IslandRoar

March 5th

Today is Daughter #1's 19th birthday. The beginning of the end of her teens.

And we all know what comes after that, right?

Adulthood. Whatever that means.

Young adulthood's kind of like March, an illusion.

March wants us to believe that winter might actually come to an end. That spring is truly on its way. There may even be daffodils and crocuses to prove it, depending on where you live.

But here in the northeast, March is only an illusion. Spring never arrives for real before April or even May. No matter how much we want it to.

In fact, every year since Daughter #1 was born, it has snowed after her birthday. First in New Jersey, now here on Martha's Vineyard. Every year.

Who knows, maybe it snowed after March 5th every year even before she was born, and I didn't realize it because I wasn't keeping track. But I've kept track now for 19 years.

Since I stood at the end of the hospital hallway at the window, and watched the flakes drift down. I remember lifting Daughter #1 out of her bassinet beside me and holding her up to see the snow.

It was a moment of perfection, a still shot in my mind.

Standing there, cradling that tiny little girl, born six weeks early. I was so grateful she was healthy, there in my arms, a witness to this snowfall that by all rights she should not have yet been born to see.

And so, every year after March 5th, I take note of the snow.

Spring may not actually arrive for a while, though it might tease us with a day here or there.

Sort of the way adulthood arrives. After years of faking it, with little teases of reality now and again.

Happy birthday Daughter #1.

Enjoy 19. Every last second of it.

 

Let It Snow...

Like many places, it's been a snowy winter for Martha's Vineyard. Curiously enough however, we've not had any snow days from school. Quick, knock on wood before I jinx it!

Most of our snow has miraculously fallen on weekends, and our last blizzard was deftly maneuvered by an early dismissal one day, followed by a late opening the next.

Not that I don't enjoy a good snow day, so long as they don't pile up (the way I know they have for many of you this winter), or cause us to stay in school till July.

Recently, when Daughter #2's high school was dismissed at 11, the snow was falling thick and fast. We hunkered down with some Ben & Jerry's, purchased purposefully the day before along with the milk and bread, in anticipation of the storm.

Daughter #2 rejected my pitiful offerings from Netflix, so we indulged ourselves by watching (500) Days Of Summer on pay per view. 

Then she fell asleep on one end of my beautiful and comfy new couch, while I blogged from the other, our feet overlapping in the middle under the quilts, the wind whipping the flakes sideways as they fell in the yard.

It was a far cry from the snow days of yesteryear, when my kids piled outside to go sledding and build snowmen, working their way through multiple pairs of mittens, and not returning until their faces were numb and the hot chocolate was on the table. With marshmallows.

And, while those days were fun, I couldn't help but think, as I snuggled on the couch with 15 year-old Daughter #2, that this was pretty darned nice too.

What are snow days like in your neck of the woods?

 

525,600 Minutes

 

Daughter #2 is an actress.

Last week Martha's Vineyard Regional High School premiered its musical production of Rent.

My daughter, 15, had a small role. She was the drug dealer. Leggings, hot pants, and leather jacket, a stage cigarette hanging from her mouth, she leaned against the set wall like a hooker.

I was so proud.

Frankly, I'm amazed the human eye can remain open with that much eyeliner and sparkly eye shadow applied.

Now, you must understand, Rent is practically iconic in our house. Between my three kids, they've seen it performed on stage in New York or Boston five times. Not counting the film.

I've also seen both. And I am not one of those gushing, Oh, everything My child does is fabulous kind of moms. So let's just say my expectations were adequately adjusted.

But let me tell you, these kids knocked it out of the park.

First-Born Son managed to make it home from The Big Apple to see his younger sister strut her stuff (literally). Playing Danny in the school's production of Grease his senior year, and having considered, briefly, becoming an actor himself, he's a rather severe critic. And even he felt compelled to give the show his Big Brother Seal of Approval.

If you know this show at all, you realize it's pretty heavy: drugs, sexuality, Aids, transvestites. Some of the more objectionable profanity was removed, but otherwise the production was pretty authentic. Actors and audience both dealt with the mature subject matter with the appropriate mixture of laughter and tears.

The auditorium was packed for each show. Yet another thing I adore about this community: the way it shows up and supports its kids. Standing ovation. Every time.

But my favorite "review" had to be long distance, via telephone from my mom. She called to wish Daughter #2 luck.

"Tell her to break a leg," she directed. Just like she used to say to me, whenever I performed as a kid.

Then she added, "And you tell her to PUSH those drugs."

Aw, did you ever hear anything so sweet?

 

Spin Cycle: What I Can't Live Without...

I really hate to admit this, but I love my cell phone. In fact, I'd hate to think of life without it.

Oh, I'm sure I'd get by. After all, it took me long enough to break down and get the damned thing, so I know I could do without it if I had to.

But I don't want to.

I got my first cell phone when First-Born Son was in middle school. Suddenly he was going places and we needed to reach one another when neither of us was at home.

For my kids and their cell phones it may have been love at first sight, but it's only the last two or three years that I've felt this way. And that has everything to do with texting.

Texting is like magic. It really is. If I try and call my college-aged kids, it's a crapshoot whether or not they'll answer their phones. I understand. Life is busy. They're in a class or a bar (I kid!) or otherwise indisposed.

But, usually, they can text. And it's never long before I get a reply. It's an amazing way to keep in touch.

My kids will text me at the nicest times. To wish me a happy Valentine's Day. Or a happy New Year at midnight. To tell me they just saw a great movie. Or need money (okay, I admit it; it's not all fun and games, but it's pretty darned close).

Here's a good one. A while back, Daughter #2 and I went to a movie and the film was out of focus. Not so much that we couldn't watch it, but just enough to drive us crazy.

I don't know about the real world, but here on Martha's Vineyard this is not an uncommon occurrence. Somebody usually gets up to inform the management and within minutes the problem is solved.

But this was a weeknight, and there were only about 20 people in the theater. Twenty lazy people, myself included.

It was driving Daughter #2 bonkers, although apparently not enough to get up and do anything about it.

"I'm texting First-Born Son," she finally said, pulling out her cell phone. 

"Why?" I asked. First-Born Son was in Manhattan, miles away. What could he do?

Then I realized. The kid in charge of the theater that night was First-Born Son's good pal. My daughter was texting her brother to text this friend, who was no doubt a mere 50 feet away from us in the lobby at that very moment, so that he would go and fix the focus.

Which he did, in less than two minutes time. Done, First-Born Son texted back to Daughter #2.

But of course, by then, we already knew.

Has technology changed anything about your life in a significant way?

 

For more Spins about the things we can't live without, visit Sprite's Keeper.

 

 

A Bag By Any Other Name

I grew up calling my handbag a pocketbook. This is what my mother called it. And her mother...

Purse or bag might be the trendy terms for this today, but in our house, a bag came from the grocery store, and a purse was something you put change in. Women carried pocketbooks.

My daughters have apparently inherited the term, and for this they give me major grief.

"Do you know how weird it is to call it a pocketbook!" they say accusingly. "People laugh at us. They think we're old ladies."

"Just tell them you're unique," I advise.

I know they're right. And I'm trying to amend my ways, so that the words bag or purse will flow easily and elegantly from my mouth.

But old family habits die hard.

We grew up not eating fish unless we were at home. Family Mythology held that my mother's father, who'd died when my mom was only 13, had eaten fish from a restaurant and died that same night from food poisoning.

One of my mother's little brothers grew up to be a doctor, and he now disputes the accuracy of this, but he was merely six years old at the time, so what does he know?

All I can tell you is we were raised that to order fish in a restaurant was akin to drinking year-old milk, or swimming with your boots on; it just wasn't done.

Naturally I thought the entire world was in on this secret.

So imagine my shock and horror when, one week into college, my roommate told the cafeteria lady she'd take the fish.

"But they made that here," I insisted, tempted to fling it from her tray. "You can't eat that."

"Why not?" She stared at me like I was insane.

"Because it might kill you." For the first time, as I said the words out loud, I realized how ridiculous they sounded.

I watched her eat the fish. And live.

I might not have eaten it that night. Or for many nights to come. But I live on Martha's Vineyard, for goodness sakes. Of course I eat fish.

Now, if I could just keep reminding myself there is no such thing as a pocketbook, I might actually be getting somewhere.

How about you? Are there any old family legacies in your life better left behind?

 

Babysitting Blues

I've been through the three stages of babysitting.

 

I was babysat, I did babysit, and now my kids babysit. It gives one quite the perspective.

 

My parents went out a lot when my sister and I were young, almost every weekend. Karen was our favorite babysitter, but then she outgrew us and her sister Jerry took over.

 

I loved Jerry. It was the late 60's, and she had dark hair that cascaded dramatically down her back, and wore bell-bottomed jeans long enough that she walked on the frayed ends.

 

She played Hide and Seek, chased us around the house, and of course she let us stay up way past our bedtime. I would sit behind her on the floor and run a wide-toothed comb through her hair for as long as she'd allow.

 

Once, I walked back and forth along the top of the sofa from arm to arm, convincing her that my parents would find this behavior entirely acceptable. The next day my sister told on me, and, you guessed it: was I in trouble!

 

I've never been fond of tattletales.

 

When we moved to a bigger house in the next town, it was still close enough for Jerry to be our babysitter. One night she asked my mother if a friend could drop by.

 

But it was more like four or five kids who pulled into our driveway shortly after my parents left.

 

Long-haired hippie types. Guys with ponytails, the very kind my father had warned my sister and me about endlessly. We were entranced.

 

The two of us settled on the couch in our pigtails and nightgowns, ready to join in the party. But Jerry sent us upstairs and yelled when we attempted to spy on them. Their laughter and cigarette smoke wafted up the stairs while we fumed.

 

She didn't even tuck us in.

 

So naturally, speaking of tattletales, it was her last job at our house.

 

I once found one of my sitters with her friend and three boys, one of them her 19 year-old brother, all suspiciously lined up in a row, seated on my couch when I arrived home. Two year-old First-Born Son was safely in bed, but something felt quite wrong. I never called her again.

 

Another time I told a sitter not to allow First-Born Son and Daughter #1, then three and six, to watch TV. It turned out she locked herself in my bedroom and watched a soccer game after telling them to go upstairs and play.

 

Another one bit the dust.

 

What are your personal limits when it comes to babysitter behavior? Any terrifically funny or terribly awful stories to share, from either end, or maybe the middle, of the babysitting spectrum?

 

Do tell!

 

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?

 

 

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.

 

I Want to be Tone Deaf

Today I am guest posting for Jen over at Sprite's Keeper.

I can't tell you how thrilled and honored I was when she asked me to do this. Jen was one of the early commenters back when I started this blog last May. I enjoy everything she writes.

My guest-post is about the lovely way my young-adult children talk to me. You know, that special, heartwarming tone that teenagers save just for their parents?

So click on over and leave me a comment. Please. I need to know somebody cares...

 

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 F-Word

Do you know what the F-word is?

Oh, you may think you do, but I'll bet you don't know what the F-word is in our house. 

It's Focus. As in: my 5 year-old/8 year-old/18 year-old son cannot, apparently, do it.

First-Born Son, also known as Mr. ADHD (attention deficit hyperactivity disorder for those few of you lucky enough to have no idea what I'm talking about), was not formally diagnosed until fifth grade. But of course by then I'd been dealing with it informally for years.

"I just start staring out the window while the teacher talks," he'd confess. "And the next thing you know, I'm thinking about Star Wars and Darth Vader and light-saber battles."

The irony was that at two or three he would sit in my lap for hours while I read to him. Book after book. On dinosaurs. Sharks. King Arthur. He could play Lego's or act out James Bond all afternoon.

But ask him to sit for a 20 minute lesson on fractions or write an essay on osmosis versus diffusion? Well, that was another story.

His incredible kindergarten teacher (who I believe was actually capable of walking on water) gave me the heads-up in my first Parent-Teacher conference. She never used the letters ADD, but she did use the F-word.

"He's a smart, wonderful little boy," she said, "who has trouble when it comes to being able to focus on things he'd rather not do."

"I want you to be prepared," she went on. "Some teachers will see this as a problem. You're going to hear this word again and again."

She was right. It became downright predictable.

The first time I came home from a conference and announced, "Your teacher used the F-word," he looked at me like I was insane.

His teacher? The F-word? No F-ing way! 

"Focus," I explained. "She needs you to focus."

And we both laughed our F-ing heads off.

It's not that we didn't take it seriously. Or that I wasn't constantly searching for new strategies to try and help him deal. 

"Look at me," I still say to him when I need him to pay attention. "What did I just say?" To this day I try not to give him more than three directions at a time. AND make him repeat them back to me.

Still, he'll wander in sheepishly 20 minutes later. "Okay, I fed the dog and vaccuumed the pool. What was that other thing again?"

And we laugh.

Because really, what are we going to do? Cry about a little trouble focusing?

Today First-Born Son goes to film school where he's learning the art of making movies. Movies that, one day, other young children will be thinking about, drowning out the words of their teachers, as they stare out the windows of their classrooms.

It's a lot to hope for.

His kindergarten teacher would be so F-ing proud.

 

Spin Cycle: Wish List

 

What do I wish for? Ha! A better question might be what don't I wish for?

I know admitting I wish for anything is probably mucho politically incorrect. So let me say right up front: I love my family and I'm grateful to be blessed with my wonderful life, blah blah blah...

Now that that's out of the way, I have to say it'd be really nice to replace the crappy carpeting in my house with hardwood floors. What were the people who built this place thinking! And on that same note, tile for the kitchen and the bathroom, because apparently they considered that a luxury as well.

While I'm on a roll, let me add a hot tub and a sex life (I don't believe the two have to be mutually exclusive), and a car that runs so that people won't actually laugh at me or want to scream obscenities about me murdering the environment when I drive by.

And how about a MacBook, a Kindle, and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of (they exist, I know they do. Ask Twenty Four; she sees them every day in Money Town).

Let me not forget a successful writing career, generous stock dividends, and children who are cheerful, always polite, and eternally grateful.

Wow, I'm exhausted. Who knew being shallow was this consuming?

Of course, I'd have to tag onto the end: no more wars or hate or poverty, and public acceptance by all world leaders that women really are the superior sex. No wish list would be complete without those.

Anything else?

No, actually, I think that'll do.

 

For more inspired and infinitely more generous wish lists, go see Sprite's Keeper. I really wish you would.

 

Wounds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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?