IslandRoar

Some Enchanted Evening

Daughter #1 is hooked on Broadway.

An expensive habit to feed. Musicals mostly. She buys tickets at student discounts, waits for the lotteries held before shows. But still...

One of the shows she wants to see now is South Pacific.

This is my father's favorite musical. He saw Mary Martin in the original Broadway cast. We had the record album when I was a kid, and it was played often enough for me to know all the words by heart.

The score contains so many Broadway classics: You've Got To Be Carefully Taught; I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair; There Is Nothin' Like A Dame.

My parents met at a dance in Manhattan. Winter, 1954. They were each there with friends. The band started to play Some Enchanted Evening.

In case you don't know the words:
  Some enchanted evening
  You may see a stranger.
  You may see a stranger
  Across a crowded room.

My father spotted my mother from across the dance hall. It was probably her hair he noticed first. He had a thing for redheads. He made his way over and asked her to dance.

  And somehow you know.
  You know even then.

They danced that dance. And the next. My father leaned down close and hummed in her ear, trying valiantly to be romantic.

He says he knew.

My mother claims she went home and told her mother she had met a boy. And that he was tall, dark, and handsome.

"But I think there's something wrong with him," she reportedly told my grandmother. "He made this really weird buzzing noise in my ear."

My father is tone-deaf. He cannot sing a note.

It almost lost him the girl of his dreams.

Fortunately, for me and Daughter #1, she gave him another chance.

I told Daughter #1, if she goes to see South Pacific, to remember this story when she hears the song.

Her own family history in the making.

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.

 

New Year's Eve

New Year's Eve celebrations were tailor made for night owls like me. And some of mine have been rather memorable.

But this year I spent it completely alone. It was kind of weird.

It's not that there's always been a party. But if I was stuck without plans, at least one or two of my three kids were sure to be home, celebrating with or without their friends, running in at midnight to embrace and steal a sip of my champagne.

Not this year. First-Born Son and Daughter #1 were gone for the night with friends, Daughter #2 off at a New Year's sleepover.

And me? Well, no champagne this year. Instead I had a hot date with Netflix and a chocolate mousse brownie. Then I lay in bed and watched the ball drop in Times Square.

I wondered, did my parents feel this way when, one year, my New Year's Eve plans exceeded their own? Perhaps.

Yet it's different when there's two of you. You laugh at or with one another, and settle in for another boring night at home. Together.

It's not that I don't have friends. But they were off-island or with family. Or spending that boring night at home with their spouses.

I hesitate to even write all this down. I don't want anybody feeling sorry for me. Even though I might possibly feel just a wee bit sorry for myself.

Maybe not sorry, actually. Maybe just disappointed. I expect more. I want more. Dick Clark  himself would be hard-pressed to call this New year's Eve "Rockin'."

I'm not really worried about this becoming a habit, however. I like my late nights and social gathrings too much to settle for that.

And seriously, a New Year's Eve like this one is pretty much guaranteed to come along only once in a blue moon, right?

 

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.

 

Santa Did What?

I decorated the house for Christmas last week.

I was pretty proud of myself. Usually I wind up storing away whole rooms worth of photos, vases, and multiple other assorted knickknacks, in the quest to spread Christmas cheer throughout the first floor of my house.

I get this inclination from my mother. Every holiday season growing up, each square inch of our house screamed Ho-Ho-Ho. To be fair, it was the 70's; a lot of things were extreme, especially in the decorating department.

But thinking back, our house looked like Santa threw up in it. Seriously. That is, if Santa's throw-up contained tinsel and a vast assortment of shiny and/or red and green holiday kitsch.

The sad part is I loved it. And as soon as I had independent space of my own, I tried my merry best to emulate it: my college dorm room, first apartment, and later, my house.

By the time I came to my senses several years ago, it was too late. My children, near-grown though they may be, are attached to the decorations like Rudolph to his nose.

My casual assertions of, "I think we'll scale back this year," have been met with strong reaction.

"No, you can't! It's tradition. You'll destroy the very foundation upon which our childhood security and future happiness rests."

Okay, maybe they don't say those exact words, but the implication is clear.

This year however, two of them are away at college. They'll return shortly before Christmas, happy merely to be home and basking in the warm glow of my motherly love and affection.

At least, that's what I'm counting on. See, I decorated while the only remaining child, Daughter #2, was at school. And I cleverly managed to fill a whole box with things I no longer care to display.

The best part is, she hasn't noticed a thing. I've got my fingers crossed her siblings will be equally oblivious (Daughter #2, if you're reading this, pay no attention to these silly words. I would never deceive my own children. And besides, you know everything I write here is a complete lie).

So what do I plan on doing with that box of discarded holiday cheer? Why, pass it on to my own offspring of course.

I wouldn't want to deprive them of one day experiencing first hand the joy of Santa's throwing up Christmas tradition right in their very own homes.

 

A Little Sugar...

 

The South Dakota Cowgirl honored me with this blog award recently. If you don't know her, you definitely should. She lives on a huge ranch with her guy Zach, some cattle, and some of the prettiest horses I've ever seen. Her posts are fun and thoughtful, and I make sure to check in with her every day.

Before passing this award along, I''m supposed to share up to 10 fascinating things about myself. Which is pretty hard, because I think you all probably know everything there is to know about me already. Let's see...

-For a short time, around age 8, I wanted to be a nun (yeah, I know; tell me about it). My parents wisely humored me until the inclination passed.

-A couple of years ago I dated a guy, for over a year, who had no sense of smell (are you thinking Blog Post, because I certainly am).

-I have the tiniest wrists I've ever seen in an adult. Really, I'm 5'9" and I have these wrists smaller than most infants. I love bracelets, but finding ones small enough is a challenge.

-I've always been able to do a back-bend, and now that I'm fast approaching old age, I make sure to do one once a year, just to prove I still can. 

-I love long dangly earrings. Although again, as I get older, I have to choose ones that are more lightweight so my earlobes don't end up on my shoulders.

-At family gatherings when I was a kid, my parents had me do impressions for entertainment; I did a great Ed Sullivan and Richard Nixon (who didn't?), as well as two of Lily Tomlin's characters: her telephone operator ("One ringie-dingie"), and Edith Anne.

-I love my feet. Of course it's just my opinion, but I think they're really pretty.

-I had a dream when I was pregnant with all three of my kids that correctly predicted what sex they would be.

 

Okay that's only eight, but I think we can agree it's more than enough. I'd like to pass this award on to the following blogs:

1) Erin at The Locals Love It: She has some great posts about cool places by people who actually live there, as well as useful travel tips and her own very thoughtful reflections on life in general.

2) Lynn at For Love or Funny: She never fails to make me smile.

3) Jill at Stella's Roar: I've been following her for a while now, and she always posts photos of the most beautiful and interesting things, leaving me in a constant state of yearning.

Please take some time and go visit these lovely ladies. You'll be really glad you did.

I hope you all have a wonderful Thanksgiving! I am going to take the next few days off and be back on Monday.

 

 

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.

 

"Hello? Here I Am..."

Last June when my parents were here, we were driving home from Daughter #1's high school graduation.

"God," my father commented, "what some of those kids accomplish is unbelievable." He shook his head. "The talent some people have."

Excuse me, I wanted to say. Some people? You mean, like your own granddaughter, the one sitting here right next to you, by the way, who graduated in the top five percent of her class? Who got accepted into some pretty amazing colleges? Who sang in Austria, won national awards, and will be dancing in her recital next week?

But I knew it would do no good. In that moment it all came flooding back. Growing up, my sister and I were subject to a continuous litany of how pretty/talented/smart our friends were. Meanwhile there we were, standing right in front of them.

My sister struggled a little in school, but she ran the Booster Club, was on the yearbook staff, and donned the bear costume of our school mascot for football games. She worked her butt off at her after-school job, and never got into trouble.

Success starts with a mindset. I believe, without a doubt, that we can be as spectacular as we decide we are. I've always felt this.

I remember wanting to jump up and down in front of my parents, waving my arms to get their attention.

Hello? It's me, your daughter who's starring in the school play? The one who's graduating at the top of her class and working 20 hours a week in a nursing home? Can you see me?

Did you ever feel this way?

For a long time their remarks made me jealous. I'd want to snap back: Yeah, you think so-and-so is that great? You should see what a bitch she can be. Or defend myself to them: Hey, I can do that too. Just give me a chance. But I never did.

As I got older I realized they had no idea they were creating this resentment. They'd be shocked to know our feelings had ever been hurt by their remarks. Yet still I struggle, hearing them go on about other people's grandchildren, how beautiful and talented they are, what colleges they got into. Why is it so hard for them to believe they have shining stars right in their own family?

"Do you really think Daughter #1 can be a doctor?" my mother asked not long ago.

"Why couldn't she?" I asked, my grip tightening on the phone.

"It takes so long. And you have to work so hard," she went on. Meanwhile, her brother and three of my cousins are physicians. Does she think they possess some spectacular gene that is absent in her own offspring?

"I think," I said carefully, "that she can be whatever she decides she wants to be."

And I really really do.

And Then There Was One

I never wanted to be an only child. I liked having my sister around to deflect a portion of my parent's attention, and it's comforting now that someone out there knows exactly what life was like growing up in my family.

I never wanted to have an only child, either. Don't misunderstand; there is nothing wrong with having one child if that's what you desire. But I knew I wanted more. And if I'd been unable to have more kids after my son, I know I would have adopted. I was that adamant about giving my children siblings.

Although I purposely waited over three years after First-Born Son to have Daughter #1, there was a little part of me that worried the whole time. What if something happened to me and F-B Son was left without a brother or sister?

When finally I placed D #1 in his arms, my relief was palpable. At least if I died now, I thought, they would have each other. And when I added D #2 to the mix, I felt more of the same.

So it should come as no surprise that now that I am down to one child at home, I'm less than thrilled. This, after all, was not the plan. I wanted noise, arguing, laughter, the patter of little feet. A bit of chaos, if you will.

But now. It's awfully quiet.

It's not that D #2 isn't good company. But she's a busy girl. School, field hockey, homework, friends. Not to mention that whole other world of her cell phone and Facebook.

There's no one to cook for. Her palate is, let's just say, limited, and I tend to eat a lot of salad. We're pretty boring.

The other day I was driving her home from practice and I started to recite the list of things I needed to accomplish that evening. I suppose I was just thinking out loud.

But suddenly she interrupted me and asked, "Why are you telling me all this?"

I stopped to think. I guess before I had three of them to talk to each day, and now the little boring stuff that used to get spread around was all falling on her. Poor thing.

"Well honey, it's just the two of us now." I smiled sweetly and patted her hand. "So we're kind of like an old married couple."

"Ewww, don't say that," she shrieked.

Then, "Hey, can we get ice cream tonight?"

"Sure," I told her. "Why not?"

I guess being an only child has its bright side too.

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.

Spin Cycle: Routine

I don't like to think of myself as a routine-oriented person. Somehow I see me as more loose, ready to go with the flow.

Yet the truth is, I don't do well with transitions. Maybe that's a little harsh. It's not that I don't do well; it's just that I need a transition period to get through the transition. And for that, I rely on certain things that comfort me, a routine if you will.

I never realized this about myself until I recognized it in my son. Even as a baby he loved vacation, but he seemed so relieved when we returned home. He enjoyed school, but I learned to dread September.

Every year he'd be cranky and exhausted until he felt at ease with the new teacher, the new class of kids, and the new routine. Only then, when he once more felt like master of his universe, could he relax and do what he had to do.

In trying to help him learn to deal with transition, I saw that I had been unconsciously "handling" myself the same way for most of my life.

Routine gets such a bad rap. BORING. But everyone likes knowing what to expect. It helps us feel safe and secure. Babies are happier when they have regular mealtimes and naps, and even teenagers respond better when there are clear limits and rules that they know they need to follow.

Sometimes it's the little things. When I go away I need to bring enough books with me to read and to write in. If I can, I always take my favorite pillow.

My son knows he needs to call or text me when he's left school in Manhattan to come home for the weekend, and then again when he arrives back at school. My daughters do the same throughout their day, to let me know if they'll be late, who's driving them home, or if their plans change. It's part of our family routine, just like sitting down to dinner, or all three of them kissing me good night and good bye.

Family traditions see us through holidays and other special times. But maybe our daily routines are just smaller traditions that help us touch base as we get through the day.

I'm writing this post while lying in bed before I go to sleep. First-Born Son came in when he got home from work, like he does every night. He sat on the bed, roughed up the cat, and told me about his day. It's part of our routine.

Now I'll read a little before I turn out the light, because that's my routine. Boring? Maybe. But comforting? You bet.


Now head on over to the Never-Routine Sprite's Keeper for some more of this week's Spins.

Spin Cycle: Kids

A Poem

This week's Spin is kids. Now, I write about kids a lot, maybe too much. But I couldn't think of anything I wanted to post. Then I put up my Weekly Poem, which I post on another page of this blog, and I thought, "Aha, this is it."

I wrote this poem when Daughter #1 was 10. Already she was the independent, trend-bucking, intellectual girl she is today. A poem is really often nothing more than just a moment caught in time, and this is a tiny moment I will always treasure.

My Daughter Going to Town

She wears layers of clashing
flowered shirts,
her purse carefully thrown
over her head and one shoulder.

Inside it I know
are plans,
concoctions large enough
to barely contain themselves
in a roll of lifesavers,
a zippered change purse,
a round pot of gloss.

She throws her chin up,
strides a half step ahead,
toes not quite thrust into sandals,
tongue intent through clenched jaw,
her cheek still round with little girl dreams.

And I, unable to stop myself,
place a hand on her head.
Startled she turns,
smiles,
and I ache at her
magnificence.
                  -mdh

For those of you (and I know there are many) who don't respond enthusiastically to poetry, I apologize. I promise not to invade this page with poems too often. For more Spins on kids, go check out Sprite's Keeper.

Estrogen-soaked

The Boys are Back in Town

I don't think I realized until my son came home for the summer how I'd been literally drowning in estrogen this past school year. Well, maybe not drowning. But certainly floating. As in, barely keeping my head above water?

Seriously, I've been a woman surrounded by women. Two daughters, five pets (although two of these pets are biologically male, they've been neutered so long I'm fairly sure they no longer technically count as boys). And I broke up last fall with the man I'd been dating for over a year.

Gone were the days when my basement was filled with loud, writhing boys, wrestling for the xbox controller or the last handful of Doritos. Burping, farting, cursing, while upstairs my daughters and I rolled our eyes and shook our heads.

Not that there was ay shortage of eye-rollilng here in Hormonal Who-ville. It appears to be, for my daughters, an autonomic body function, akin to say, breathing. Eye-rolling and sighing and muttering under one's breath without actually moving, are the common responses when asked to do some monumental and entirely unreasonable task like, maybe taking out the trash or walking the dog.

And let's not forget the poor dog. She may not be male (or even female, if I'm sticking by my previous definition of neutered), but she'd clearly been jones-ing for a big dose of Boy Playtime, the kind where my son wrestles her to the family room floor, or chases her around downstairs until I command sharply "Enough," freezing both of them in their tracks.

Without my son here to break out the chips and sit down to ESPN, I'd been gorging on adolescent estrogen-soaked TV: Gossip Girl, One Tree Hill, 90210. I actually began looking forward to America's Next Top Model (Tyra-mail, anyone?).

You're wondering why I just didn't get up and leave the room. Go upstairs, open a newspaper. I could've, yes, but some bizarre powerful mothering enzyme kept me hovering close by, attempting to share my daughters' world (always a set up for heartbreak).

Possibly this is the same enzyme that caused me to memorize the names of every dinosaur so that I might be conversant with my raptor-loving little boy when he was three (to this day I can tell the difference between a pachycephalosaurus and a parasauralophus; try beating that for cocktail party banter). No doubt, the same substance that caused me to learn all the words to the soundtracks of Rent and Wicked when Daughter #1 was consumed by them, and to spend hours traipsing the muddy farm Daughter #2 worked at for years, when I would so much rather have been shopping for shoes.

But summer is here. I have survived the estrogen onslaught. My son came home in May so things are a little more balanced. There are boys at the dinner table once more, and several more gallons of milk and loaves of bread in my kitchen. There is more noise and arguing and even wrestling (and not just with the dog).

At the end of August he'll go back to school. But this year, D #1 will leave as well. It'll just be me and D #2 for this next school year, a whole new dynamic I can't even begin to fathom. I don't know what I'll be drowning in come September. But I sure hope someone remembers to throw me a life-line!

Privacy

How Much Do We Need to Know?

Have you ever been tempted to read your kid's diary (many still do keep them, you know, despite this techno-age)? How about go through their private stuff or their room?

I haven't done any of these, but I don't know if I think they're always the worst things in the world. I mean, if I seriously thought my kid was in trouble, doing drugs or acting out in some way that had me seriously worried, I'd probably do anything. Including searching their room and anywhere else that might give me a clue.

But I think there are people who are just curious (or nosy) about their kids. They go through their stuff because they want info, not because they have something to worry about. But when you're dealing with adolescents, you just might stumble upon some alarming tidbit that you really didn't want to know.

Privacy is big. They're going to screw up. And probably get through it and past it just fine (nine times out of ten). So do we really need to know everything?

I ask this because when I was a senior in high school, my mother read my diary. She said it fell off the radiator in my room, and when she went to pick it up, it opened to the page she confronted me about.

Of course I don't believe that. I figure she must have been reading it for a while, and that particular page freaked her out so badly that she needed to blow her own cover.

I was standing in front of the mirror in my room brushing my hair when she suddenly stood there, looming in my doorway. "So," she said in an ominous voice. "You think you're pregnant."

I was so blown away I didn't even attempt to lie. "You read my book," I blurted out. "How could you do that?"

It was one of my least favorite days in the long history of my life. I wasn't pregnant. But I was young and stupid and obviously not being careful.

I later tried to lie my way out of it, telling her she'd read it wrong. I even went back, added words, and left it out for her to read again. But it was too late. My mother knew I had a sex life.

Teachable moment, right? Not exactly. I was grounded, and for a short while I thought my life as I knew it was over. But I was a good kid. I got A's and I didn't get in trouble. Gradually, they eased back on the restrictions.

I'll never know what my parents said about the whole thing to each other behind closed doors, but neither of them ever brought up the topic of sex or birth control or pregnancy to me. Ever.

So would it have been better for all involved if they'd never known? In this particular case, I really think so.

I had a hard time writing in my journal for the longest time after that. I found myself writing to whomever might be invading my privacy and reading my words, uninvited.

Weeks later I was in the car with my mother, and she very casually said, "I'm sorry I read your book."

It didn't take away what she'd done.

But it meant a lot.

Graduation

Grief

The past few days have been bittersweet here on the Vineyard.

Yesterday, Daughter #1's senior class of 203 students graduated in a beautiful ceremony. This weekend there were Graduation parties everywhere we turned, D #1's included. The long lost and nearly forgotten sun made a highly anticipated and longed for appearance Saturday and Sunday, much to everyone's surprise.

Friday night at Class Night, a large majority of this year's seniors were awarded with scholarship funds to the tune of well over half a million dollars, donated by our very generous and supportive community.

All this after, on Thursday night, two of our island kids, one a graduating senior, and the other back after having just finished her first year of college, were involved in a horrific car crash, leaving one of them dead and the other with a long and painful recovery.

Daughter #2 called me Friday morning from school in tears. For one brief, insane second I thought she was crying because she hadn't made the extracurricular choral group she'd recently auditioned for. But then she said, "Mommy, there was an accident last night." And I felt, momentarily, as though I could not breathe.

"How can there still be Graduation?" D #1 asked later that day.

I understood her confusion. How could they, or any of us, reconcile the tragic events that had just occurred with the joy of Graduation?

The answer is that they can't, of course, be reconciled. But life is like that. Neither sadness nor joy take place in a vacuum. We are capable of feeling two very different, even conflicting, emotions at the same time.

A classmate who could not be there to cross the stage to receive her diploma, and one who is lost forever, were both, nonetheless, very much present in every part of this weekend's ritual. There were tears, a moment of silence for a dead friend, and a spontaneous standing ovation by the graduates at the ceremony yesterday for their injured peer.

It is a painful yet powerful lesson to learn that we can celebrate and mourn in tandem. And how poignant that these kids learn it now, as they stand paused at this crossroads between childhood and the rest of their lives.

There is a makeshift memorial by the side of the road at the sight of the crash, flowers and photos lying tenderly among the snapped-off trees and mowed down brush.

I cannot drive by it without feeling both a heart wrenching sense of despair at the loss, and an overwhelming rush of gratitude that my children are still here today to hug.

A Rose By Any Other Name...

I never changed my name when I got married. Which really irritated my ex mother-in-law, who claimed I was just trying to make things easier for myself if the marriage ended.

My ex took the whole keeping-my-name thing in stride. "What about our kids," he wanted to know. "Will they at least have my name?"

"Oh sure," I told him. "I have no problem with that."

Then I got pregnant. I don't know if it was the crazy-ass hormone shifts or the nausea and sciatica, but round about the sixth month, I started having second thoughts.

"I knew it," he pounced. "I knew you'd change your mind." It may have been the only time in our marriage he had me pegged correctly.

I mean, it just seemed like I was doing all the work in making this baby. Sure, he'd contributed some piddly little sperm, but the actual baby construction and maintenance was occurring in My Body. The least the little sucker could do for me was carry my name in addition to his dad's.

But how to do it? Space? Or hyphen? I didn't care for either. Then I read an article suggesting couples create a whole new name for their children by stuffing their two names together,without spaces or hyphens (or pretty much any common sense).

My husband was skeptical, but I somehow managed to convince him that this was the cutting-edge solution to our problem. What can I say? We were young and stupid. Too ignorant to see into our unborn children's futures, as person after person calling out or announcing their last name proceeded to completely annihilate the hell out of it.

Okay. I get it now. The hyphen or space is like directions on how to say it. Who knew?

"Wow," people inevitably comment. "I never heard that name before. What nationality is it?


Try Naive American, circa 1987. If I had it to do over, I'd probably give them their father's last name and use mine as a middle name. It really would've made everyone's lives a lot simpler. But somehow, when I was 25, that seemed way too much like settling.

Ah, youth.

People never know what to call us. I have my last name, my ex has his, and the kids have...well...theirs. We all pretty much answer to anything, which isn't a bad lesson in life to nail at a young age.

The ex and I agreed a long time ago we would be fine if any of our kids decided to drop one of our names and go by the other when they're older. And I think we meant it, really, I do.

But now, I'm kind of having second thoughts...

Summer Time Spin

This week's Spin Cycle has to do with summer. Don't forget to head over to Sprite's Keeper and check out the other Spins.

It may be June, but as I noted yesterday, here on the Vineyard it hasn't seemed very summery. Every year I need to remind myself: summer rarely makes much of an appearance before the end of June. But this year's chilly, wet spring is wearing thin.

I've always loved summer. When the kids were younger, the rigid school year schedule, with its extracurricular kid activities and homework battles, morphed into a relaxing mosaic of days in the garden or at the pool, evenings filled with barbecues, ice cream, and movies in the park.

But now that they're older, it takes on a whole new meaning. Summer is the only time that my kids all actually live at home for any length of time. First-Born Son has been away at college, and Daughter #1 leaves at the end of August. They'll be here for holidays and short visits, but it's very different when they actually live here.

It's not that I get to spend hours and hours of time with them. They're busy with multiple jobs and being with friends. And living in a seasonal mecca like this, there is plenty to keep them on the run.

But I love knowing this is their home base, the place they come back to every night. I go out of my way to coordinate family dinners on the days everyone's schedules allow them to be home at the same time. I entice them with off-island excursions to shop for what they need for school. And I try and plan some overnight family trip where we can all be together for a short time, a time when the old sibling alliances and rivalries, and stupid family jokes that only we get, can rear their sarcastic yet affectionate heads.

This summer is my 30th high school reunion in New Jersey, fairly close to where we used to live eight years ago. So months earlier I sent out the memo: Attention children of mine! You will put in for these four days and three nights off from your summer jobs before you even start. We will be taking a Family Road Trip to New Jersey, and you will be there, come hell or high water.

They rolled their eyes and grumbled, but I know better than to pay any attention to that. They're secretly looking forward to it as much as I am.

They used to be here all the time. And I spent so much of my time figuring out how I could score some precious hours to myself. Now they're mostly gone. And I spend time plotting how to rope them back in for some hours together. Right now, summer seems to be that time.

Who knows how many more summers they'll all be here? One, maybe two if I'm lucky?

Summer. My favorite time of year. Now, if the weather could just give me a reason to pack away the sweaters and break out the sunscreen...

Forms of Protest

When we were off-island to see "Hair" a couple of weeks ago, I made the requisite supply run to Walmart.

My friend stayed in the car with her son. It seemed he was boycotting Walmart based on certain of its practices he'd learned about, and my friend wanted to respect his dedication to this cause.

I could relate. Back in the 1980's, I went for years without eating one of my favorite foods, tuna, because dolphins were reported to be getting tangled up and dying in the tuna nets. My husband at the time, and any tuna-loving friends who frequented my home, were forced into this boycott by their association with me.

I didn't delude myself into thinking I could change the world. But that didn't mean it wasn't important to try.

Six years ago now, when the Iraq war started, First-Born Son, a freshman in high school at the time, participated in a protest at his school in the form of a walkout. I recall the look of apprehension on his face when I picked him up at the bus stop that afternoon.

"I don't want you to be mad," he precipitated his tale, as he got into the car. "But they took attendance during the walkout. I think we're going to be in trouble."

I wasn't mad. In fact, I was proud of him. It's hard to remember now, but at the time we still were fairly sure Iraq had weapons of mass destructiion. I wasn't completely sure how I felt about the war, but I was proud my son had stood up for his convictions.

At the same time, I also supported his school and the principal, who invited all those who'd walked out to turn themselves in and accept their consequences. Most of the kids did, and they received Saturday School (detention). The principal came in herself that morning, and talked with the kids about their opinions concerning the war. It was, for my son, a memorable experience.

What causes, little or big, have you or your kids taken up over the years? Did you learn anything as a result?

Sometimes I think I don't take on enough causes. But I know people (my mother, for one) who would probably disagree with that. I need to remember, we don't have to set the world on fire to make a difference.

Eventually, the tuna industry changed the way they caught their fish. And the dolphins triumphed.

Every little bit counts.

Graduation

Top Twenty

Every year out here on the Vineyard in June, our two newspapers run special graduation issues, honoring that year's seniors. Photos of every graduate are published, as well as highlights from commencement and the many generous island scholarships and awards. The top 20 students are highlighted along with what colleges they'll attend next year.

And every year, someone somewhere suggests we stop publishing this "Top 20" list, arguing that it stresses the academic ability of some small few, and makes other students feel inferior when they should be celebrating their own accomplishments.

I say: Oh please. Give me a break!

Daughter #1 is in this top 20. She's not on any sports teams and, although she's always done chorus and dance, those are areas she's happy to take a back-seat supportive role. She is shy and quiet; teacher conferences have always been a reiteration of telling me she needs to speak up.

Academics is her thing. She loves to learn, and she put in the long hours over the many years required to get into this very elite group of her peers.

Firstborn Son, a bright, gregarious kid, could not spare the time to even attempt to achieve such an honor. But he did not begrudge his classmates who did.

So this is D #1's moment. Sure, I'm proud of her. And I can't deny it will be an honor for me as well. But this belongs to her. She's earned it.

Each graduate has a reason to be proud of themselves. Some kids have difficulties with learning and, no matter how bright they are or how hard they work, they will not be in that top 20. But every motivated kid will find their own way to shine. We can't get so caught up in being "politically correct" that the achievements of these dedicated kids are allowed to fade into oblivion.

At D #1's eighth grade graduation, four years ago, the school superintendent asked the athletes to stand. Then those on Student Government. There is no honor roll at this elementary school, another attempt to equalize the masses and avoid feelings of academic inadequacy, no doubt. But what about the kids whose academic adequacy is their strength? What about the D #1's of this world?

I am so happy for her. I can't wait to see this year's Graduation Issue of the island papers. You better believe I'll be purchasing quite a few copies. This is D #1's moment. One of many, I'm sure.

You go girl!