IslandRoar

"Yes"

"You have to come out and hear the echo," Daughter #2 calls from the front steps. "And you can hear the surf pounding," she goes on. "It's amazing!"

"I'm not getting up," I tell her. "I'm too tired. I just want to relax."

It's nine o'clock at night.

After a long day, I'm finally settled on the couch with my feet up and my laptop in front of me, totally ensconced in Blog Land.

Daughter #2 continues to yell into the dark deserted night, pausing to listen for the echo. "Come on," she entreats. "This is so cool!"

"No," I whine from under my quilt. "Not now." I can't hear any echo and I'm half tempted to accuse her of making it up in order to get me outside.

I'ts so damned easy to get caught up in our day to day stresses. So simple to be bogged down under a hundred different excuses, all of them legitimate.

I'm too tired;
I finally have five minutes to myself;
I just want to be left alone.

But where, exactly, does that leave me? Relaxed and alone?

In less than two and a half years Daughter #2, my third and last child, will go off to college; alone is definitely the operative word here.

I have raised children who appreciate the sound of the ocean. A daughter who laughs at the echo of her own voice in the star-filled night. Isn't this the kind of person I consider myself to be? The kind of mother?

"Okay. Yes, okay." I drag my sorry butt off the couch and out the front door.

"Yell something," Daughter #2 instructs. And I do.

And there, in the distance, I can hear my own words shouting back at me. I smile. And do it again.

Through the trees, the wind carries the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. It's as though they're right next door.

"I've never heard it this loud." Daughter #2's smile lights up her face. "Isn't it cool?"

"Yes." We go back inside. Continue on with our night.

Very cool, indeed.

 

This post was written as part of Momalom's Five for Ten. Click on over to see more blogger's posts on the topic of Yes.
 

Peter Pan

When First-Born Son was four, the director of his nursery school accused me of not pushing him enough. I'd always considered her a fairly even-keeled, decent person, which made her attack on me and my son all the more appalling.

To be fair, she was upset because she wanted to move him into a class for kids that turned five before the winter but weren't attending kindergarten. It involved more sitting and work on pre-reading and writing skills, and I definitely did not want my very antsy, active little boy in this class. The whole reason I'd chosen the school had to do with their emphasis on play.

But when I refused to let her move him she went off on me.

"He doesn't even know how to ride a tricycle." This woman was practically yelling at me in the hall outside of her office.

"Yes, he does," I insisted.

"Well, he doesn't do it here."

They had a huge basement with bikes and play equipment for rainy days, and  apparently First-Born Son had not availed himself of the tricycles.

"Maybe because he can do that at home." I tried to be reasonable, always a mistake with irrational people.

"All he does is run around and rile the other kids up, getting them all to play Peter Pan or some other elaborate game," she went on.

Seriously?

This educator of pre-school children was upset because my son chose imaginary play and had the power to get the other kids involved?

I was so surprised that I actually sort of laughed in her face.

He wound up staying in his original class, and had a wonderful teacher and a great year.

But I think of that director from time to time. Especially now that First-Born Son, at 22, is attending film school and directing actors in his own movies, that are based on the stories from his imagination.

I'll have to let her know when he does his own re-make of Peter Pan.

 

Space Monkeys?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She knew all about it. I was floored.

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

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

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

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

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

 

Story Time

 

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

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

Yeah. Right.

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

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

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

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

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

Then I drew a complete blank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Child's Play

 

 

I am so enjoying working at the library. Now that I have a permanent job there I get to spend a lot more time at the circulation desk.

And I am here to tell you that stamping out books is just as much fun in real life as it was when I was a kid and my sister and I played "Library."

Realizing this, I got to thinking about other games we played as kids, games where we were attempting to mirror reality.

I remember being forced to play "Bride" once, by the daughter of one of my mother's friends who'd recently acquired her mother's veil. Watching her hog the veil and make out with the cement pole impersonating the bridegroom put me off that game for life.

In the same way, I would quickly tire when my sister enticed me into playing "House." Believe me, I loved being home with my kids when they were little (generally speaking...), but that had pretty much nothing to do with the tedious chores that "House," real or imaginary, is made up of.

Although it was always challenging to see how long we could keep the poor cat, trapped in baby clothing, in the game before she escaped to the basement, dragging her baby bonnet still half tied on.

Oddly enough, my sister and I played "Funeral." Did anyone else out there do this? It started, of course, with the death of a goldfish, and my father's idea to bury said fish in a small cardboard jewelry box behind the garage.

This was followed by the eventual deaths of several turtles, motivating my sister and I to pull on old high heels, gloves, and hats, and traipse out behind the garage with faux tears to say a prayer and bemoan the demise of these so-called pets, who were obviously more dear to us in death than they could ever have been in life.

One of my favorite games was "Rollerskating Restaurant." Our mother was a neat freak, which meant the cement floor of our basement was always clear. On rainy days, my sister and I would strap on our roller skates and take "orders from the imaginary "customers" seated at our old kitchen table, which now lived in our basement.

We'd then roll over to the "kitchen," cook up the order, serve it, and then clear the table for the next customer, all in our metal skates. You remember, the kind that needed a key?

On humid New Jersey summer days, our basement was the coolest room in the house and, to stay even cooler, we'd often play the game in our underwear. Which made it, I guess, a whole different kind of restaurant...

What games mirroring actual life did you play as a kid? And were they more or less fun than the real thing?

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.

Wild Horse to Killer Whale

If you could be any animal in the whole world, what would you be?

When's the last time someone asked you that question? If it's been a while, has your answer changed since then?

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a horse. A wild mustang. I guess that running free in the open range with a posse of other horses was what I found so appealing. But then I started hearing about herds of wild horses being shot at from helicopters, and sent to meat-packing plants. And horses can break a leg so easily, and then that's pretty much it.

So somewhere in my 20's, when my ex and I played this "What Animal Would You Be?" game, I decided to go with killer whale, or orca. You know, Shamu, except I wanted to be one in the wild.

It made a lot of sense. Whales have no natural predators except man, and they're not supposed to be hunted. They live in the water swimming, which I would absolutely love. But, unlike fish, they're mammals, so they get to nurse their young and hang out with their families, whom they also travel and swim with. And they can live to be 80 years old in the wild! Whales are smart. They  communicate with one another. They play and show affection.

And they get to jump around in the waves and blow water out the top of their heads. Sounds good to me.

My ex wanted to be a mountain goat. Figures. Lone and solitary, up in the mountains climbing, which he would enjoy. Interacting by butting heads.

Okay, I'll stop. I don't want to get mean and petty. But a mountain goat on a rocky cliff and a killer whale in the depths of the ocean???

I should've known it wouldn't last.

Memory

Composing 101

Did you have any songs you made up and sang when you were little? Maybe with your siblings or friends?

A couple stand out for me. When we were maybe seven and eight years old, on a family vacation in the Adirondacks, my sister and I met some kids. There were two older sisters close to our age, Stacy and Kim, and a little brother Wally.

And they were obnoxious. Mean and bossy, they intimidated the hell out of us, but they especially teased my older sister. I felt constantly on the alert to defend her, and we spent the week avoiding them. Till one morning when we were lucky enough to have snagged the only two swings. I needed to run inside to pee, and gave my sister strict instructions to guard those swings with her life. Of course, when I came back out two minutes later, Stacy and Kim had confiscated them, and my sister sat on the grass nearby, seething in shame.

"We didn't want those stupid, old swings anyway," I declared haughtily. We turned up our noses and stalked away.

Naturally, as soon as they abandoned them, we ran back over to the swings. That's when we made up the song. It's sung to the tune of "This Land is Your Land," which I suppose we were singing in school at that time. Somehow in our minds, by their mean spirited and hostile actions, Stacy and Kim were trashing not only our rights, but the whole American ideal of liberty and freedom.

Anyway, it went something like this:
                This land is your land, this land is my land,
                from Stuart's Mountain, to the Adirondacks,
                from the Main House bathroom, to the lake and
                row-oh-boats,
                this land was made for you and me.

                This means that Stacy
                and Kim and Wally
                can't take our swings
                when we are holding them.
                This means that they-aye
                can't talk so fresh to us,
                this land was made for you and me.
(It works much better if you are on a wooden swing, pumping for your life.)

We sang it loudly and wherever we went for the rest of that week, even, I am slightly embarrassed to admit, in the presence of Stacy, Kim, and Wally, and their parents. They must have been as evil as I remember, because I don't recall my parents forcing us to stop, and they were not the type to put up with in-your-face displays of aggression.

I'm sure if I started to sing it right now in front of my sister, her face would light up with recognition, and she would sing along.

But I think my all time favorite original tune is one my cousin K and I made up one summer when I was staying at her family's lake house. I was 13 and she was 10, and again, I am pretty sure we were composing in retaliation, my cousin having been wronged by some mean older girls who also summered at the lake.

It went like this:
                I am great.
                You are stinky,
                I  AM  GREAT
                and
                You  ARE  STINKY.
            Repeat (again and again).

Let me tell you, we felt mighty empowered marching around, belting it out at the top of our lungs. I seem to recall my poor aunt shaking her head uselessly, wondering how and why she'd wound up with this combative, adolescent niece corrupting her innocent daughter.

But I'll bet K remembers it well. I'll have to ask her. In the meantime, I'd love to hear any of your original tunes. It'd be a shame not to share.