IslandRoar

Martha Norton

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

Female Troubles

 

I was thinking today about how far we've come in terms of being open about women's health issues. Society, I mean.

When my ex mother-in-law was only a young mother in her 20's, she lost her own mother to cancer. To this day she has no idea what kind of cancer it was.

"Oh," she'll say dismissively, "nobody talked about such things."

Many health topics pertaining to women just weren't spoken of. My father took this to extremes. I remember him once mentioning a female business colleague at the dinner table, and how she was doing poorly.

Ever curious, I piped up, "What's the matter with her?"

As children were generally supposed to be "seen and not heard," he glowered at me before lowering his voice significantly to say, "I'm not sure...Female Troubles."

I had no idea what the hell those were.. But it sounded deep and dark, and clearly I understood I should inquire no further.

As I got older however, I enjoyed making waves.

When I came home during college I would challenge him. "Women's troubles, dad? What does that mean? Is it (and here I would whisper) down there?"

He would look to my mother for help, but, to her credit, she would be laughing too.

When I finally told First-Born Son he was to be a big brother, I made sure to explain that the baby was growing in my uterus, not my stomach. I was following parenting advice I'd read which warned that if I didn't make this clear, he might surmise I'd eaten the baby or some ridiculous crap like that.

The very next day after I'd told him the good news, my parents came over. First-Born Son, only three at the time, ran to greet them at the door.

"Poppy," he shrieked. "Mommy has a baby growing. In her uterus!"

I thought my father would pass out. I'm betting he could've gone his whole life without acknowledging that either of his daughters even had a uterus.

First-Born Son today is, of course, more modern and open about these things than my dad. But in our house with all its estrogen, the girls and I have been known to bring up certain subjects just to give him a hard time. Tough boy that he is, he rarely cringes. But that doesn't mean we won't stop trying.

As I head toward The Big Change, I can't help but try and think of yet another way to yank both his and my father's chains. I'm not yet peri-menopausal, but at 48, I anticipate the big arrival any second now.

I envision myself calling my parents and getting my poor father on the phone.

"Guess what, Dad? I just had my first hot flash!"

How do you think that would go over?

Or maybe, better yet, I could get First-Born Son to make the call and tell him for me.

 

Spin Cycle: Spring Cleaning

Even the thought of Spring Cleaning leaves me a little nauseous.

Especially as I look out my windows and see ice and snow. Right now spring seems a cruel joke, tantalizing, dangling far off in the distance, never to arrive.

To understand my memories of Spring Cleaning, you must know that my mother is a neat-freak. I don't mean that in any derogatory way; it's simply a fact.

When I was growing up, the kitchen floor was scrubbed at least once a week. She dusted and vacuumed daily, and sheets were changed on a weekly basis. You don't want to know how frequently the sheets in my house are changed.

Spring Cleaning for my mother seemed to be a religious experience. Storm doors and windows were stored away and every window pane scrubbed inside and out.

There was the official changing of the fall/winter curtains, draperies, and all bedspreads to the spring/summer variety.

Winter woolens were packed away in the attic in moth balls and exchanged for fair-weather cottons. Drawers and closets were purged and re-organized in the process, and my sister and I endured the torturous process of trying on Every Article Of Clothing to be sure it fit.

My father took time off work each year to polish the furniture. And I mean polish the furniture. We would come home from school to the overpowering chemical aroma of polish, and there he would be, sleeves rolled up, kneeling by the credenza or dining room table, chairs on their sides as he manhandled their surfaces to the kind of lustrous shine my own neglected furniture has no idea even exists.

I'm sure the house sparkled from top to bottom when she was through. But I'm also sure that satisfaction was short lived. The dust will gather, the windows will streak. Hands and feet never fail to leave their mark.

I have done little to carry  on my mother's tradition of Spring Cleaning. I do have seasonal bedding, and of course I store sweaters, pull out summer clothes.

But my real Spring Cleaning takes place outside. Clearing the gardens, cutting back the lavender and roses, breaking out the dahlia tubers. The deck will need re-finishing before we can drag out the wicker deck furniture, and the pool fence repaired from the ravages of winter.

My house is rarely messy, but my standards are nowhere near my mother's. Maybe it's a different generation but mostly, for me, it's a matter of choice.

If the very notion of Spring Cleaning leaves me nauseous and tense, it's better left behind with the old-time furniture polish, lost somewhere in my very distant past.

For some other takes on Spring Cleaning, go visit the always sparkling Sprite's Keeper.

 

Winter Wonderland?

I have determined that I'm not a cold weather vacation sort of gal.

It's something I've always suspected but I can now say, unequivocally, that it's a fact.

Last week we ventured into the mountainous New Hampshire wilderness for a family vacation. The fact that my kids now have three different winter breaks propelled me into scheduling a mini-vacation at a time convenient for all.

Reckless fool that I am, it didn't seem worth it booking a flight to some place warm for a mere four days. Ah, the wisdom of hindsight.

Instead, I chose an historic resort in New Hampshire. The place was beautiful. The skiing was right down the road, in addition to tubing, zip-lining, horse-drawn sleigh rides, and dog-sledding (yes, dog-sledding!).

These all seemed like fun-filled and perfectly reasonable activities at the time. And they were, they really were.

Except.

The east coast had that post-Christmas cold snap. Temps shot down to single digits, negative five with the wind chill during the day. It never stopped snowing, heavy at times, but, up until the morning of our departure, there was an endless cascade of flakes. Beautiful to look at. At least for the first day. Or two.

Remember when your kids were little and you spent all that time bundling them up to play in the snow? Extra socks and mittens. Hats and snow pants. Boots and scarves. And then of course, they'd have to pee, a truly monumental endeavor at that point.

Well, that's how I felt the whole time I was there. Bundle up to brave the great outdoors, peel off the layers once back inside. Bundle up. Peel off. A never-ending array of damp clothing and snow streaked floors.

Static electricity on the clothes, in the hair. Dry skin. Hat head. Numb faces and runny, red noses.

Don't get me wrong; we had fun. Tubing was fun. And zip-lining over a ski slope. I've always enjoyed speed.

And there was laughter, at times hysterical. Especially on our horse-drawn sleigh ride in blizzard-like conditions, an experience none of us will soon forget, including Dave, our driver, or Glenn, his trusty draft horse.

"I'm cold, Mommy. I'm cold." This, from my 22 year-old son, curled in the fetal position on his bed after skiing.

Shut up and grow a pair, I wanted to snap at him. Except that I was too busy counting my own frozen digits.

Okay, we admit it. We're wimps.

We tried our best. We persevered. We can check one off the bucket-list.

"The next time we take a sleigh ride, it won't be in a blizzard," First-Born Son informed me.

"What next time?" I stared at him. "I don't know about you, but I'm good. For life."

And while nothing beats sipping a hot-toddy by the warmth of a roaring fire as the winds howl at the windows, I think I prefer a tropical drink with a tiny umbrella in it, while lounging poolside or on some warm, white sand.

Promise me you'll remind me of this next winter, okay?

 

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.

 

Lilah's Big Adventure

Have you ever lost a pet?  Maybe they got out or ran away? Did they turn up eventually, after days or weeks, or has their fate become one of life's unsolved mysteries?

My old cat, Lilah, went missing last week. Of my five cats, four are strictly house cats, including Lilah. It took me a couple of days to realize she was gone.

I know that sounds terrible, but life is busy. And with five cats, I don't always register which ones I haven't seen that day. When finally it dawned on me, I scoured the house with a sense of foreboding. Lilah is almost 16; it was entirely possible, I knew, that she had crawled off somewhere to die.

I searched under beds, behind furniture, in closets,  calling her name all the while, clicking my tongue against the roof of my mouth, snapping my fingers. All her favorite calling sounds. No Lilah.

Then I happened to glance out at the backyard from my bathroom window. There she sat in front of my annual beds, front paws daintily side by side, looking up at the house.

I screamed. I couldn't help it. I was so happy to see her alive. I ran outside but, predictable feline that she is, she took off into the scrubby overgrowth behind the pool fence and wouldn't let me come near.

I put dishes of food out on the deck and went to work. When I got home, the food was gone. But no Lilah.

"We have to find her!" Daughter #2 was frantic as she left for a sleepover. "Text me as soon as you get her. No, send me a photo. I need to see her!"

"Set a trap," First-Born Son directed when I called to report the news.

"Who do you think I am?" I asked. "MacGyver?"

"Get a cardboard box and prop it with a stick. Put the food under it and attach a string to the stick."

He was serious. I had visions of Elmer Fudd or Wile E. Coyote's futile attempts to trap their elusive, much more clever prey. "Then pull the string when she comes to eat."

I decided to give it a try. Understand, my 16 year old arthritic, pansy-ass kitty was out in the wind and rain for the second night in a row. I was desperate.

In the end the wind knocked over my trap and the rain rendered the cardboard box soggy. But we were lucky. We'd also left the garage door open as backup, and that's where I found Lilah at six the following morning.

She was skinnier and maybe a little dehydrated, but otherwise okay. For the next two days she couldn't get enough of us. Purring and meowing, following me everywhere.

But there's something else. Whereas before she was fairly low in the animal hierarchy at our house, she now seems to have risen to the top. The other cats make room for her on the couch and the bed. The dog, who enjoys a good kitty-chasing from time to time, goes out of her way to give her her space.

They clearly think she's a rock star.

I'd love to have a little video camera that could give me a playback of her two day adventure in the big bad world, but alas, I've no idea what happened to her out there.  

Whatever it was, though, it must have been something big. She left a timid old lady. But she came back one super cool cat.

 

The Middle Place

 

My parents, like a lot of people, have had a tough year.

My father, 78, has had one health problem after another. The last couple of months they've dealt with the removal of a rather deep melanoma (the most serious type of skin cancer) below his eye, then a complicated skin graft at this site.

It required three surgeries, drains, packing, multiple dressing changes for the large amounts of bleeding and drainage, and many different medications. My mother, never much of a nurse herself, has been the one to perform all these required tasks.

In addition, the hospital where the doctor practices and the surgeries were performed is over an hours drive from their Florida home. My mother hates to drive. My father has always done the driving for both of them. He even took her to the grocery store or the mall, and ran errands with her. Until now.

In reality, the past couple of years he'd also been there to offer her physical support. She suffered from polio as a teen, and these last years her muscles, never strong to begin with, have grown increasingly weak and, at times, downright unreliable.

I think my mother is upset that my dad, usually the strong one, has now put her in the unenviable position of caretaker. I don't blame her, but I also don't know if there's a solution.

It's been many years since they moved from New Jersey, where my sister and I still lived at the time. They hated the ice and snow. But originally New Yorkers, they were genuinely appalled when I moved my family to this "God-forsaken island."

My job and my younger daughter, as well as my finances, prevent me from hopping on a plane to buzz down there and help her out as I wish I could. Don't misunderstand; if my parents were very ill, or even required an extended hospital stay, I would find a way to be there.

But it's these smaller, ongoing, chronic if you will, episodes, so common as our parents grow older, that are the hardest to handle without family nearby.

I hope not to be in the same boat one day. But who knows?

"I should have had more children," my mother complained over the phone recently.

"But then they'd just be far away as well," I said (my sister now lives in Arizona).

"Maybe not," she argued. "Maybe they'd live close by and be here all the time."

"Yes," I agreed. "Our unborn children are always the most loyal, aren't they?"

Even she had to laugh.

Do you all live near enough to help out your folks if they need it? Or are you, like me, impossibly far away? I'm pretty sure both can be a blessing and a curse. But it'd be nice to know how other people are handling it...

 

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.

 

Canine Confession

I am about to confess something shocking: I am not crazy about my dog.

You must understand; dogs are big on the Vineyard. They’re everywhere, running on the beach, riding shotgun in passenger seats and truck-beds, waiting patiently for their owners outside stores on Main Street, or trotting by their side at the yearly summer fair.

About fourteen-thousand people live here year round, but there are two dog parks, and that’s in addition to the miles of fields, beaches, and country roads, where every day dogs can be seen blissfully frolicking, devoted owners by their side.

To admit I’m not madly in love with my dog is basically like saying I hate my mother.

Which I don’t. Hate my mother, that is. And I don’t hate my dog either. I may actually love her in some minimally affectionate, obligatory sort of way.

I walk her, feed her, take her to the vet. She has a big yard to run in, food with special additives for her joints, kids to play with, a beach nearby to run and swim. Don’t waste your time feeling sorry for her; her life’s a party.

It’s just that I expected more. That whole mythical doggie devotion, that Lassie! Timmy’s stuck in the well; go rescue him, deal.

My dog, apparently, hasn’t watched any episodes of Lassie, or read the job description for Family Pet.

When my kids throw the tennis ball, she runs right by it. When we take her to the beach to play in the waves, she retrieves the toy we throw just often enough to lull us into a false sense of security.

Then, as soon as we lob one a bit farther out, she looks at us, unconcealed distain in those big amber eyes, shaking herself off at the water’s edge, and watching with a big doggie smile as her beautiful toy washes away in the waves.

It’s not that she’s a mean dog. She likes everyone. It’s just that she’s completely indifferent. She’d take food over people any day. And she’d knock over any kid or old lady blocking her way to get where she wants to go.

I know if she became accidentally separated from our family, she’d take off with the first person who pulled out a cookie, no questions asked.

Do you remember a few years ago, when a European woman apparently passed out, and her dog, for some reason never really explained, mauled off half her face?

I harbor no illusions. If I were to lie unconscious on my floor for any length of time, my dog might wait a while, until she’d eaten all her food and the cat food, and maybe even the cats themselves (whom she generally likes, by the way). But eventually, she’d get to me.

It wouldn’t be out of spite or viciousness. It’d just be because she’s a dog.

I have this dream of getting a smaller dog one day, a dog I can take with me wherever I go. I call it the “Grandma Dog.” Together we will visit my future grandchildren, who will love and adore it as much as it loves and adores me.

So I guess I haven’t completely given up on the dog-as-devoted-companion myth. In the meantime I’ll try not to advertise too much how I feel. After all, what type of person isn’t crazy about their own dog? What am I, some weird cat lady?

Well…maybe. Okay, yes. I have five. Cats are so simple. One holds such minimal expectations; thus any small show of personality or affection is a pleasant surprise.

But I like to think I live in hope, even when it comes to my dog.

So I’ll keep throwing those tennis balls. Because one day she just might bring one back and drop it at my feet, her big eyes looking up at me with an expression that clearly says, “Go ahead, get trapped in that well if you want. I’m here. I’ve got you covered.”

You never know, right?

A girl can dream.

Spin Cycle: Being Thankful

Every year at the holidays my Grandma would sit at the head of the table and gaze fondly out over her very full plate of dinner to the faces of her loved ones spread out before her on either side of the table.

She'd be cajoled into making the first toast and she always said the same thing. "I'm just so happy to have my family gathered around me."

At this, her four grown children would start to laugh. "Oh Mother, here you go again."

They would wave their hands dismissively, the broad smiles on their faces giving away how happy they really were to hear Grandma's predictably mushy words.

These last years, my parents generally fly to Arizona on Thanksgiving to my sister's. With no family nearby, I, like many others, spend the holiday with friends.

They are my neighbors. My Vineyard family. They watch our pets when we go on vacation. They bring us food when we're sick. Our seven children think of one another as cousins.

We have Thanksgiving at their house and then Christmas at our's. We've been doing this for years.

On Thursday they'll make the turkey. The Ex brings his mashed potatoes. I arrive laden in desserts. Pumpkin pie, apple crisp with vanilla ice cream, holiday cookies. Sometimes there are miscellaneous friends or family members in attendance. Every year is a little different but the core remains the same.

It will be the first time since August that all three of my children are gathered together at one table. I will look out over our bountiful spread to these faces I so love and, as always, I'll think of my Grandma.

I didn't get it all those years ago. I thought she was being overly sentimental. But I get it now.

Oh yeah, I'm right there with you Grandma.

 

For more Spins, go visit Sprite's Keeper. Jen always gives us something to be thankful for, no?

 

 

Family Time: Mandatory

Are you, like me, your family's Cruise Director?

I used to think this job description only applied when they were younger. But I've realized recently how much more important the job is now that my kids have one foot out the door. If I didn't plan ahead and inform them that participation is mandatory it would never happen.

My own parents pretty much gave up on the concept of Family Time when my sister and I became teenagers. I can understand why.

My kids grumble and complain. They recite a hundred reasons why it won't work for them. "I can't get off work for a whole weekend." "I have too much homework." "I have my own life too, you know." I've heard it all.

But as I saw us scattering in several different directions a few years ago, I realized that the days we have left for Family Time are numbered. I decided then not to listen to their objections. For any and all excuses they throw my way, I counter with only this: Make it Work.

My goal is not to make them miserable. It's to make memories. Maybe if I was still married it wouldn't be so important to me; maybe I'd be relishing the couple-alone time after all that parenting.

But I've found that by enforcing Mandatory Family Time, my jaded older kids wind up having a blast. Whisked away from their outside lives and personas, old sibling alliances are rekindled, and new ones have a chance to ignite.

Well worn family jokes resurface, although we  inevitably wind up with new zingers for the memory book. Like the time Daughter #2 innocently read aloud a sign on a Florida highway as we drove by: Hooters, where everyone gets their own cheerleader. She was about 12 and had no idea what Hooters was. But her 16 and 19 year-old siblings did, and that line is now a family classic.

The idea is simple: Keep it brief. A long weekend may work better than a week for a mini family vacation.

Don't overschedule: I'm planning a mandatory hike up-island for the day after Thanksgiving this year. If the weather tanks, I have a DVD as backup. But I would never try both for the same day when they're only here a couple of days.

Don't ban technology: You can't fight City Hall but do use your discretion. I allow computers and cell phones. But only during down-time or at the end of the day, not in the middle of a car ride through the rain forrest in Puerto Rico.

It's important to remember that they will complain about being forced to spend time with the family. It's pretty much their job. Check your sensitivity at the door. Last summer, my kids kvetched right up until we left for our long weekend in New Jersey. Yet they're still talking about how much fun they had.

In fact, since realizing these family "adventures" aren't going away, they've taken to emailing me links for possible things to do and places to go. We booked the hotel for our mini ski vacation this year based on a suggestion from Daughter #1.

One day maybe not too far off I'm looking forward to handing off the mantle of Cruise Director to them. Then all I'll need to do is go along for the ride.

Do you think, when that day comes, they'll get the joke if I show up with my arms folded, cell phone in hand, eyes rolling belligerently? Nah, I wouldn't really do that. Someone's got to at least pretend to be the mature one, right?

22

First-Born Son turns 22 this month. 22.

At 22 I was out of college and working in the hospital as an RN. I was hanging blood, starting IV's, and calling doctors in the middle of the night, telling them what needed to be done for their patients.

I was still 22 when I transferred to the pediatric unit and started caring for sick, and sometimes dying, children.

I felt so old, so completely grown up. And now I look at my son, all six feet, five inches of him, and realize what a kid I still was. But I was on my way.

Like him I had my own apartment with a roommate. But no longer a student, I paid my own rent. I paid my bills, bought my car, and took on my first cat. Oh, I still hauled my wash over to my parents' house, twenty minutes away, every other week, to use their machines while they were at work.

I may have gone through the cabinets and checked out the attic and basement while I was there as well, searching for anything I could "borrow" to use in my own place.

I had my parents over for dinner and I did not serve them spagettios or tuna fish. I bought a television and a rocking chair.

I didn't know what I wanted to do with the rest of my life except write, and already I felt the constraints of work and time affecting that.

I felt like I needed to act. A year later I was in the middle of making plans to move out west to be a nurse on a Native American Indian reservation when I met The Ex. I never went.

I don't have any regrets. But I'm glad First-Born Son is in a different place at 22. I want him to know he has time. Plenty of time.

He's  doing something he loves. In a place he loves. The rest will work out, one way or another. It always does. He's on his way.

What were you doing at 22?

All Grown Up

I got some new furniture last weekend. A couch for my family room, a love seat for my living room. And a leather recliner. In general, not a big fan of leather recliners myself, but let's just say I bought it to make a couple of other people very happy. Because apparently, that is what I live for.

My new furniture makes me irrationally content. I sneak downstairs and peek in on it as though I expect to catch it doing something it shouldn't be doing. But the love seat is just sitting there, where I left it, after about 200 different attempts at arranging it, that is. The couch too (the recliner, I'm not so sure; I think it may be something of a trouble-maker).

I see them there, and I have the urge to clap, and exclaim out loud "Yay!" I may, in fact, have actually done this. Several times.

Don't judge me too severely. Come on, admit it. You know how I feel.

Remember when we were kids and our parents purchased something boring like furniture or an appliance? I thought they were crazy to get excited over items that were clearly so mundane. Or maybe they were just old.

Although actually, an appliance was always fun because it came in a huge cardboard box. Which my parents would allow us to play with for a few days before they got rid of it. All the neighborhood kids would gather in our driveway and take turns closing each other up in the box. Which we'd then knock over, pushing and kicking it around the driveway while the person inside laughed and screamed for his or her life.

Ah, good times...

These days, I prefer the appliance to the box. I guess that means I'm old. Or maybe crazy. Or perhaps, just a grownup.

I recall when The Ex and I were in our 20's and we bought our first house, and then our first refrigerator, washer, and dryer. I was genuinely thrilled to own these things. But I was also confused that I could be so thrilled over appliances versus say, shoes or books or a vacation in Bermuda.

Then I realized what had happened. I'd become a grownup. And the definition of a grownup, apparently, is one who is able to find ridiculous fulfillment in appliances. As well as furniture.

Don't even get me started on flooring and counter tops.

How about you?

 

Spin Cycle: Parental Confessions

 

I wasn't going to take part in this week's Spin because (choose one of the following):

    a) I am such a perfect parent that I have nothing to confess.
    b) My parenting confessions are so deep and dark that they cannot be 
        released into the blogosphere.

Then I realized I did have one confession I might be willing to share. And that is: I have every intention of one day being my grandchildren's favorite grandparent. And I don't care what I have to do to achieve this goal.

No, I am not yet a grandmother, and if things go as planned, I shouldn't be for at least several years too come. But when I do become one, any other grandparents the kid may have, whether real, step, or adopted, better watch out.

When my son was in high school, for a time he had a very serious girlfriend. He seemed to spend every waking moment with her and often her family. They treated him as extravagantly as they did their own kids. Presents were ridiculously expensive and always carried a designer label. Clearly they were bent on making a certain impression.

"He better not marry her," I complained to The Ex. "We'll be the schmo grandparents. I'll be baking cookies with our grandchild and they'll sweep in with tickets to Disney World. Or I'll plan a trip to Disney World and they'll take the kid to Hawaii. I can't compete with that."

"Who's getting married?" He stared at me blankly. "What are you talking about?"

Of course they eventually broke up, but not before I'd carefully thought it through, and bestowed on my imaginary future grandchildren the uncanny ability to spot any and all phony displays of affection (imaginary grandchildren are convenient that way).

I'll be the Fun Grandma, I decided. The one they stay up late with watching movies. The one who takes them sledding and chases them around the playground. The one who lets them make messes in the kitchen and splash water out of the bathtub.

I'll take them on special Grandma Vacations and spend one-on-one time with each of them. Then, when they're in high school or college, they can get a job out here summers and stay with me. What kid, after all, doesn't want to spend their summer on the Vineyard?

Let those other grandparents just try to compete with that.

Whew, simply writing all those plans exhausted the hell out of me. I may need to reconsider. Maybe it's easier to be the grandma who visits and sits regally in her chair, passing out 20's.

What do you think? What kind of grandparent do you plan on being?

Either way, I bet we'll all rock.

 

Now slink on over to Sprite's Keeper to read some more Parenting Confessions.

Sibling Sleepover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They glared at me condescendingly and rolled their eyes.

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

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

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

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

Family Tree

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spin Cycle: Birthdays and Anniversaries

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Sunset Salutations

Last Night


 

Let me be very clear. Daughter #1, my 18 year-old, is a smart, talented kid who's never been in trouble. But she can be meaner than a wet, feral cat being chased by a dog. At least, to me. On a very regular and ongoing basis.

Okay, the truth is she has the power to make me cry and she is apparently not afraid to use it. Most days the past year, I was not sure which one of us was looking forward to her going away to college more, her or me.

I know what you're thinking: how can she write this stuff about her own kid? Believe me this is not a secret. D #1 would be the first to confess that, when it comes to her mother, me, she's a tough nut to crack.

But sometimes she surprises even me.

On her last night home, the planets aligned. Her father was on-island and her brother had the night off. I'd told her the whole family would go out for dinner in her honor. Anywhere she wanted.

She chose Menemsha.

Menemsha is a tiny fishing village way up-island. There is also a beach, and in the summer people gather there nightly to witness the spectacular sunsets. They barbecue or bring champagne and lobster, and after the sun has completed its finale, they applaud.

Many locals avoid the spot like the plague, but others, myself included, try and get up there at least once each summer. Several years ago, when the kids were younger and still under my control, a group of us moms would meet there for dinner on Friday nights. Our kids would catch crabs and swim, and we'd sit, bundled in sweatshirts, sipping pina coladas, sharing stories till the sun set.

Yet unless we have house guests to entertain, I hadn't done a sunset at Menemsha in a very long time. I wasn't sure how I felt about driving all the way up there and facing the August, Obama-induced crowds of tourists.

But the air was mild and, maybe because it was a Monday, the crowds were few. We got burgers and chowder at our favorite old places. I forced the kids to pose together for pictures, like tourists, with the sun setting over the ocean behind them. First-Born Son splashed and chased and tortured his sisters, and they banded together to get back at him.

I knew this was the last time we would all be together until Thanksgiving.

Daughter #1 turned to me at one point, smiling, and said, "This was a good idea I had, huh?"

She discovered a heart-shaped rock in the surf and handed it to me for my collection.

Then she found a second one. "I think I'll keep this one myself," she said. "To remember the island. And tonight."

I knew I wouldn't need a rock to remember. This night was going to stay with me for a long, long time.

Warning: This Post Contains Nudity!

Flaunting It

When I was 22 I walked in on my parents "doing it." You notice I wrote "doing it" instead of "having sex," because I cannot write the words "my parents" and "having sex" in the same sentence without believing I will go straight to Hell when I die.

Why bring this up now? Not, as you might think, because one of my children walked in on me having sex. I don't have sex, remember? I am a single woman, currently not dating anyone. Not that dating someone would imply that I might then be having sex (do you hear that, Daughter #2, she who is such a faithful reader of this blog?).

No. What happened is this: one of my children had the bad luck to see me naked last week. I won't say which one, just that it was the only one who would probably rather enter the priesthood than see his mother in the buff.

It's not even like he walked in on me. No, I was parading my saggy middle-aged-mama booty in the middle of the day for all to see. To be fair, I thought he was at work, and it was the upstairs hallway.

I had just removed my bathing suit and had the pressing need to go down the hall to ask Daughter #1 a question. My daughters and I have the very open, and obviously now questionable, habit of walking into one another's rooms, talking, as we get changed.

Until last week, nobody had ever been harmed. But as I returned from Daughter #1's room to my own, there he was, coming up the stairs. He instantly turned away. I screamed and ran into my room, where I immediately burst out laughing.

Maybe that was cruel and insensitive of me, but what was I supposed to do, cry? And come on, let's face it, it's funny. I mean, it's not like I woke up that morning saying, "What should I do today? Hey, I know, I'll make my child wish he'd been born blind!"

Besides, it'll make a great family story. One day. Either that, or, more likely, we'll never speak of it again.

When I finally stopped laughing, I cracked open my door. "I'm so sorry." But he was nowhere to be seen. "Are you traumatized?"

"For life," he yelled loudly, from somewhere behind closed doors.

He doesn't realize. It could've been worse. Much worse. After all, I may have been naked, but at least I was alone.

Miss Manners

Mole Person

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*Sigh.*

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

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