling.

At least that's how it started. But by the time the show ended, D #2 stood up and whirled around complaining, "She's so mean. She said people were staring at me because of the way I laugh."

"It's true." D #1 shrugged. "She's loud and people keep looking at her." To D #1, being noticed is the kiss of death. "Why does she draw attention to herself all the time?"

D #2 turned to her sister, furious. "I hate you," she said. And right then and there in the theater, she hauled off and slugged her in the arm. Hard. Okay, I thought. Now these are the girls I know and love. Well, most of the time.

The Ex, who had far surpassed his usual allotment of Family Time, sighed heavily in my general direction in a way that could only be interpreted as: Do Something. Now. Then he went on ahead to have a cigarette.

"Take it outside," I told my daughters. "There'll be more room for you to really hurt one another."

They glared at me condescendingly and rolled their eyes.

See what I have to put up with all on my own, now that you're gone, Daughter #2's expression clearly said.

I'm so sorry, Daughter #1's return glance concurred. I'd almost forgotten how embarrassing she can be.

Then, united in their daughterly disdain, they scurried ahead of me out of the theater, towards their Sibling Sleepover.

I followed in triumph. If only it could always be this easy...

College Bound

 

By the time this entry posts, I will be pulling my Expedition onto the boat, on my way to Daughter #1's first college Parent's Weekend.

It's a long ride, so poor Daughter #2 is being ripped out of school on both Friday and Monday, which I know makes me a terrible parent who will no doubt be incurring the wrath of her teachers, very nice people that used to like me when I worked at the high school for three years.

D #1 has big plans for us. Friday and Saturday nights there are theater events and dinner plans with new friends. During the day she's made it clear we are to take her shopping to the nearby factory outlets, and to buy her a bike to use on campus.

Now, the outlets I get. That's the daughter I know. But a bike?

It's not that I don't think it's a terrific idea. I do. But D #1 requesting a bike is a little like Lance Armstrong saying he's passing up this year's Tour de France to take a Quantum Physics class (no offense, Lance).

Last month it was a tattoo. Now it's a bike. I'm a little nauseous, wondering what next month might bring. A change in major? A live-in boyfriend? Surely I jest.

But this is college, right? A time for experimentation and self discovery. Who am I to stand in the way of that?

Here's hoping she hasn't changed so much that I can at least recognize her when I see her. I'll be so relieved, I'll buy her the most bitching bike we can find.

Spin Cycle: Arts & Crafts

 

 

I've always been an artsy person. When life is tough or I'm trying to make my way through something, I have a long history of flipping on a new creative switch.

I probably even did this as a child, but the first time I recall doing it purposefully is when I was 19, in college. My long time love had dumped me and life was especially bleak. I felt that if I did not find something to catch hold of, I was in very real danger of drowning.

So I tried out for a campus play and attempted to find myself in the creative energy at rehearsals. I decided to teach myself calligraphy, bought a set of pens, and borrowed several books from the library. I'm no professional, but I got good enough so that, a few years later, I calligraphied my own wedding invitation envelopes.

I also began to paint, something I'd done a little of in high school. Two of my favorites, a painting of a horse and one of my cat, actually still hang in my basement family room today.

Maybe doing all this is a way to replace pieces of myself that have been lost, build myself up so that I am bigger, better, stronger than before. A new bionic me.

Years later, I repeated this pattern as my marriage slowly unraveled, throwing myself into making elaborate scrap books for my children. I got a part in a local theater production of the Irish play, Dancing at Lughnasa. And, to escape the tension in my home when my husband and I were both there, I banished myself to the yard and became a gardener.

Stronger, better, smarter. Bionic.

And always, there's been the poetry, the writing. My life line.

How about you? Are there any creative outlets that have, on occasion, been known to save your soul?

 

To see how crafty some other bloggers might be, zip over to Sprite's Keeper for more Spins.

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.

Miss Manners

Mole Person

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Sigh.*

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

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

Roommates

Twice as Nice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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