Today's Agenda? You Tell Me.

11/17/2009

Is there a more humbling job than parenthood?  If there is, I don’t want to know about it.  I’ve never felt so “all thumbs” at any other job that I’ve held.  If I were as clueless in my career as I can be raising my kids, I’d have been fired long ago.  I can’t imagine that I’m the only parent that feels this way, but I’m finding parenting to be remarkably more difficult as my kids get older.  Making the simplest of changes throws me for a loop.  What happened to my maternal instinct?  It seems like it went out the door with nice skin and the ability to stay awake past 9 PM.  How can this be so hard? 

I enjoy wearing the many hats of parenthood - caregiver, provider, cook, teacher, disciplinarian, boss, friend.  The list is long and varied.  But there is one hat that I am so tired of wearing - and it’s a hat that has never fit me well.  I’m speaking, of course, of the dreaded  ‘cruise director‘.  What do I need to do to have this task removed from my job description?  I’m not even very good at it!  A day off or a long weekend leaves me in a cold sweat.  Let’s not even talk about the numerous school-year vacations or the 8+ long weeks of summer.  Actually, I’m not even looking to wipe this task off of my slate completely; all I’m really looking for is a little input, a little active participation.  I don’t feel for a minute that with a teenager and an almost teenager, that this should still all be on my head..  I think I’ve done my part and in the entertainment department and would like to pass this responsibility on to them.  They have opinions on most everything else that goes on.  Now is the time for them to take part in this aspect of our family life.  As things stand now, I’m the one ponying up for all of the gas, doing all the driving and paying for everything.  And I’m supposed to come up with the plan too?  Why do kids expect to be treated like visiting dignitaries, being escorted around to one fun-filled event after another?  Is it too much to ask that someone else comes up with an idea once in a while?  When do I get to ask “What are we going to do today?”

At our house, the scene goes something like this.  One of the kids will approach us asking what our plans are for the weekend or upcoming day off/vacation.  This question gets double results.  It makes the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and it brings forth the other child, who appears seemingly out of nowhere.  It’s obvious they must both be present during these conversations so that they can vote against each other.  If one says yes, the other must say no, regardless of whether they would like to do whatever is planned. Clearly there’s an unwritten code somewhere stating this must be the way between siblings.   (Interestingly, I don’t remember my brothers or I ever knowing about this code when we were growing up.  This one must have come out around the same time as the ‘new math’.)  So, one says “yes“, the other “no“, I push the issue one way or the other and one gloomily relents - but there’s no way they’re going to be happy about it.  Or, they both say “no” and I’m left feeling exasperated and wondering why this bothers me so much, why I take this so personally.  When the day arrives and there’s no plan, I can count the minutes until I’ll hear another of my favorite sayings, “I’m bored”.   Know what guys?  Me too.  We need to regroup.

To be fair, when really pushed, they will come up with an idea.  We each have our own default suggestions, none of which are any good.  O’s is “let’s go into Boston”, which is his code for ‘let’s go to Faneuil Hall so I can get a corn dog’, which, frankly, is not that exciting.  MJ, who is usually the more flexible participant, will not, under any circumstances, go to a museum, or anywhere that you just ‘walk around and look at stuff that you can’t touch.’ So, it’s tricky.  But I’m sure there was a time when we all liked doing the same things.  I think that period is known as ’they were too young to protest the things that I wanted  to do‘, a wonderful, but distant time in our history.   When they ask me for my suggestions, I usually suggest a visit to the Gardner Museum or the Boston Athenaeum - things I’ve wanted to do for the longest time!  But those never get the green light.  They don’t even get one vote, not even from Wes, who usually says yes to everything!  And we’re back where we started, at home, looking at each other. 

Something needs to change, but what?  And how?  How can I convince them that I no longer feel that I should  be orchestrating their free time?  Believe me, I think that I’ve made my thoughts on this pretty crystal clear.  But we continue on, stuck in this ineffectual rut.  And is it me that needs to change - or them?  I’d say all of us.  I see no reason that they can’t provide some input and be more open to other ideas.  And I probably should stop jumping through hoops to try to make them both happy.  But change can be slow to come and I need some instant results.   Any ideas?  Christmas break is fast approaching!

Real Men Wear Hats

11/10/2009

I really like men in hats.  And by hats, I mean hats - and not baseball caps.  A baseball cap is just that, a cap.  It’s not a hat.  Let’s face it, baseball caps are nothing more than the tee shirt of hats.  And, unfortunately, just like tee shirts, they’re everywhere!  But that’s not what I’m talking about.  By hats, I mean real, Joe Friday, Humphrey Bogart, Frank Sinatra hats.  The type of hats that men just don’t wear anymore.  The type of hat that does not go with a tee shirt. They are not just a thing on top of your head to hide your bald spot or your bad hair day.  They are pieces of your wardrobe, extensions of your personality.  They can make you mysterious and yet they are functional.  With the right placement, they can add or erase 10 years from your face.  What’s not to love about hats?

I admit that these days, a man in a hat is not all that common.  At least not in the circles I travel in.  They are definite attention getters at the grocery store or on the soccer field.  There never seems to be more than one person wearing a hat at one time.  I’ll also admit that when I see someone in a hat in the crowd, the first thing that pops into my head is  “Where’s your horse?” - but  really, I do like them!  While Wes and I were on our first vacation together, he bought a hat, but not the type of hat I’m referring to here.  He bought a big, fur, Russian hat.  It made sense, since it was February and it was northern Canada.  Believe me, it was cold.  Everyone up there was wearing them.  But not me.  It was our first vacation together and there was no way I was going to mess up my hair putting on a big fur hat.  My head got numb within seconds of stepping outside, but I looked good!  The hat looked nice on Wes, and given his eastern European lineage, kind of made him look like he worked for the KGB.  I was glad he bought it because I knew it would keep him warm during our vacation but I doubted that I’d be as happy to have him wear it once we got back home.  He pulls it out every now and then and the look on MJ’s face when he threatens to wear it out in public is absolutely priceless.  But it is a nice hat.

I wonder why men have stopped wearing hats.  They are practical and for the men I know, practical is usually good.  I mean, it still rains out and it still gets cold.  In spite of the Hair Club for Men, men still go bald.  My guess is that it’s because they do not go with men’s wardrobes of today that mainly consist of jeans and tee shirts.  How very uninspiring.  I think we all wear way too much denim.  Is it possible to go anywhere these days where the majority of the crowd doesn’t look like they just came from working in the yard?  I really like getting dressed up to go out.  I understand that may be partly due to the fact that I no longer have to dress up to go to work and it’s always more pleasurable to do something because you want to and not because you have to.  While I don’t believe that every man in every restaurant needs to have a jacket on, neither do I think they should have a tee shirt on.  Remember ‘business casual’?  It’s now wedding attire.  This summer, my mother and I spent an evening out on the town.  We went to our favorite four-star steak house and then to a show at Symphony Hall.  It was a beautiful night in the city.  A great night to walk the city in a skirt and high heels.  A great night for a nice meal in a restaurant that blessedly does not have a children’s menu.  I was more than a little dismayed to see that our restaurant had become popular with the pre-game crowd - who were all dressed in their Red Sox tee shirts and baseball caps, many which stayed on their head throughout the meal.  I put on perfume for this?  How very tacky.

I have a friend Mark, who lives in England.  He recently sent some photos from a party that he had gone to.  It was a house party thrown by some friends.  I’m not sure that they were celebrating anything in particular.  It was just a bunch of friends spending an evening together.  Every person there was dressed as if they had just come from visiting the Queen.  Men were in tuxedos or dress suits.  Some were in kilts.  The women had each pulled out their favorite little black dress and many had clearly had their hair done.  It looked like such a lovely party.  The type of party I’d love to attend.  I’m sure that I haven’t been in a group of friends during the last 5 years when at least one person wasn’t wearing their slippers.  We need an extreme makeover.

Maybe going to a party in a tuxedo is a bit much to ask.  But would it be that difficult to branch out beyond the standard uniform of jeans and a tee shirt when stepping out?  Give it a try.  Break out of the pack.  Start at the top and buy a real hat.

The Baby of the Family

11/03/2009

They say you can’t go home again but last night I did just that.  Well, sort of.  There was a death in the family - my Aunt Teresa died - and I had to go back to my hometown for the wake.  It’s not like I’m never back in the ‘hood; my parents still live there, although not in the house where we grew up.  I had been hoping to run in to my brothers at the wake, thinking maybe one or all of them would be able to go out for a drink afterward, but my timing was bad.  So, I left the funeral home and decided to take a drive around my old neighborhood. Of course, I headed for the house.  I drove up my street, passing many friends’ houses on the way.  The houses were always close together, though I didn’t think they were back then.  But now there are new houses crammed between the old.  At least it’s nice to see small new houses.  The builders around our town only know how to build huge, silly houses.  I pass where my elementary school was - that was knocked down years ago to build townhouses. When did that become a one way street?  I’ve heard that our old house is a mess so I wasn’t surprised - only saddened - to see what bad shape it’s in.  Everything is familiar but nothing really looks the same. But in my mind, it’s clear as day. 

It’s no lie that I’ve been feeling very  nostalgic lately.  This can be blamed directly on my recently discovered and full-blown addiction to the TV show Mad Men.  I find the work-place story lines riveting, but it’s the home scenes that really capture me.  This was our life. The clothes.  The hair.  The smoking!  Most of my family smoked and our kitchen was often filled with smokers.  We obviously never thought anything about it.  But now, almost no one smokes, and it’s unusual to see someone smoking in public.  Can you even imagine sitting at work - or in a restaurant - and having a smoke?   Seeing Betty Draper smoking at her kitchen table when her kids come in from playing outside is like watching home movies.  But I think the unhurried pace of their lives is what really brings me back.  My father wasn’t an ad man but he put on his suit and hat (don’t you love men in hats?) and went to the office.  I’m certain there wasn’t the drinking and carousing going on that goes on in Mad Men, but I’m sure I thought that there was.  My life revolved around us being at home together and just being with each other.  There weren’t after school activities and sports.  There was school and home and the neighborhood.  And that was enough.

Believe me, I could take any subject and bring it around to Mad Men.  Sorry about that.  Back at the wake, being amongst my people (who, by the way, would never be mistaken for Irish), I become a different person.  I am no longer someone’s wife or mother. I am the baby of the family. The only girl.  I’m just me.  Once you have kids, how many opportunities are there for you to be seen as just you?  Just your childhood self?  Someone else’s baby?  Not too many.  And it feels nice.  It’s so natural and so easy.  I don’t feel this way when I’m together with just my immediate family - my parents and brothers and their families - only when I’m with the entire, extended family.  (La famiglia, if you will,)  So, basically at weddings and funerals. 

I stayed for the duration of the visiting hours, seeing my mother’s childhood friends come through to pay their respects.  We sat toward the back, chatting about this and that as you tend to do at these events.  Some people said the rosary - this being a wake, and all.  Many of us did not. There was a lot of reminiscing and a healthy dose of laughter.  When the crowd thinned out toward the end, just my mother, her cousin and I remained.  I knew it was time to go, leave behind being the baby once more and go home to become Mom again.  But then my cousin Marie turned to my mother and said “Did you see last night’s episode of Mad Men?” and we were off again and I got to stay the baby for a while longer.

My Runaway Imagination

10/27/2009

So I get a phone call about 10 days ago.  It was my doctor’s office, calling with the results of my recent mammogram.  Well, that’s what I thought they were calling for.  But they were actually calling to tell me that they saw something questionable on the first set of images and wanted me to come back in so they could take a round of more detailed films.  “There’s nothing to worry about”, she told me.  “This is very common and usually results in nothing at all.”  Worry?  I wasn’t worried.  I mean, there’s no way I have cancer.  That’s not even remotely plausible.  I was more concerned - dare I say, aggravated - that I would have to carve additional time out of another day so I could go back and be inconvenienced even more.  “Plan on being here for at least an hour.  The Doctor will be here and will meet you immediately after he reads your films to discuss the results.”  An hour?  Were they serious?  The timing of the appointment meant that I would be getting back on the highway exactly at the height of rush hour.  God, don’t I have better things to do with my time? This was pointless.

The weekend passed without my giving the appointment so much as a fleeting thought.  Then it was Monday morning and I had managed to arrange our schedule to factor in me being in traffic for the rest of eternity.  My day at work was a typical Monday at work which means that I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there and get home so I could get some things together before I had to leave for the Doctor.  But at some point during the 2 minute drive from work to my house (I know, it’s brutal!), my mind starting playing tricks on me.  “I think she said the Doctor was going to be there to speak to me.  That seems odd.  Why would the Doctor want to speak with me?”  I started to feel a little sweaty.  By the time I pulled into the driveway, I realized that the Doctor wanted to speak with me because he had seen a huge tumor on the first set of films and was going to need to lay out the frightening future for me.  My brain, unaccustomed to this type of hysteria, clearly was not working right.  It seemed the only logical thing for me to do was to change into my good bra.  Now, I know this is pointless.  I was going to get there and be instructed to take my bra off without anyone ever having seen it.  Still, it seemed like the right thing to do.  As I was changing I noticed these huge red blotches all over my face, neck and chest.  “What the hell?”  Yes, I had broken out in hives and they were most impressive.  It was time to leave for the appointment and I was feeling way beyond anxious.  To be truthful, I was sweating like a pig and feeling really nauseous.  I hadn’t had a mammogram in 10 years.  10 years!  Who the hell do I think I am - that I can escape cancer?  How could I have been so stupid!?  I fought to resist throwing my arms around my husband when I left the house.  I was more than a little teary.  On the ride, I screamed at myself for being so callous and all but giving myself cancer.  I had no one to blame but myself.  I got to the hospital early and sat in the parking lot trying to pull myself together and wondering if this would be my last memory “before everything changed”.

I managed to get myself inside without hyperventilating, which I took to be an encouraging sign.  The receptionist looked a little alarmed when she saw me, which of course meant that she, too, had seen the huge tumor on the first set of films.  I knew exactly where to go, having just been here a few days before.  I entered the waiting room and saw things I hadn’t noticed on my previous visit.  There was a ginormous basket full of all sorts of wonderful pampering products that was wrapped up with a big pink ribbon. 
There was also a big bulletin board full of myths, facts and statistics.  I read that 80% of all biopsies are benign.  Those are good odds, but I just knew they didn’t apply to me.  I was definitely in that 20%.  I was escorted back to the changing area and took off my good bra and put on the neither functional, attractive nor comfortable piece of cloth known as johnny.  I tried repeatedly but could not calm my shaking hands enough to tie the thing.  My heart was actually racing -though not quite as fast as my mind.  I was contemplating writing goodbye letters to my kids while I sat in the waiting room.  I was definitely going to vomit.

Once you’ve delivered children, you realize that the mammogram is not the worst exam/test ever - as long as you don’t mind someone kneading and molding a part of your body as if it were made of clay, which doesn’t seem quite so bad once they flatten it out until it’s at least as thin as a sheet of wet paper.  I actually decided to schedule a mammogram not because it had been 10 years, but because I really need to schedule a colonoscopy and thought I’d work my way up to the indignity of that by having my boobs morphed into potato pancakes first.

The films certainly were  more detailed and hurt appreciably more.  I just knew that I could feel the giant tumor as the machine squished and pinched.  I cried out on more than one occasion.  The hives were hot and red.  I have never felt such palpable dread in my life.  It was over pretty quickly, as they only needed to do one breast - the one with the huge tumor.  I put my good bra back on and took a seat in the waiting room.  There were huge black spots floating around in front of my eyes.  When the technician approached me, I stood, but was ready to faint.  “OK, you’re all set” she said.  All set?  What does that mean?  All set for the Doctor to change my life forever?  I realized she was still talking and heard her say “Everything looks perfect.  Thanks for coming back in.  You’ll get a postcard in the mail in a year as a reminder to schedule an appointment.”  She turned and left, leaving me alone in the waiting room.  The Doctor hadn’t even wanted to speak to me.  I could feel the heat draining out of my face and sat down to gather my things.  I stopped in the ladies room on my way out and saw that I looked totally normal.  The blotches were gone and those black spots had disappeared.  When I got back in the car, I was surprised to see that I had only been inside for 25  minutes (could that be right??  It seemed like hours!!!) which meant that I would be ahead of rush hour traffic.  “Well, that turned out better than I thought”, (a huge understatement) I said as I pulled onto the highway.  But, I’m still not sure I’m ready for the colonoscopy.  Even my imagination doesn’t want to go there.  

The Waiting is Finally Over

10/20/2009

Last week, we finally got an answer to the question that we have been asking for no less than 5 years.  It was the answer that we thought we wanted and I’m so glad to finally know the truth.  But the information, so relieving at first, has left me confused, frustrated and maybe a little angry.
I’m not a doctor - I don’t even play one on TV.  But I’m a Mom and I think that should count for something.   Who knows their children better than their Mom?  No one.  Certainly not a doctor who sees a child once or twice a year for 15 minutes at a time.  Please don’t misunderstand me - I love my pediatrician.  I have recommended him to many of my family and friends.  He is caring and warm and smart.  I don’t envy him his job one bit.  But perhaps doctors could make their jobs a little easier by really listening and focusing on what parents and patients are trying to tell them.  Maybe it’s time to look beyond those infernal charts that they keep trouping out every time we raise our doubts.  Aren’t all of us a bit more complex than a sheet of paper?
I admit that O’s condition was easy to explain away, but it’s longevity alone should have prompted more action.   Kids are supposed to grow like weeds, right?   With each promise that his growth “was coming”, I couldn’t help but think it should have already arrived!  I brushed it off a few times myself and felt that the explanations that the pediatrician gave me made sense.  But I always had a feeling that something just wasn’t right.  He wasn’t growing.  I found it very strange.
O was a good sized baby and a fabulously chubby and dimpled infant, much to the delight of his grandparents.  He hovered around the 98th percentile for his height and everyone warned us that he was going to be a big boy.  “Just look at the size of those hands!“ people would remark.  “He’s going to be huge.”  He ate like a horse and was always happy.  But by the time he went to Kindergarten, he was as skinny as could be, walking around on impossibly tiny legs, needing suspenders to hold up his pants.  “What happened?” I kept asking the doctor.  “How could he go from the 98th percentile to below the 20th?”  I was told it wasn’t uncommon and that as long as he was continuing along on the same pattern (what pattern?  he wasn’t growing!) everything was fine.  The pediatrician kept reassuring me that he was just perfect and that he was thriving and happy and hitting all the milestones.  All of this was true.  Once O started talking he never shut up.  He was never sickly and was certainly growing developmentally and intellectually, he just didn’t seem to be growing physically.  But we plugged along, assuming that his body would catch up with his brain at some point in the near future.  Every summer I would say to O, “this is your year.  I can feel it.”  But it never was.  Back-to-school shopping meant buying the same size clothes as the year before, hoping to be able to find pants that weren’t ridiculously long for his legs.  I stopped telling O that this was his year, and started asking the pediatrician why he wasn’t growing.  But here was another wrinkle - he was growing, just incrementally.  His weight was increasing  faster than his height.  His face was certainly changing.  He didn’t really look like a little boy.  He just looked like a short boy.  And he was short.  The shortest one is his class since 4th grade.  That included most of the girls, just in case you’re wondering.  And that included MJ, O’s sister, younger by 2 years.  When they were babies, it was obvious that O was older.  When they got to be around 6, people started assuming that they were twins.  Then, the worst of the worst, a few years later, everyone assumed that MJ was older.  Man, that’s gotta hurt.
Middle School came for O and with it, his giant friends.  This is when I really knew that something just wasn’t right.  If you saw O with his friends, he looked like the younger brother.  The much younger brother.  And their feet!!  His friends were wearing virtual boats on their feet.  O’s sneakers were less than half the size.  There’s no way that this is normal.
So, I went back to the pediatrician with my concerns.  He said again that O’s growth “was coming”.  He asked us to be patient.  Told us he wasn’t even a little concerned.  When I asked him when he would be concerned, he said not until O was 16.  16!!  There was simply no way we could wait that long.  I pressed the doctor and said I wanted some tests done.  He agreed and set up an appointment with an endocrinologist.  She asked us millions of questions and measured O from top to bottom and sideways and ordered tons of blood work.  The information from those tests led us to another round of testing a few months later.  Which led us to the answer we got last week.  O’s body does not make the growth hormone.  He’s not growing.  Well, blow me over with a feather.  Really?  I think I’ve been trying to tell you this for years.
I’d be lying if I said we aren’t thrilled.  But the elation has given way to concerns.  Would it be better for his body to be able to do this naturally?  Without a doubt.  Was there any hesitation from us in agreeing to hormone treatment?  None whatsoever.  Talk about a relief!  The endocrinologist said that once the treatment starts, the results will be instantaneous.   She also said that there’d be some problems.  His body is not used to growing (duh) so it will hurt and most likely his bones will pop out of their joints.  Doesn’t sound fun, but it will be totally worth it.  She also said that he will most likely have to take hormones for the remainder of his life, which is a truly daunting fact.   Now I really shudder when I hear the term “pre-existing condition”.  Would any of these results be different if this deficiency had been identified earlier?  I don’t know.  His body still wouldn’t make the growth hormone and maybe they wouldn’t have started treatment until the age he is now, though I doubt that.   Maybe the only difference would have been that O would have been taller during Middle School.  But whose to say that this lack of hormones hasn’t affected other things, whose ramifications will come later?   We’re trying not to think about that.  
Though we don’t know what lies ahead with the treatments, I’m so relieved to have found the problem.   There’s no sense wondering about all of the “what ifs”, but it’s a little hard not to.  I wish that it didn’t take so long to get some satisfaction.  I don’t think it should have.  I wish that patients didn’t have to fight so hard.   And I hope that all the promises of “it’s coming” will finally come.   I hope the wait is finally over.

Gardening for Dummies

10/13/2009

There are so many talents I do not possess.  Most of the time, I don’t miss them at all.  I’ve never lost much sleep over the fact that I can’t juggle or do anything with yarn.  I can cook, but I can’t bake - something my mother makes look virtually effortless.  And just ask my kids about my drawing abilities – or lack thereof.  I can barely draw a circle.  I am not allowed to draw when we play Pictionary – ever. It’s a good thing I’m a good guesser, or I wouldn’t be allowed to play at all!  I try not to spend too much time focusing on the things I can’t do but rather on trying to improve upon the things I can do.  But deep down inside, there is one skill I wish I possessed every day.  I would kill to have a green thumb.  To say I have no talent for gardening is to be putting it mildly.  I have read books and asked friends and family members hundreds of questions about plants and gardening, but it goes in one ear and out the other.  My brain can’t seem to remember the most basic information about this stuff.   But in spite of the fact that I don’t know a geranium from a landscaping brick, I love it all.  Plants, flowers, wreaths, topiaries – love it, love it, love it!  However, when I try to plant them or grow them, they die 99% of the time.  Not a great record.  But I keep trying.

I always thought of gardening the way I think of doing craft projects – with terror.  Crafts, like scrapbooking or stamping, frighten me in ways I can’t explain.  Instead of feeling like “wow, look what I made!” I’m left feeling like I have 10 thumbs and angry at my lack of creativity. So many people I know feel like a trip to a craft store is like a trip to Paris and find joy and relaxation in sitting down for the afternoon with a bag of stuff and some glue.  I went to a scrapbooking party several years ago when my kids were young and I was home a lot and desperate for some down time and adult conversation.  When I got home, I made Wes solemnly swear that he would shoot me dead if I ever said I was going to one of those things again.  It completely numbed my brain.  But gardening has always called to me, if even in a taunting way. 

I have long considered myself to be a city girl.  I grew up in a city and I love city life.  We had a back yard with a couple of apple trees but we played mostly out front or in the neighborhood, which was concrete and asphalt.  Neither my elementary school nor my middle school had a single blade of grass growing anywhere near them.  But we had lots of plants in our house and I watched as my father tended to them constantly.  He put up shelves over the kitchen sink and a special light so they could grow.  I saw how he rotated their positions on the shelves or around the house so that each one got an even amount of sunlight.  I never saw one die.  They always looked healthy and vibrant.  “I can do that” I thought.  Boy, was I wrong.  My father would send me off to college each September with a plant for my room saying “It’s virtually indestructible.”  When I came home in October for Columbus Day each year, the plant was dead.  I gave up on gardening.

But, I have a house and it has a yard and the yard needs some help.  So, I’ve been giving it another try.  I started off by watching some gardening shows on TV but they overwhelm me.  I’m not looking to have a fountain or a pond in the yard.  I’m not looking for an outdoor kitchen.  I just want a little color out front and some sense of order and beauty in the back, which is rather sorry looking and boring.  As inspiration, I’ve been walking my neighborhood, looking for things I like and projects that I think we’ll be able to handle.  It’s tricky because I don’t know the names of anything, but I do know what I like.  Once I have my ideas, I call my nephew who tells me exactly what I need to buy at the garden center, what and when I need to do, and I do it.  I’m never even a little confident in any of my efforts, but I enjoy the process more than I ever would have believed.  And though our efforts in the yard thus far have been of the most basic variety, I’m happy enough with them.  Happy enough to keep trying at least.  “Home and Garden” magazine isn’t calling anytime soon, and that’s OK with me.  I’m just trying not to kill anything.

My mother always says that in her next life she’s going to play the piano and ride horses.  Both of those sound nice and I wish I could join her.  But I’ll be too busy out in the yard, tending to my beautiful garden. 

Protecting that Friday Nirvana

10/06/2009

Have you ever had a guilty conscience?  Been plagued by a deed that just won’t let you sleep at night?  Said something that you wish you could take back?  That’s where I am right now.  My brain has been completely overtaken by guilty feelings. I’m having hard time thinking about anything else. This wasn’t even going to be my topic this week.  I was fully planning on writing about the new American Girl doll that Mattell is proposing– who is homeless.  Yes, you read that right.  She’s homeless.  And she’ll cost $95.00.  It’s sheer lunacy.  But even the maddening ridiculousness of that takes a back seat to how bad I feel about hurting my husband’s feelings recently.   It was totally by accident and I feel just awful.  But not quite awful enough to change.

 Now that the kids are back in school, I’ve been able to arrange my schedule so that I have Fridays off from work.  And by off, I mean I’m at home stripping wall paper in the dining room, planting mums in the front yard, washing windows, changing beds and either putting up or taking down some type of seasonal or holiday decoration.  Even though I’m busy, the time is totally and completely my own.  I can listen to the radio.  Or not.  I can shave and wax and pluck without someone knocking on the bathroom door.  I’m totally free to do whatever I choose.  Isn’t that every Mom’s idea of nirvana?  A few hours guaranteed that no one is going to need anything from you?  Parents know those times are few and far between.  But I’m lucky to have the advantage that I can enjoy a few hours to myself every Friday.  God, how I look forward to Fridays.  And yet, here was Wes, standing in my kitchen at 11:00 on Friday morning.

I know the look on my face told him in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t exactly welcome.  My face holds no secrets – whatever I’m feeling is usually written all over it.  And Wes, not known to be a master of nuance in communication, got it right away.  He wasn’t in the house 3 minutes before he was on the phone, making plans to meet a friend for lunch.  I was so conflicted!  I desperately wanted him to go – though I knew it was hurtful and that I had no good reason to ask him to leave.  But what the heck was he doing here?  “I wasn’t expecting you” was what I managed to say, but I know my jaw was hanging open.  My mind was spinning.  I had these hours all planned.  Was he going to want to talk?  Highly unlikely.  Was he going to want lunch?  No, I think he just made plans with Bill.  Was he going to want to fool around?  Oy!  This is never going to work!

I don’t blame him or begrudge him for wanting to work from home.  His commute is long and horrific.  Anyone who’s ever worked in an office knows you can never get any work done there.  And I know from experience how fabulous it is to only have to get out of bed and walk downstairs to work without any of the usual crap.  And who was I to throw him out?  After all, it is his house too (duh).  And, if you want to get technical, he was home trying to work – he was on the clock.  I was officially off the clock.  I wasn’t bringing home any bacon.  If anything, I should be the one to leave.  But it’s Friday – my day off.  I really need this day.

Obviously, I’m a real home-body.  Many of my friends do not understand my love of being home.  If offered a day off, most of them would take to the streets and go out amongst the people.  Lunch, pedicures, shopping.  I love that stuff, too.  I just like being home alone more.  I like getting a jump start on the weekend chores.  I like making some progress on projects around the house.  I like the feeling that no one is going to bother me. 

As always, Wes has been very gracious and has certainly acknowledged my need/desire to be home alone, whether he understands it or not.  I’m not certain that I totally understand it.  I’m a very social person.  I love to be with my friends and family.  But sometimes it’s nice to not to have to talk to anyone, not to have to worry if someone is hungry or needs a ride or wants to tell a joke.  I get twice the amount accomplished when no one else is around.  I could just as easily wash windows and change the beds if Wes and the kids were here, but when someone is here, my focus becomes them.  It’s nice every now and then to just have to focus on the task at hand, and not on anybody else.  Does this make me selfish?  I don’t think so.  It’s not like I’m sitting around watching soaps and eating bonbons.  I’m doing housework and accomplishing the things that no one else here does.  Shouldn’t that count for something?  I think so.  But is it enough to risk hurting my husband’s feelings for.  I’m not so sure.

Marriage and relationships are hard and often wrought with tension and conflicts.  I know this isn’t a huge issue in the big picture.  I just wish that my reaction to his arriving on the scene hadn’t been so drastic.  I wish I had instead been able to smile and say “Wow, you’re home early.  Great!” instead of making him think he was unwelcome in his own home.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.  I love having him home with us.  Just not before 2:00 on Friday.

When Is The Risk Too High?

09/29/2009

A family in my town recently suffered a terrible tragedy - a type of thing that makes you catch your breath when you hear of it.   The type of thing that makes you think, “Oh, I’m so glad that’s not me.”  They type of thing that has proven to be a very popular topic of discussion among many parents here.

A 17 year old boy  - one of a set of football-playing triplets - was injured in a varsity scrimmage at school a few weeks ago.  He got hit, suffered a critical spinal injury, cracking a vertebra, leaving him paralyzed.  He’s getting ready to begin a long road of  extensive rehabilitation at a facility out of state.  He’s just 17 years old.  It’s just too horrible to think about.  Unfortunately, the family knows a lot about what lies ahead for them because last year, another of the triplets suffered the same injury, cracking the same vertebra.  But he, fortunately and miraculously, recovered.  Wow.  What are the chances of that? - to have two brothers suffer the exact same injury?   They seem pretty slim.  Obviously, everyone is hoping and praying that this boy will be as lucky as his brother and make a full recovery, although it’s said that his injury is worse.  Can you even imagine living through this - not once, but twice?!  It’s just incomprehensible.  Yet the most shocking aspect of all - at least for me - is that the third triplet is still playing football.  I’m sorry, but I just can’t understand this.  I know that life has risks and I believe that risks need to be taken, but isn’t this risk just too damn high?  We’re talking about 17 year old kids here.  And, after all is said and done, it is just a game.

I’m in no way advocating putting kids in a plastic bubble.  Really, I’m not.  And I think it’s so important for kids - or anybody - to face the challenges that life puts in front of them with action and not with fear-driven inaction.  But I also believe that sometimes the odds are too high to take and no matter how much you may want to do something, sometimes the best thing to do is just walk away.  After the injuries to his two brothers, would anybody question this boy hanging up his helmet?  I would applaud it.  I expected it!  The father said that his son doesn’t regret playing football and that he has a tremendous passion for the sport.  I wonder if he’d be feeling the same way if his luck had been different - if he were now paralyzed, living in a wheelchair?  He’s a very lucky boy indeed and should channel his passions elsewhere.

We can’t live in constant fear of the “what if”.  God, we’d never leave the house.  But what about when the “what if” becomes more like a “when”?  Right now, with the score at 2 out of 3, I’d say it’s a risk not worth taking.  I followed our high school football team.  I  went to all the pep rallies.  Went to most of the games.  I knew many guys on the team who truly felt as if playing ball was it for them and they envisioned their future as a famous athlete.  Needless to say, that didn’t happen for any of them.  Many of them never played football again after high school.  I understand the need for athletes - or any driven individual - to follow their heart.  But sometimes maybe listening to your head is better than listening to your heart.

I’ve been really thinking about the mother of these boys.  How does she feel when her son is out on the field playing?  I have to imagine she is frightened out of her wits.  She has to be a stronger person than me.  I’m sweating just thinking about it!  How about the coaches and his teammates?   Are they worried?  Is it just a coincidence that both boys suffered the same injury or is there some genetic disposition that makes them more susceptible?  Medical tests say there is no inherent risk.  But will it matter?  If he were to get hurt, will it matter that it was just ‘bad luck‘?   Will they think then that he shouldn’t have played?  Won’t it be too late then?  Is it worth the risk? 

I’m not sure why this story has affected me as strongly as it has.  I don’t know the family and I don’t have children who play football or other contact sports.  But I literally can’t stop thinking about it.   I keep wondering if it will be worth it for this son to continue playing football.  Keep wondering why he’s not afraid; why he doesn’t think that it’s just a game and that he should find something else to do after school.  Wondering how the family would cope if he met the same fate as his brothers.  Wondering why the heck he is still playing ball.  Wondering when the risk will be too high.

Different, but the Same

09/22/2009

It’s been pretty obvious for most of their lives that my kids are extremely different from one another.  That’s not so unusual – so many parents say the same of their kids.  But it still surprises me more and more each day.   

O and MJ don’t even look alike, I don’t think.  O is fair with blue eyes and blond curly hair.  MJ is darker, with straighter brown hair and big brown eyes.  They loathe each other’s choices in everything - especially music and TV (although I think it’s part of some unspoken contract in which they can never like the same thing at the same time).  Both love to be outdoors – but MJ likes to be swimming, running, biking, playing.   O prefers to commune with nature and insists we go slowly and quietly and look at every little thing.  He often yells at me for being “the noisiest walker on the face of the earth”.  Sorry!  Like most girls her age, MJ would be in heaven spending every day at the mall.  A 10 minute shopping trip can make O break out in hives.  So, it can be challenging. 

As babies and toddlers, they were so very different.  O always demanding interaction – and always insisting on being in the same room with me - while MJ would hide somewhere in the house, just so she could play alone.  When O started school, he really liked to ‘work the room’ and meet everyone and talk to every adult that crossed his path.  When MJ started school 2 years later, her teachers described her as ‘a friend to all’ – as long as no one was looking.   So while their differences have been apparent from an early age, they’ve never been as obvious as they are now – with each of them really coming into their own.

For the first time in her life, MJ is at a school without O looming ahead of her.   O’s gregariousness makes him a tough act to follow.  MJ likes to slip by under the radar – never needing to make herself known.  I think she walks the halls with her head held a little higher now, with no shadow of O to keep her down.  The other day, she said “This is my favorite outfit.”  I noticed that her shirt, pants and jacket were all from her new favorite mall store, and that she was wearing the designer sneakers that she begged me to buy her all summer.  She was so happy, I couldn’t help but smile.  I could see how good she felt in what she was wearing – even if it was the standard ‘uniform’ of jeans and a hooded sweatshirt.  She even spent some time and wore her hair differently (a small miracle).  She looked really, really cute.  The mere thought of designer clothes makes O hurl.  I can’t even get him to comb his hair when he gets out of the shower!  He says he likes that ‘no maintenance’ look.  There are no fashionistas at O’s new school - it’s levis, sweatshirts and work boots – and that is beyond perfect for him.

O just started high school at a new school and by the second day, he’d already met someone who has a green cheeked conure, the type of parrot that he has as a pet.  He said how nice it was to finally have something to talk about at school other than sports.  This place seems to be a perfect place for him.  With every report from O on the new school, MJ becomes more certain that she is NEVER going to attend here.  This is SO not what she is about!  Wearing work boots to school?  Are you serious?  “It’s so very fashionable!” she says as she rolls her eyes.  As perfect as it is for him – it’s so totally not perfect for her.

But isn’t it amazing how the standard teenage uniform of jeans and sweatshirts can mean such vastly different things to two people?  Jeans and sweatshirts are what both of my kids are wearing to school – but it’s different jeans and different sweatshirts.  Not the same at all, they tell me.  I can understand why it’s so important to MJ to have her designer label clothing and sneakers to make her feel part of the in-crowd.  I couldn’t wait to get my Sisley jeans from Tellos when I was in Middle School.  And having grown up with 4 levi wearing brothers, who were anti all-popular-things (like disco and big hair), I can equally understand why it’s so important to O to have no designer anything to make him feel like he’s in the loop.  Are they that different?  They both just want to fit in (who doesn’t?) and to feel like they belong. 

Hate to jinx it, but this is the best back-to-school year we’ve ever had.  No drama of any kind, and everyone is happy.  Knock on wood.  Wouldn’t it be nice to think that in every life situation all it will take to make them feel good about themselves and give them a sense of belonging is to put on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt?  Does it need to be harder than that?  No, but it usually is.  Whether in designer jeans or a pair of work boots, we all just want to be comfortable and accepted.  No, I guess they’re not that different after all.  They are both just perfect.

A rant on ranting

09/15/2009

For reasons that even I don’t understand, I spent some time this past weekend reading an article on “reality star” Kim Kardashian.  I only know who she is because she was on “Dancing with the Stars”, a show that I have a rabid, shameless addition to, rather like my lust for ‘People’ magazine.  Only knowing her through ‘Dancing’, I liked her.  She didn’t pretend to be something she’s not, including a dancer.  God, she was awful!  But she kept trying, showing up each week with a smile on her face.  Being a horrific dancer myself, I hold a special place in my heart for bad dancers.  I allow myself to dance in front of people maybe once every 5 or 6 years and spend the next 5 or 6 years reliving it in my head and regretting it.  I admired and appreciated that Kim was out there, trying and failing at something that can come so naturally to so many others.  I loved having MJ and O see that in a celebrity, as opposed to the usual litany of bad behaviors we’re subject to from Hollywood, land of the truly deranged.

For a while, it seemed as though boorish, entitled superiority was limited to sports stars, but bad behavior is spreading like the H1N1 flu.  From Congress to the US Open to MTV, seemingly everyone is acting like Little Lord Fauntleroy after he’s missed his nap.  It’s disgusting. It’s gone far beyond tiresome to infuriating.  Why do we accept this type of behavior?  And what is it doing to our kids?

What must it be like to be a ‘tween girl these days?  Not fun, I’d say.  It was bad enough in the 1970’s when I was in Middle School.  Can you imagine what it’s like now, with so much more pressure to deal with?  In Middle School, I stressed over my hair, whether my friends Gina and Susan would still be my friends when we got to High School and my cheering outfit that we had to make ourselves in Home Ec class.  It made my 8th grade year hell because mine came out so bad, with the big felt “M” for McKinley totally crooked on the front and the hem with varying lengths.  I was certain that everyone was laughing at me every time I had it on.  I was sure I would die, but here I still am.  Today, kids are dealing with sex and babies and drugs (and no Home Ec) - all situations that could drastically alter the rest of their lives.  And because they’re still kids, they still worry about their hair and their clothes and their bad skin.  That’s just too much pressure!

As a Mother, I worry that the media presents such unrealistic and unattainable goals for kids today.  They present a world that shows that less is always more – less weight, less clothing, less brains, less morals.  But they never leave out the dream of big money, big happiness, big bling.  When I was MJ’s age, I watched the Mary Tyler Moore Show and could completely picture myself living her life.  I totally loved her funky studio apartment and the fact that she slept on a sleep sofa.  She always did the right thing, she didn’t live a secret life, and she was fully clothed in every episode. Imagine that.  How many studio apartments are there in 90210, I wonder?  Mary was a single woman starting her career and making new friends in a new city.  Those are situations that I can envision MJ addressing all too soon – hopefully without the new city part.  I’d love it if she were able to pull it off with the grace and style of Mary.  But who is going to show her how?  Britney?  Lindsey?   Octomom?  Heaven help us.

I know that there are many positive role models today that our kids can look up to.  After all, we just swore in the first African American President and then watched Sonia Sotomayor become Chief Justice of the United States.  Awe-inspiring stories both.  But as much as our kids can admire these people, this is not what they are aspiring to at this time in their lives.  All they want is to be like everyone else and to have what seemingly everyone else has – money, sexy good looks, and the latest, hottest everything.  Right after Sonia Sotomayor came into the public eye, I was in the bookstore one day, checking out the magazine rack.  A father picked up a news magazine and showed his daughter the cover page.  He said “This woman is about to became Chief Justice of the United States”.  The daughter looked and said, “Yea, well she’s ugly”.  As horrifying a response as that was, I could see where this girl was coming from.  The rest of the magazines were covered with photos of impossibly beautiful, scantily clad models and actresses, with each magazine promising a tip on how to "look hot" and how to “blow his socks off in bed”.  Not one of them had a teaser that read “How you too can become Chief Justice”.  It’s a sad state of affairs.

So, Kanye now joins the growing list of “artists” that I will not allow on my radio.  If they come on, the station has to be changed immediately, or better yet, the radio turned off.  I have to take my own stand and show my kids that there are some consequences for such bad behavior – however small they may be.  I’m doing what I can.  The current list includes Kanye, Chris  Brown, Rhianna and Britney, as well as any songs that have moaning instead of lyrics, which is quite a few.  If Michael Vick and/or Mike Tyson ever record a song, they too will be banned.  You have to have some standards.  It’s too bad that Hollywood doesn’t agree.