IslandRoar

Head of the Class

"You know, I'm starting to see how each teacher has so much to do with how the kids in the class treat each other," Daughter #2 remarked to me just the other day. "It really affects the whole atmosphere of the class."

I think she hit the nail on the head.

When First-Born Son was in kindergarten I recall talking about teachers with another mom who commented, "How much effect can one teacher really have on a kid? It's only nine short months out of their whole lives."

I tentatively agreed. I'm not an educator but something about what she said didn't sit right with me. It's only nine months, sure, but nine months can be a pretty big hunk out of a kid's life when they're only ten or six or how about three years old.

The impact a teacher can have came even more into focus as my kids progressed in school. First-Born Son's grade was huge and classes often had 25 kids in them. In second grade there seemed to be a lot of arguing and verbal harassing.

F-B  Son, whose impulse control was still developing, was sent to the principal several times for jumping on kids who had attacked him with words. Another little boy, whose mom confided in me, spent a miserable year being the class scapegoat.

When I tried to subtly approach the issue with his teacher at a conference, she agreed there was a problem, but shook her head. "I can't watch every kid every second. I have no control over what they say to each other unless I see it become physical."

A year later, many of these same kids were thrust together in third grade. But it couldn't have been any more different. However she managed it, the teacher did not tolerate cruelty in any form. Suddenly these children were cooperating, even defending one another.

The little boy who'd suffered so terribly the year before was referred to by his classmates with affectionate eye rolling. You know Joey. He can be so crazy. But he's the best in our class at math.

"How do you do it?" I asked the teacher. She didn't yell. She clapped her hands when things started to get out of control and, unbelievably, the kids stopped what they were doing and clapped back. 

F-B Son wasn't sent to the principal once. He felt cherished and special, as did every kid in that room. Surely this dramatic change was due to more than the fact that they were all a year older?

This phenomena repeated itself over the years with all three of my kids. Daughter #2 had a small but particularly challenging group of boys in her grade. Certain kids were picked on mercilessly and many parents complained to the point that they considered pulling their children from the school.

But all that changed in fifth grade. There were two veteran teachers and for once I didn't care which one my child got. Once more I watched in amazement as the kids turned into a supportive cohesive group, their kind and encouraging teachers intolerant and, more importantly, somehow aware of any potential situations where bullying might rear its ugly head. 

What do you think?

Whether you have big kids or little kids or none at all, we've all had teachers. And when I stop to think about the ones that really stand out for me, they were definitely the very same years I felt safe and empowered by not only the teacher but the whole class. How about you?

I know several of you are teachers. Do you consciously try to foster an environment of cooperation and support?

And do you think it's possible to make a life-long impact in "nine short months?"

 

Native Islanders

 
  

The Wampanoag are the Native American people that first settled Martha's Vineyard thousands of years ago.

Tribal legend has it that the Wampanoag giant, Moshup, dragged his toe in the ocean and formed the islands of Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard.

The scientific explanation is that the islands were once part of the mainland, and that, as the sea rose after the last Ice Age, the people who were to become the island Wampanoag merely decided to stay.

The Tribe was federally acknowledged in 1987. Today, the up-island town of Aquinnah is home to the Wampanoag. Here are most of the Tribal-owned lands, Tribal housing, and the Tribe's museum and cultural center.

The Wampanoag influence is an integral part of present day Martha's Vineyard culture.

Recently I was thinking about what it must have been like, to be part of the Tribe back in the day, before the white settlers. When nobody had ever heard of Martha's Vineyard, but instead, called this place Noepe, the Wampanoag word for land amid the streams.

There were several different villages scattered throughout the island, but even so, there must have been reasons to push the birch-bark canoes into the sea and venture off-island, seven miles across the sound to the mainland.

Tribal councils with the mainland Wampanoag? Hunting trips pursuing animals that didn't live here, such as bears or wolves? Marriages arranged to bring new blood on-island and off?

Then I thought, were these early islanders the same type of curiosity that modern-day vineyarders appear to be to many folks? Did the mainland Indians come up to them at, say, a wedding feast, and ask, "So, what's it like to live on an island?" Or, "What do you all do out there all winter?"

Because, though day-to-day Wampanoag living was probably much the same on or off-island, just as it is today for vineyarders and mainlanders, like today, there must've been some obvious differences.

Wampanoag from Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket were whalers extraordinaire. They are said to have taught the early white settlers this trade, thus kick-starting the whole whaling industry.

No such whaling on the mainland. But more human interaction maybe? Better game? Easier trading? Certainly, like today, more choices. And without having to paddle your canoe for hours across the sea, fighting the wind and waves.

It takes a certain type of person to live on an island. Let's face it; it takes a certain type of person to live just about anywhere you can think of.

And maybe it's just wistful thinking or plain craziness, but it dawned on me that I might have a lot more in common with these early Native islanders than I ever could have imagined.

 

Transitioning...

I kept the key to my old NJ house on my key chain for eight years after I moved to Martha's Vineyard.

I've said it before: I'm not good with transitions.

Oh, I'm a big girl now. I manage. I just need a little time for internal processing.

There is artwork on various walls in my house that my kids made in school years ago. I like knowing it's there.

Since last June I've kept a decoration from Daughter #1's high school graduation party on the mantel. After she left for college I enjoyed looking at it even more. It reminded me of a safer past, when she was still living at home, secure under my watchful eye.

I finally banished it before she arrived for Thanksgiving. But only because I knew she would mock me.

2010 is upon us and every TV channel seems to be hosting a retrospective, looking back on this, the first decade of a still sparkling new millennium.

Is it really ten years since we partied "like it's 1999?" I still possess my very tacky and beloved 2000 glasses from that celebration. Can it already be time to ring in a new decade?

When your kids have one-and-a-half feet out the door and you're at this midpoint in life, some days every breath you take seems to be a transition of some sort. Emotionally. Mentally. Physically.

I'm trying to give myself a break. Requiring a few extra moments to ruminate before moving on isn't always a bad thing.

On the window sill above my kitchen sink is a small heart-shaped vase. In it are the very dried remains of the last few asters I snipped from my garden in October before the frost.

Their presence is a gesture, a tangible reminder of what, after a long gray winter, will inevitably return.

I may just keep them there until I cut my first bunch of daffodils. Or perhaps I'll toss them tomorrow.

But today, I like knowing they're there.

 

Enjoy your New Year's celebrations everyone! See you here in 2010.

 

 

Winter Solstice

 
  

It's 12 years this month that The Ex and I split.

Yes, I asked him to leave in December. Nice timing, huh? But really, there's never a good time for these things, so December it was.

I hadn't thought about the darkness. How it descends the first three weeks of December and hovers like a mo' fo'.

My kids were 3, 6, and 10. Dinnertime was the hardest. For some reason, planning what to make, getting it ready and on the table, then sliding into the cleanup, homework, bath and bedtime ritual, seemed, for a long while, hopelessly overwhelming.

I had to find ways to let in the light.

I began collecting recipes, planning menus. Playing music at dinner. The kids took turns picking the CD's. One night might be West Side Story, the next, Britney Spears.

We'd raise the volume while everyone helped clear the table, even three year-old Daughter #2. Most nights we wound up dancing. I'd grab a kid and jitterbug. Or tango. Daughter #1 would tap. It was amazingly therapeutic.

Still, the darkness hovered.

I stole an idea from some woman's magazine on celebrating the winter solstice, the shortest, darkest day of the year. I planned carefully.

Each older child was allowed to invite one friend. We lit a fire and ate dinner (homemade pizzas they topped themselves) by candlelight.

Everyone had to pick a poem from one of our many books of children's poetry. Preferably one about winter or the dark or the light. But any one would do. Each child read their poem at the table by the light of the candle flames. I read Daughter #2's. Then one I wrote myself.

I'm not sure if they got it. But they listened to me, to each other, respectfully. Suddenly kids were begging to read "one more" poem. Then another.

"We celebrate because today we've made it through the darkest day of the year," I told them. "Every day after this, the sun will move a little bit closer, and there will be a little more light. The days will grow longer and longer. Right up until the first day of summer."

It became a tradition. Each year: a friend, candles, poetry. I worried there might be some grumbling in high school. Instead, 16 year-old boys shrugged, decided to stay for dinner, and pored through books, looking for a poem.

Some of those other traditions that pulled me through survive to this day. Whenever all three kids are home, they still take turns picking our dinner music. And we frequently find ourselves dancing during cleanup.

And yes, it's still amazingly therapeutic.

 

Flying Solo

This weekend I'm going to the one big formal holiday party I'm invited to each year.

By myself.

You don't get invited to many social events when you're divorced. I'm not trying to induce any pity here. It's just a fact.

I have some very good friends, and if they're having a pot-luck or a barbecue they'll be sure to include me. But when people decide to go out to dinner or have a drink at a restaurant or see a movie, it's generally a couples thing.

Two years ago when I was dating someone for a relatively long period of time I had many more invitations. Which is ironic, because I'm much more in need of a social life when I''m not dating and I'm by myself.

Nobody means to be cruel. I'm sure they don't think twice about it. It's one of society's best kept little secrets.

But this one party I am invited to each year requires flashing your invitation at the door to get in. I was lucky enough to land a spot on this mysterious "list" several years ago while I was working with one of the several people who host the affair (herself a single divorced woman). They key to remaining on the guest list, apparently, is that you must attend the party.

So I have. And, every year but one, I've attended it alone.

The first time I did this I thought I would throw up.

Go to a fancy party alone? The idea of merely walking in the door made me want to run home, grab some Haagen-Dazs, and break out the Netflix. It's not that I don't love parties. I do. But I'd never attended this kind of affair solo.

Two of my married friends, who themselves coveted a spot on the guest list, took me under their wing. One loaned me a vintage black wool halter dress that had belonged to her mother-in-law in the 60's. The other sent over several beautiful pieces of costume jewelry for me to choose from.

It may seem neurotic to think people turn and look when you enter such a soiree alone. But believe me, they do.

I headed straight for the bar. It was like being back in college, that feeling that I was capable of bridging any social barrier if I had a beer in my hand. Except now it was cabernet.

Martha's Vineyard is a small place, especially in winter. There were a lot of people there I knew. Everyone was dressed to the nines, a sight to behold here any time of year, take my word for it.

There was makeup, heels, men in actual suits and ties, tuxedos and gowns even. It felt a little like we were all Cinderella, transformed somehow from our every day selves by magic to attend the ball.

I wasn't prepared for the first comment on my flying solo.

"You're here alone?" an acquaintance boldly exclaimed. Then she patted me on the arm enthusiastically. "Good for you!"

I wish I could say she was the only one.

To be honest, some years it would be easier to stay home. But it's kind of become a challenge I feel I must rise to year after year.

I always end up having a good time. And I always leave feeling a little stronger, a little more whole in my self.

And, of course, I'm always happy to realize I've clinched my spot on the guest list for at least one more year.

 

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: 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.

 

Wounds

One of my children has a friend who is a cutter.

She turns her anxiety and her anger and her pain on herself and leaves marks. On her arms, her legs.

She has a kit especially for this purpose. It contains what appear to be an exacto knife and several blades. I know this because she gave it to my kid once in a bout of optimism. She wasn't going to cut anymore. She was better, she was cured.

Except she wasn't. Within weeks the tide had turned and she was hurting herself once more. I guess she put together a new kit. It's easy enough when you stop to think about it. I look around my kitchen, my bathroom. If you're searching for weapons, there are plenty to be found.

I encouraged my child not to judge this friend too harshly. At some point in our lives we all turn on ourselves, inflicting damage in one way or another.

Many of us have issues with food. Some of us drink or take too much medication. Others seek out or continue relationships with people who abuse us. Emotionally. Psychologically. Physically.

Hopefully we recognize there are people to help us. Friends, professionals. Ourselves. Hopefully we get through it. Sometimes again and again. However many times it takes.

I've been very proud of my own kid for being there for this friend. For being brave enough to yell at her, and loyal enough to stand by her. For never taking on a burden that should only be borne by professionals. And for trusting me enough to keep me in the loop.

We all have scars. I've heard people say that the ones you cannot see are even worse than those you can. But I don't know.

Turning something sharp on your own skin, slicing it open and not understanding why seeing your own blood causes the pain in your heart to momentarily disappear? Then being forever left with a scar to remind you of what you are capable of doing to yourself?

I've seen her scars. They make me want to gather her in my arms and weep.

But she is getting help. Because she's smart and loved and incredibly brave. She will not give up on herself. And neither will we.

 

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...

"Mommy Blogging"

 

What do you think of the term "Mommy Bloggers?" I don't write about my kids all the time, but I'm sure I do it often enough to be categorized somewhat as a "Mommy Blogger."

Then of course, there are the "Mommy Wars." Because apparently women  really believe there's only one way to raise a child: theirs. I don't know any of these women. The women I know are generally pretty damned supportive of one another whether they work outside the home or not.

How about "Chick-Lit?" I know I've felt guilty more than once the last few years when I read a novel about women that is light and breezy or, God forbid, romantic. And forget about wanting to write one. As though the only reading material on any of our nightstands must surely be Faulkner or Proust.

Why all the divisiveness and negativity when it comes to female labels (like if they can keep us fighting amongst ourselves, maybe they can stop us from taking over the world?)? I've mentioned this before when I blogged about how insulting I find the term "cougar." And don't get me started on what's happened to the word "feminist."

Growing up, I thought the word "feminist" stood for strong women who supported the rights and choices of all women, but now it's become such a dis, nobody wants to admit to being one, even the women I look up to for their so-called feminist ideals.

When I blogged about the term "cougar," some people suggested I embrace the word. But I'm not so sure.

Like the words "Mommy Blogger," there is something derogatory and condescending about so many of these labels. I'm not really on board with helping them become mainstream terminology.

But I think I'll throw caution to the wind and start calling myself a Feminist once more. What do you think?

In my opinion, it's the ultimate F-word.

Vineyard Vice

So the word on the street is that there's a drug dealer living in our neighborhood.

Oh, the house looks nice and normal, and I even see them walking their dog, who's pretty cute. But unfortunately the info comes from several reliable sources, so it's probably true.

A few years ago there was a registered sex offender living a couple of roads away. This was easily verified on the internet. My kids walked right by his driveway on their way home from the bus stop.

A friend thought I should make sure they had a ride so they would never have to walk past his house. But that wasn't always possible. My youngest was in middle school by this time, old enough for me to sit her down and talk about how to stay safe, and what to do if she was approached. By anyone.

Nothing ever happened and the guy is long gone.

But now we've got the damned drug dealer.

"Maybe I should get better locks." I voiced my anxiety to the Ex. "I don't want to get robbed."

"Why would they rob you?" he asked. "Don't drug dealers make a lot of money?"

Seriously? This is a man who travels the world dealing with all kinds of people and their businesses. I mean, it's not like he's confined to some island or anything.

"Ummm, I was thinking more of his customers?" I said. "You know, high, desperate people who steal anything they can get their hands on so they can buy drugs?"

"Oh. Yeah. Maybe you're right."

You think??

I know, I know; it doesn't matter where you live. There's trouble brewing everywhere. And I've got to figure in a neighborhood like our's, this can't go on for very long.

A couple of my neighbors and I are determined to get them out of here sooner rather than later. But we need to come up with a really good plan. Preferably one that doesn't involve sending any of us in under-cover, or a middle-of-the-night drive-by.

I don't watch any of those TV crime shows, so I'm at a loss here.

Have any of you ever had undesirable criminals as neighbors, or heard a good story about someone who has?

All ideas welcome. Just leave out the weapons of mass destruction. Please.

"Surprise!"

"I have a surprise for you," Daughter #1 says to me on the phone a couple of weeks ago.

Words to chill a mother's soul.

"You dyed your hair." I take a guess.

"Why would I do a stupid thing  like that?" she snaps. "Besides, no hints. It's a surprise."

I can handle that. I like surprises.

Except I know this isn't that kind of surprise. I can hear one of her roommates, one of The Margarets, laughing evilly in the background.

"You have to wait till I see you," D#1 tells me.

I'm driving down to Manhattan with a friend to see First-Born Son's apartment, which he shares with the Mole-Person, the boy who holed up in my basement for a week this summer. D#1 is taking a train from college to meet us.

You might think that's sweet, that she misses her mother and can't wait to see me. Or, you might be a more regular reader of this blog and realize that's highly unlikely. And you would be right.

D#1 loves NYC. Broadway. Shopping. She's no doubt hoping to see a show and have me pay for it, along with cool clothes and free meals.

My friend and I arrive in Manhattan first. We're sipping wine in the hotel lounge when D#1 shows up. She's smiling and she looks happy. She actually allows me to embrace her for more than a millisecond and I am ridiculously grateful.

Then she says it. "Do you want to see the surprise?"

I nod, but she's already pulling up the leg of her jeans.

Daughter #1 got a tattoo!

Daughter #1 got a tattoo?

You have to realize, this is Miss Straight-A-Student. Miss I-Never-Get-In-Trouble-and-I-Scorn-Those-Who-Do. I have often thought I should buy her a six-pack or at least a fake ID (no, not really, but the girl could use a little trouble if you know what I mean).

The tattoo is on her inner ankle, a purple outline of the Vineyard surrounding a heart and a treble clef.

"Well," she says, "what do you think?"

My friend is watching me closely.

"I love it," I exclaim. "I think it's great."

And I do.

But then I panic. Maybe I should've said I hated it. Maybe now she'll be forced to get a "tramp-stamp." Or "sleeves." (See how up I am on the tattoo lingo?)

But she looks happy so I decide to enjoy the moment.

Now tell me, because I really don't want to be alone right now, what sort of "surprises" have your kids given you? Or, if you don't have kids, what "surprises" did you give your own parents?

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.

Beach Etiquette

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a sudden tell-tale ripple of noise.

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

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

"We'll see," I said.

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

Spin Cycle

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

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

The "D" Word

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Power of Willpower

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Island Magic

Presidential Playground?

If you live on the Vineyard long enough, you will eventually have your share of celebrity sightings.

My son has been on the wait-staff of a private golf club for the past four summers, and he's served his share of actors, athletes, and politicians. Last summer in one two week period, he waited on Bill and Hillary Clinton, and then Barrack and Michelle Obama.

Daughter#1  got to attend Carly Simon's Christmas Eve party when the high school choral group she belonged to was asked to sing last year.

I have been able to provide my parents with celebrity sightings of Meg Ryan jogging in the road one summer, and Ted Danson and his wife, Mary Steenburgen, walking on an up-island beach one day after Thanksgiving. My mother still cannot accept that I moved to this "God-forsaken island," so I'm pretty sure I'm not exaggerating if I say these star sightings have been the highlight of her time spent here.

The word on the street recently is that Chelsea Clinton is getting married on the Vineyard this summer. And the whole world probably knows by now that the Obamas are set to vacation out here in August, despite the lack of comment from the White House.

Of course, the "island playground for the rich and famous" so often described in news and society columns is so completely out of sync with the island that I live on, that I wouldn't know where to begin. Sure, there's a lot of money out here in the summers, but the reason most celebrities love coming here is that it gives them a place to escape the circus of their daily lives (think Hunchback of Notre Dame yelling, "Sanctuary!").

While it would be pretty cool to actually see Obama, I realize I stand a much better chance of being held up in traffic, due to the Secret Service creating road blocks while he's here.

We didn't live here when Clinton was president, but our island vacation coincided with his on at least three occasions. The day he decided to walk up Circuit Avenue, the main drag in Oak Bluffs, for ice cream, the whole street was closed down. All the people already there had to stay, and nobody else was allowed access until he left.

The same thing happened at the Agricultural Fair, the August highlight of our island summer. When the Clintons decided to go to the fair, the gate was frozen. Nobody in or out until the president left. My friend needed to leave to get to work at the hospital. She says, and I believe her, that she had to get in the faces of the Secret Service guys, telling them she was leaving Now, and they could just Try and stop her (they didn't).

We'll see how it goes with the Obamas. I hope they have a great vacation and experience some of our island magic. But, hopefully, not at the expense of the rest of us.

Toxic Tylenol?

Acetaminophen

Acetaminophen, or Tylenol, is getting a lot of press these days. The FDA is considering lowering the recommended dosage and putting warnings on the labels about the potential for liver damage.

All I can say is it's about time. As an RN I transferred to my hospital's pediatric unit back in 1984, and that was when I learned how toxic too much Tylenol could be. Almost every month we would admit an adolescent who came in after attempting suicide. They were rarely actually suicidal. Most were crying out for attention, trying to get someone to take them and their problems seriously.

So they would overdose on Tylenol, not realizing that they were doing far more damage than the kids who scraped their wrists with razor blades or needed their stomachs pumped clean of their parent's sleeping pills.

After all, their moms and dads had been feeding them Tylenol, for everything from fever to headache, since they were infants. How much harm could it do?

They and their parents were always shocked to discover how serious this particular overdose could be. "But it's just Tylenol," they would insist.

We'd have to treat quickly and aggressively to avoid permanent liver damage, and we never knew what their eventual outcome was at the time of their discharge.

Adolescents weren't the only ones. Every so often a toddler would get their hands on a bottle of acetaminophen infant drops and wind up on our unit in big trouble. The drops are concentrated so that babies only need to be given a tiny amount, but it's that concentration that is so very dangerous.

One couple rushed their 18 month old baby to us in the middle of the night after finding him asleep in his car seat with an empty bottle of the infant drops. They'd been on their way home from vacation, and he'd been crying in the backseat, bored from being strapped in so long. The next time they'd looked back in the darkness, he'd reached into the diaper bag and was holding the childproof bottle of acetaminophen drops.

"Then he fell asleep. We didn't think anything of it," the mom tearfully reported. "Till we got home and saw that empty bottle."

I felt for those parents But I learned from them too. I never left the diaper bag within my babies' reach. And I was paranoid about pushing Tylenol on them for every little ache and pain.

Not that they didn't want me to. My son, especially, loved the sugary taste. "Meanies," he'd say when he didn't feel well. We never figured out how "Tylenol" became "meanies," but he would have taken it every day if we'd offered it.

I remember friends confessing to dosing their babies every four hours around the clock when they were teething, or giving them the medicine because their kids were convinced it made them "all better."  They had no idea that after a few days of this, toxic levels in the liver were hard to flush out.

Parents want to make the best and safest decisions for their kids, but they can't do that without the correct information. So I'm glad the FDA might finally be about to put a warning on the acetaminophen label.

I repeat, it's about time.

Naked in Living Color

Skin Check

I'm doing this post late because I had to go to the dermatologist before work today.

I go every year. What can I say? I'm Irish, with red hair and freckles. My grandmother had a melanoma removed from her face in the 1960's. My dad's had three of them over the years, not to mention a variety of less serious types of skin cancer. I've already had a basal cell cancerous growth cut off of one shoulder, and a couple of pre-cancerous little blips on my face. They're hard to distinguish from the gobs and gobs of freckles.

It's no big deal. I just go every year and strip down for the dermatologist and let him have a look-see. Now, nobody likes getting naked for a doctor, but I've had three babies, and I'm a nurse after all. I think that's supposed to give me the go-ahead to tear off my clothes any time, any place, with wild abandon, so long as someone flashes a medical license.

But this doctor has to do a skincheck, which is an embarrassingly thorough examination of every bit of my epidermis (you know, all the parts of it that are showing). I'd like to flash him small portions at a time and keep the rest covered snugly under those lovely ass-peeping gowns they're kind enough to provide, but he'll have none of that.

He wants to see all of it at once. First front, then we flip to the back. So every year I peel off the gown. And every year he says, "Man, you're white!"

Now, normally I wouldn't bother to mention a person's race, but I think here it lends some context. See, this doc is African American, and when he stands there gaping at the paleness of my whiteness, I'm not sure how, exactly, I should respond.

He then asks me to turn over, which is bad enough on its own. But then he says it again. "God. You. Are. So. White."

Yeah, I think. Um-humm. Got it.

Really, what am I supposed to say? "Gee, thanks," or "I know, I'm so sorry."

He might as well be standing there laughing and pointing or whispering to his nurse. I mean, what would he say if I looked him square in the eye (or ass, as he is probably looking at my big, pale, white one that very moment), and said, "Yes dude, and you are so very black. What do you think we should do, write a song about it?"

Maybe this would've been the year I actually said it.

But this year, things would be different. The doctor was overbooked, and I was only too happy to schedule an appointment with his nurse practitioner, a woman.

I really didn't think it mattered if she was black, white, yellow, or polka dotted. I'd have bet anything she wouldn't stand there mocking my freckled, pale, Irish lack of pigmentation.

Women, I believe, are just more sensitive about these kinds of things (translation: she'd at least wait until I got my clothes back on, paid the bill, and walked out the door). At least that's what I was hoping. And I think that's what happened.

I didn't hear any whispering as I left the office. But you never know.

Roadside Memorials

Solution

The memorial down the road, from the accident I wrote about earlier this week that killed one girl and forever changed the life of another, is growing.

There is a large, white wooden cross and a smaller one nearby. There are flowers, photos, and stuffed animals amidst the broken trees and crushed brush.

I don't know how long this memorial will stand. Several years ago two boys died here in an accident on the road by South Beach, and the huge outpouring of flowers, photos, and handmade gifts by the side of the road eventually gave way to a permanent memorial, planned and dedicated by a small group of the boys' friends.

Those two boys died that night because they weren't wearing seat belts. Their car had been going too fast, but there was no alcohol involved. In this recent tragedy, it appears as though perhaps alcohol, speed, and/or reckless driving may have been factors.

At Class Night last week, not quite 24 hours after the crash, local scholarships were given out to this year's graduating seniors. The mood was somber as, several times, parents of young people killed in past car wrecks took the stage and handed out scholarships in their dead child's name.

"Please," one parent entreated, "put Driver's Education back in the schools where it belongs."

Would doing this keep our children safe? Would it make them buckle up each time, prevent reckless speeding, or keep them from drinking and getting behind the wheel? Would it help, maybe even a little?

I don't know. If it saved just one life then surely it would be worth it. But our kids don't believe in their own mortality. Even in the face of their classmate's death, I know mine don't really think it could happen to them. No matter what we do or say, scientific studies show their brains are not developed to the point of understanding the very real consequences of risky behavior until they're in their mid-twenties.

So what do we do? We can't do nothing, merely watching as the roadside memorials multiply and the scholarships increase every time a kid dies. I don't know what the solution is, but I'd love to hear what you think.

After the boys died out by South Beach, bumper stickers encouraging the use of seat belts spread all over the island.

"Maybe this time they'll make a bumper sticker that says not to drink and drive," Daughter #2 said to me yesterday.

She sounded so hopeful. She is barely 15, naive enough to believe this is a problem that we can solve. And, for just one moment, looking at her, so did I.