IslandRoar

Spin Cycle: Valentine's Day

Senior year of high school my BFF and I planned a romantic Valentine's dinner for our boyfriends.

We held the event at BFF's house because her mother would be out with her own boyfriend. And frankly, my parents were hovering pains-in-the-neck who hated when I used the kitchen, and would rather die than do anything that might encourage my (in their opinion) out-of-control relationship with my boyfriend.

BFF and I didn't want to waste lots of time cooking, if you know what I mean. No, seriously, we were coming straight from play rehearsal and elected to use any spare moments in preparing ourselves rather than the food. We were, after all, 17.

The main course was pizza. We cut the dough in the shape of a huge heart. Adorable, I know. Homemade apple pie for dessert. A lot harder to make that crust heart-shaped, but we tried. 

When the pie was ready we displayed it on a heart-shaped platter with a very carefully chosen assortment of candy hearts arranged around it, their tiny, endearing words intended  as one long, suggestive love note. Which of course we read out loud to them in tandem when the time came to serve dessert.

We were nothing if not age-appropriately sentimental.

The lights were low, candles lit, and a fire in the fireplace. There was no alcohol, since we had no idea when BFF's mother was due home.

I know my boyfriend and I exchanged gifts, and I'd love to say I remember what they were, but I don't. What I do remember is the knot in my stomach when he asked why wasn't I wearing his class ring, a ring I'd had in my possession for a year and half, and one that, only days before, I'd discovered I'd misplaced.

I managed to bluff my way out that night, and avoid confessing that I had no idea where the damned ring was.

I believe I may have been saved by BFF's mom returning home and commencing immediately to blow out candles and turn on lights, glaring at the four of us like we were frolicking naked in a hot tub rather than reading sappy love notes written with candy hearts.

The odd addendum to all this is that BFF had no memory of this night whatsoever when I tried to remind her of it recently. How Twilight Zone is that?

Now she's got to come up with some equally spectacular thing we once did that I have no memory of.

Hear that, BFF? The clock is ticking...

 

For more Valentine's Spins, go visit Sprite's Keeper. And give her my love.

 

 

Patients I Can't Forget: Teddy

My first night on pediatrics, a 19 year-old boy coded and died. Unexpectedly and out of the blue.

I'd been a med/surg RN for a year, and because of this experience, I was transferred to Nights on peds after only a week of Day orientation.

One of my patients was a six week-old baby, in to rule-out meningitis. She was fine, to be discharged in the morning. There were no parents staying the night with her, unusual, but not unheard of. No meds, no IV's. Just feed her and change her.

Yet I was freaking out inside. "How often do  I feed her?" I asked the other nurses. I mean, what did I know about a newborn? I was 22.

"Do I wake her up or let her sleep? How do I know when she's eaten enough?"

They smiled reassuringly. "She'll let you know. You'll be fine."

The baby slept on and I tended to my other patients. The night was quiet.

Then Teddy coded.

He'd woken up to pee. But instead, his mother reported, he opened his mouth and out came the blood. For some reason she attempted to catch it in  cups. She thought we might want to test it later, see where it was from.

Teddy was not my patient, but I knew him from my week on day-shift, a fun, sarcastic, 19 year-old kid. He'd been diagnosed with leukemia at age 11, gone into remission, and been fine.

Then, the year before, he'd relapsed. And, although the chemo was helping, it had left him susceptible to a terrible fungal infection in his lungs.

Later, we would find out that the infection had eaten away at his pulmonary artery. Which picked that moment that he'd gotten up to pee to burst.

Because we didn't know this at the time, and didn't realize nothing we did was going to help, we worked on him for almost two hours. Pushing drugs, CPR, hanging blood.

His mother lost it when the nursing supervisor tried to pour the cups of blood down the sink. In her bathrobe, she got on the elevator and disappeared. The nursing supervisor went after her.

I ran to the blood bank, two, three times. Then hovered in the doorway, mostly watching the five, ten, it seemed like a hundred, people working on him.

Until, from somewhere down the long corridor, I heard my six week-old cry. I went to her and, without thinking, changed her diaper, popped open a bottle, and sat down in that dimly-lit room to feed her.

While I was rocking her back to sleep, her father appeared in the doorway. He looked exhausted. "I couldn't get back to sleep," he confessed. "I figured I might as well be here."

I handed her off and went back down the hall. The code was over, time-of-death recorded on the chart. Teddy's mother had reappeared with his father and sister, and they were saying goodbye.

The day nurses slowly drifted in. When my new head-nurse arrived, she put her hand on my shoulder and leaned down close to my ear.

"Welcome to peds," she said.

Working with sick children was like that. Most of them, like that baby, got better and went home. I see their smiling faces, their happy families, as one big blur.

Other kids, fewer, got sicker or died. And even these many years later, I remember every one.

 

One Day at a Time...

 

The Today Show was on as I was getting ready for work a couple of weeks ago, and Valerie Bertinelli was appearing in the next segment, which they were plugging by announcing, "Valerie Bertinelli turns 50!"

When she came on, however, it turned out that she wouldn't be 50 until April. I felt her indignation deeply.

February, March, April. Three months.

Here they were celebrating her half-century mark when she still had a whole quarter of a year left to be 49. How dare they.

Sure, back in the day I was quick to speed up the clock for myself. Weren't we all?

No sooner had I turned 13, than I looked forward to the half-year mark when I could legitimately start claiming I was almost 14.

I believe this habit came to an abrupt end at age 21.

These days, I take every single day the year has to offer before going on to the next one. Hours even.

I was born on the afternoon of August 20th. So don't go wishing me a Happy Birthday this year in the morning, or I'll be likely to tell you that I'm still 48 for a little while longer.

Daughter #2's birthday isn't until May, but already she says things like, "Of course I can stay out late...drive the car...make my own rules. I'm going to be 16."

"Not for a long time," I tell her. "You're 15."

"Close enough," she mumbles.

Oh, honey, I want to say, hold onto every second of 15 for as long as you can.

But I keep my mouth shut.

She'll find out soon enough.

 

*I'm having surgery on my sinuses tomorrow. And, while I've got some posts scheduled to run this week and next, I'm not sure if I'll be around to everyone's blogs, or commenting, with my usual frequency. I hope to be up to speed as soon as possible.

 

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.

Head of the Class

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

I think she hit the nail on the head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What do you think?

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

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

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

 

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: 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.

 

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.

 

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.

 

 

"Mother Mary"

When my kids were younger and we lived in New Jersey, our church organized a Christmas pageant each Christmas Eve for the children's mass. An older child read the Christmas Gospel while an assortment of small shephards and angels, Wise Men and innkeepers, made their way down the aisle to the altar.

By the time First-Born Son was in third grade he was one of the older kids. He'd only stuck it out this long because he aspired to be Joseph.

There was one short "rehearsal" two days before the pageant, during which the parts were announced and costumes sorted out. To keep the whole thing fair, parents were allowed no input as to what part their child might receive.

I sat with the other moms and dads, trying not to pump my fist and exclaim "Yes!" when First-Born Son scored the role of Joseph.

The director then announced which little girl would be blessed with the part of Mary. The lucky child looked to be about seven. Her mother beamed with pride but the girl looked downright alarmed.

"No," she said. "I can't do it."

"Are you sure?" the director asked kindly.

The little girl nodded.

"Wait," her mother sputtered frantically. "Let me just talk to her."

But it was too late. The director consulted her list and announced another name.

"Daughter #1," she said. "Would you like to be Mary?"

Daughter #1 stood next to her brother, much too far away for me to nudge her and say, "Of course you would."

She was only five. I'd had no idea she was even in the running for Mary. There'd been no warning, no time for me to prep her to eagerly pounce on this role of a lifetime.

I held my breath, frozen, and tried to interpret her stoic little face. But her body language gave not a clue.

I needn't have feared. Already Daughter #1's competitive spirit had kicked into gear. She wasn't about to let this golden opportunity pass her by.

"What do you think?" the director prodded. She looked back down at her list. But without so much as a glance in my direction, D #1 gave one quick emphatic nod.

Discreetly I collected their costumes and shooed them out the door. I think some neurotic part of me feared that if the director realized her Mary and Joseph were actually sister and brother, she might rescind the offer.

Over my dead body.

Christmas Eve arrived. Mary and Joseph walked solemnly down the aisle and sat on either side of their baby-doll Jesus as he lay in the manger.

From our seats in the congregation, my mother and I exchanged wicked grins of delight. I was so proud.

Never had something so wrong seemed so very, very right.

 

 

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.

 

The Kindness of Strangers

I had a doctor's appointment off-island in Hyannis last week. And of course it turned out to be the day the whole east coast was slammed with a major storm.

The cape and islands (Nantucket and Martha's Vineyard) mostly got rain, but lots of it. Wind gusts were over 50 miles per hour. I was sure the ferry would be canceled. That happens when we get really bad "weather," as New Englanders like to say.

But fortunately the boats were still running, and, after a rocking, rolling passage, I drove off on the other side into the storm.

No off-island trip is complete without a supply run, if only because items cost so much less off-island, never mind the convenience and choice factors.

So even in the monsoon-like conditions, I stopped at Walmart, where I needed a bunch of miscellaneous crap.

When I finally got home late that evening and unpacked my stash, I discovered I had an extra Walmart bag that wasn't mine. It must've been left on that baggy carousel by whoever had been in line before me.

The bag held three clunky watches and three boxes with faux pearl jewelry, as well as three of those big plastic candy canes filled with Runts. No doubt this was someone's bag of stocking stuffers, or maybe even gifts for some kids in their life.

It wasn't as if I could drop it back at the store any time soon; I doubt I'll be off-island again before Christmas. But the next day I called the store to see if anyone had reported a missing bag. Nobody had, so they took my phone number and that was the end of it.

"Wow, this is really nice of you." The manager sounded surprised. "Not many people would call like this."

Really? I find that hard to believe. I have more than enough of my own junk; I don't need to confiscate anyone else's. I think most of us would at least drop the bag back at the store if they could.

What would you do?

Once in New Jersey, shortly after my marriage ended and my brain was not quite functioning to capacity, I left three bags of groceries underneath the cart in the parking lot. I packed up the car and drove home, where I realized pretty quickly I didn't have my fruits and veggies.

Not feeling very hopeful, I decided what the hell, and gave the store a call anyway.

Yup. Someone had brought in my bags from under the cart and left them with the manager. All my produce was there.

How surprising was that!

Have you ever been pleasantly surprised by the good will of perfect strangers?

I like to think that what comes around goes around. Maybe I'm hopelessly naive, but it's a hell of a lot better than settling for cynical and bitter, don't you think?

 

 

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.

 

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.

 

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?

 

 

A Little Bit of Heaven

 

My first serious boyfriend worked in a rectory.

A rectory, for those of you not raised Catholic, is home to the parish priest. Back then, there were three or four of them and they weren't just any priests. They were the same ones I'd seen on the altar since I was a little kid, preaching and sermonizing, sometimes rather heatedly. I never quite got used to sitting there with my boyfriend, laughing and chatting with these same men I'd been raised to respect more than any others.

Now, I realize Catholic priests have gotten a terrible rap these last years, much of it well deserved. But the men I remember were kind and generous, and if occasionally one or two of them were a little authoritative, they were never inappropriate.

My boyfriend, let's call him Antonio (that wasn't his name but it's Italian and Catholic, and he was decidedly both), answered the phones and doorbell and did paperwork at the rectory a couple of evenings a week. I would keep him company.

My parents didn't like it, but what could they say? My father had been an altar boy till he was 18, and both of them had gone to Catholic school. They couldn't really complain about their daughter hanging out in a rectory. Although I do think they may have been the tiniest bit jealous when the priests started giving me Communion by name each Sunday ("Body of Christ, Maureen"). They may have been better Catholics, but only I was on a first name basis with the parish priests.

Those sacred men must have been bummed that I was stacking the deck against Antonio's becoming a priest one day, but over time they grew fond of me.

The housekeeper was another story. Matilda didn't like me at all. In fact, I think she hated me. That may have been because she was a 75 year-old virgin who hated the thought of another woman of any age being in her rectory, competing for the attention of her men.

Or maybe it was because my boyfriend and I would slip into the front office of the rectory at night and make out in the dark. Every chance we got.

I think she might have come looking for us a time or two when she could no longer hear the sound of our voices drifting into the kitchen. I can't be sure because she never confronted us, but I'm assuming she caught us performing several of what to her would have been most unholy acts.

She went from barely tolerating me to being downright rude. She told the pastor I was keeping Antonio from getting his work done. Which was blatantly false; he did his work twice as fast when I was there so that we'd have time to sneak into the office and make out. The pastor, in fact all the priests, rallied to our side.

"Matilda's just old fashioned," the pastor confided. He tapped one finger on the side of his head. "And maybe a little...well, you know."

Poor Matilda. I'm sure she was convinced I was going to Hell (not Antonio of course, just me).

And who knows? Maybe I am. Maybe God has a huge problem with horny teenagers sneaking around a rectory. Looking for their own little piece of paradise.

But I'm not really worried. Either way, it was absolutely worth it. Swear to God.

 

 

 

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?

Spin Cycle: My Hero

Hero is a word thrown about rather casually these days. Athletes and celebrities seem to be everyone's new heroes.

But in my opinion, real acts of heroism are done quietly and without fanfare every day by the most unassuming people. Someone I always think of is a boy I really didn't even know, who stepped into my life for one brief interval on an autumn day long ago.

I was in seventh grade, that awful age for girls when all your nerve endings seem to live outside your body and every emotion is magnified by at least 50.

It was right after school. There were two very small injured squirrels in the street in front of my house. I was never sure how they got there. Could they both somehow have fallen out of their nest, which was in the tall tree by the curb, or were they hit, somewhat unbelievably, by the same car?

At any rate, to my mind it was a scene of horror. One lay freshly smushed, which was sad enough. But even worse, the other squirrel, who was also severely injured, was still very much alive, and flailing about pitifully in the street.

It was unable to get far and obviously not going to live. I was hysterical. I wanted my mother to DO something, anything, to help this tragic little creature. I remember standing there with her and some neighborhood kids, helplessly watching it for what seemed like hours but was probably more like minutes. With a stick, we pushed it to the side of the road so it wouldn't get hit by another car.

"Can't we bring it to the vet?" I implored.

But, "No," my mother said gently. There was nothing we could do to save him.

"We have to do something," I insisted.

And then he appeared. He was just a boy, probably no more than 16, walking home from school down our street with a couple of friends. He came upon us standing there and stopped. I'm sure I was still weeping.

He looked at the squirrel and then raised his big, dark eyes to my mother. "Do you have a shovel?"

Gently he scooped the animal onto the metal snow shovel my mother brought him. "You wait here," he said to me.

"He has a lot of courage," my mother told me, as we watched him disappear behind our garage. "This is the right thing to do, but that doesn't make it any easier."

He emerged moments later, his face somber as he handed the shovel back to my mother.

"He's not suffering anymore," my mother announced.

The boy smiled sadly at me, and he and his friends continued on their way.

The other kids and I tentatively headed back behind the garage to search out the grave. It wasn't hard to find. On top of the small patch of freshly packed earth, he'd thought to leave two small rocks to mark the spot.

I never even knew his name. And I never saw him again.

But I'll never forget him.

 

 

For more Spins on Heroism,  go straight to Sprite's Keeper.

Spin Cycle: Turning 3

Because Sprite's birthday is coming up, Jen has made this week's Spin Cycle an open forum. So when you get done here, you should check it out.

Sprite is turning three. Which got me thinking. Three is such a magical age. No longer a baby but still so small.

When each of my two daughters turned three, I had to stick them on a school bus and send them off to special pre-k programs.

Now, I grew up in suburban New Jersey and walked to school every day. And when my kids started school, I drove them or we carpooled with neighbors. Except for field trips, I had no experience putting anyone on a school bus. Let alone my tiny, just-turned-three year-old daughters who, except for my parents and a couple of trusted friends and sitters, had essentially never been out of my sight.

Daughter #1 was born with Benign Hypotonia, basically a muscle weakness causing significant delays in her gross motor skills. She didn't roll over for a year, she walked at two, and rode a bike at 12.

Daughter #2 had her speech and hearing issues. Both girls were fortunate to be eligible for excellent pre-k programs modeled for their particular needs. These included door-to-door transportation.

I drove Daughter #1 her first couple of days. But I was seven months pregnant, sick and exhausted, and D #1 wanted to take the bus with her friends. 

I thought I would throw up the first time the big yellow bus pulled up in front of our house and I clipped her into the car seat on board. I waved as it pulled away, then hopped in my car and followed it all the way to her school. I needed to see just how traumatized she would be by the time  she got there.

Instead, she was smiling, proudly carrying her little backpack as she was helped down the steps and led by the hand into her classroom. I, on the other hand, was shaking and nauseous, and could've used a shot of something strong (damn that pregnancy ban on alcohol!).

I never got used to putting her on the bus, but it did become a part of our routine. And after Daughter #2 was born, it was pretty nice not to have to haul her out two extra times each day for the pre-k run.

When it became apparent D #2 needed a special school for her auditory issues, the fact that I would be putting her on a bus, while no less traumatic, was a no-brainer. Her school was farther away, and between getting the other kids fed and out the door to their school on time, the bus (or van in her case) was a life saver.

Then again, she was my third child and I was more laid back. I only followed the van her first day. Although there was that time I passed it on our block as I was on my way home from picking up the other two kids from school. The cops had pulled it over for speeding.

I'd already reported the incident to her school and was waiting in my driveway, arms folded, foot tapping, by the time the driver finally made his way up the road to drop her off. He didn't appear very sorry but no matter; there was a new driver the next day and speed was never an  issue again.

I look back now, amazed that I was able to place these two small girls on a school bus at such a tender age. Part of me still shrieks, what were you thinking! But most of me realizes that at the time I simply could not take one more thing onto my plate.

And somehow, they have both survived.

So congratulations to both of you, Jen, on Sprite's turning three. Does that make her a big girl, or still a baby in your eyes?

I have no idea, but judging how I feel about my own little girls, now 15 and 18, my guess is that it's probably a bit of both.