Well, it's happening again.
It's springtime, the kids are off from school for a week, my desk is overflowing, the calendar is jammed, and so it must be time for the annual visit from "the folks," otherwise known as Noni and Pop-Pop, or alas, my parents. They live 2,700 miles away, and don't get me wrong, we are happy and blessed that at age 79 and 80, they are still game to endure a 5-hour flight, sleep fitfully on our 19-year-old sofabed, stand in breezy fields watching our boys play baseball, treat us to dinners out and pizza in.
But. They are sleeping on the 19-year-old sofabed that is in the middle of our TV-computer-family-everything room, and wanting to go to dinner out when we'd just rather have pizza in, and coming along to the ball field which we must leave early because it is "too breezy." I am running, as usual, on all cylinders and then some, and Mom wants me to "take it easy." Dad wants the TV volume cranked way up, Mom wants to spritz her perfume daily in a house full of allergic sneezers and asthmatics, and they both want to spend hours daily tracking down all the regional foods and ethnic delicacies they miss in their southwestern U.S. retirement city.
Dad claims to be "no trouble" but a meal cannot begin unless there is a full loaf of baked-today-semolina-Italian-bread-with-seeds on the table. Mom arrives limping because a foot problem two months ago has morphed her size 8s into size 8-1/2 Extra Wides, and she hasn't "had a chance to buy new shoes," so we visit the "comfort shoe" store and me and Alice, the gem of a salesclerk, spend 20 minutes convincing her that white New Balance walking sneakers with velcro are neither ugly nor clunky, not too young for her nor "old ladyish."
Dad complains that everything is overpriced and he is watching his budget, then drops $30 on rub-off lottery tickets at the deli, and did I mention they live in the gambling capital of the U.S.? Mom says she is watching her cholesterol but during a quick trip to the supermarket she slips the following into the shopping cart: Entennman's oatmeal raisin cookies, Stella D'Oro Anisette Sponge, and a four-pack of oversize pistachio and chocolate muffins.
And just when you think you can't take it for even another few minutes, and you realize they only just got here two-and-a-half days ago and will be here for another 18 (eighteen) days, then you catch sight of.....
....your 80-year-old mother telling your pre-teen son about her favorite school subjects and the 1945 Mets and he's listening.....your 79-year-old father, hump-backed and challenged with memory loss, naming a long list of presidents -- first and last names -- as your 8-year-old son pays rapt attention...while playing a word game at dinner, when required to say one positive word about everyone at the table, your Mom, who has an 8th-grade education, calls her grandchildren "thoughtful," and "assertive"....your aging parents, married 59 years, who so often bicker and complain about one another, holding hands and walking very slowly along the driveway, smiling at each other, just glad to be around to see their daughter's family once a year.....well, that kind of makes up for all the aggravation. Kind of.
Friday, April 28, 2006
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Playground Musings
Mom or not? I ask Judith, one of my mom-friends, who like me, is firmly on the other side of 40. We are on the playground with our second graders after school.
"Her? Mom, definitely a mom," she answers.
"You think? I don't know, look how low her jeans are." I muse.
"But did you see how fast she jumped up when her daughter fell?"
Right.
Judith and I -- and Margaret and Wanda -- often have this little bit of slightly-rude fun when we are feeling particularly vulnerable to the older mom blues.
Is it jealousy or perimenopause or just being in our not-so-early 40s (with various sagging parts), that causes us such consternation at being unable to differentiate between the really young (20-something and early 30-something) Moms, and the au pairs, nannies and teenage older sisters dispatched to pick up children from the elementary schools?
"Her? Mom, definitely a mom," she answers.
"You think? I don't know, look how low her jeans are." I muse.
"But did you see how fast she jumped up when her daughter fell?"
Right.
Judith and I -- and Margaret and Wanda -- often have this little bit of slightly-rude fun when we are feeling particularly vulnerable to the older mom blues.
Is it jealousy or perimenopause or just being in our not-so-early 40s (with various sagging parts), that causes us such consternation at being unable to differentiate between the really young (20-something and early 30-something) Moms, and the au pairs, nannies and teenage older sisters dispatched to pick up children from the elementary schools?
Friday, April 07, 2006
I'm in The Times (too bad not in the money)!
In the swirl of the last month --during which I was accepted to four of the six graduate writing programs to which I applied (MFA in creative nonfiction -- I know, I can't believe it either), I nearly forgot that I also accomplished another writing goal -- a letter in the Letters to the Editor section of The New York Times. Last time that happened, I was 16 and a rabid New York Rangers fan and wrote in to protest Eddie Giacomin being traded to the Islanders. But I digress. For those of you who may not know, the Times receives thousands of letters every week, so if I may say so, it's a pretty nifty thing!
So, here it is -- written in response to an article that declared that letter-writing is a dead art for young people today, growing up in the age of text messages, instant messages, cell phones, and email.
The Touch, the Feel, of That Written Letter
Published: March 20, 2006
To the Editor:
Re "Write Grandma a What?" (Thursday Styles, March 16):
How sad that those of my children's generation — perhaps my own children — may never have the cache of old, personal letters and cards I have in my keepsake box.
I have only to sift through these stacks of letters, still neatly folded in their envelopes (some with obscenely low postage), and I am immediately transported back — to high school, camp, college, my first apartment and other significant times in my life.
There's a letter from Mom, in her neat penmanship, with triple exclamation points and underlines, congratulating me on making the dean's list. There's a card from a long-gone aunt, in her flourishing script, wishing me well on the birth of my first child.
Letters, notes and cards from friends and relatives all tell a tale and evoke the sender, even decades later, across continents, time, even death. What will the e-mail generation have instead? Who prints out e-mail or text messages?
I still insist that my kids (ages 8 and 12) write thank-you notes, in their own hand, mentioning the gift and something good about it. But then, I guess I'm a dinosaur.
-- March 16, 2006
So, here it is -- written in response to an article that declared that letter-writing is a dead art for young people today, growing up in the age of text messages, instant messages, cell phones, and email.
The Touch, the Feel, of That Written Letter
Published: March 20, 2006
To the Editor:
Re "Write Grandma a What?" (Thursday Styles, March 16):
How sad that those of my children's generation — perhaps my own children — may never have the cache of old, personal letters and cards I have in my keepsake box.
I have only to sift through these stacks of letters, still neatly folded in their envelopes (some with obscenely low postage), and I am immediately transported back — to high school, camp, college, my first apartment and other significant times in my life.
There's a letter from Mom, in her neat penmanship, with triple exclamation points and underlines, congratulating me on making the dean's list. There's a card from a long-gone aunt, in her flourishing script, wishing me well on the birth of my first child.
Letters, notes and cards from friends and relatives all tell a tale and evoke the sender, even decades later, across continents, time, even death. What will the e-mail generation have instead? Who prints out e-mail or text messages?
I still insist that my kids (ages 8 and 12) write thank-you notes, in their own hand, mentioning the gift and something good about it. But then, I guess I'm a dinosaur.
-- March 16, 2006
Of Knives and Listening
It’s interesting the things we retain and remember long after. I took an adult class at the high school of a town I lived in 18 years ago, a one-night, three-hour blitz on kitchen knife skills. Before it began, I was afraid to even grasp the neck of the 7-inch chef’s knife, and by the 2-hour mark, I was wielding it like a ballpoint pen; something familiar, something I was sure I could handle with ease. And today, hundreds of dinners and potato salads and thousands of chopped onions later, I can still mince, dice, chop, slice and chiffonade so well that many newer friends are sure I must have grown up in a kitchen where Mom really knew her way around a bouillabaisse instead of one in which most vegetables came from a can and bread was usually the only thing sliced.
I no longer think it’s intriguing that I can sliver basil with precision, though I used to be amazed at my own cutlery prowess, honed not by a job in a restaurant kitchen but just by having learned something once and then with practice, everyday use and trial and error (though only a few that required band-aids and none that called for stitches), the new and untried grew into the routine. Beyond routine -- me with my knife in the kitchen has become a backdrop, and even a trusty companion, when hand and eyes must stay busy while heart and head need attend to something else entirely.
I’ve diced onions while listening to my husband tell me about his father’s stroke and I know he is glad I did not look up and across the small kitchen to where he is leaning against the wall and pinching the top of his nose, willing himself not to cry, although I am--crying; and he will think it's the onions and that is just fine.
My sons pour out the tales of playground indignities and bully taunts while I mince garlic and cleave open, core and slice red and greed peppers and cut chicken into strips. I think they feel safe continuing for as long as it takes me to get the fajitas going. For my part, I hew a bit more intensely to the story in their voice; I know about the emotion in their eyes but at first I want to listen, not look.
Thank God for my knives and the ability to use them without cutting into flesh. Not too deep, anyway.
I no longer think it’s intriguing that I can sliver basil with precision, though I used to be amazed at my own cutlery prowess, honed not by a job in a restaurant kitchen but just by having learned something once and then with practice, everyday use and trial and error (though only a few that required band-aids and none that called for stitches), the new and untried grew into the routine. Beyond routine -- me with my knife in the kitchen has become a backdrop, and even a trusty companion, when hand and eyes must stay busy while heart and head need attend to something else entirely.
I’ve diced onions while listening to my husband tell me about his father’s stroke and I know he is glad I did not look up and across the small kitchen to where he is leaning against the wall and pinching the top of his nose, willing himself not to cry, although I am--crying; and he will think it's the onions and that is just fine.
My sons pour out the tales of playground indignities and bully taunts while I mince garlic and cleave open, core and slice red and greed peppers and cut chicken into strips. I think they feel safe continuing for as long as it takes me to get the fajitas going. For my part, I hew a bit more intensely to the story in their voice; I know about the emotion in their eyes but at first I want to listen, not look.
Thank God for my knives and the ability to use them without cutting into flesh. Not too deep, anyway.
Thursday, April 06, 2006
What a Mom Never Outgrows
The other night when lying with my 8 year old son before kissing him goodnight, I placed my palmed hand along the side of his face, as I always do, enjoying the feel of his lusciously soft skin, moving my hand slowly along the curve of his cheek to at the base of his chin, skimming over the slgitly upturned corners of his mouth as he smiles at my touch.
He’s still my baby and even at 8, he likes being stroked. He is a cuddler, can’t get enough caressing, will let me rub his back any time, any place. In the dimness of the bedroom, lit by his 15 watt NY Giants lamp, the warm light now caresses his features, and for a moment I am thrown back years. What mother has not watched, with disbelief and aching joy, the smooth roundness of her baby’s cheek, and lingered on the fleeting beatury of the spot where the light catches the child’s eye, outlining lids, eyelashes, rounded eyelids, and the space between the inner corner of the eye and the bottom of the eyebrow? For a moment, his 8-year-old features seemed so soft and new and had the nearly-alien look of cherubic loveliness that all babies exude.
“I don’t ever want you to leave me, Mom,” he says, clutching my hand, nuzzling into the space between my jaw and my collarbone.
“I’m always here with you,” I say, touching his chest. “in your heart, even when I’m not with you. You know that, right?”
“I know.” He nods. “Even when you’re passed away, right?”
“Even then.”
At that moment, I’m not sure if I’ve done an excellent job teaching my precious child about the circle of life (or at least exposed him to The Lion King enough times), or if maybe I was too matter-of-fact in my discussions when our Aunt Mary died recently.
Either way, it makes me ache to have had my children in my early 20s instead of late 30s.
He’s still my baby and even at 8, he likes being stroked. He is a cuddler, can’t get enough caressing, will let me rub his back any time, any place. In the dimness of the bedroom, lit by his 15 watt NY Giants lamp, the warm light now caresses his features, and for a moment I am thrown back years. What mother has not watched, with disbelief and aching joy, the smooth roundness of her baby’s cheek, and lingered on the fleeting beatury of the spot where the light catches the child’s eye, outlining lids, eyelashes, rounded eyelids, and the space between the inner corner of the eye and the bottom of the eyebrow? For a moment, his 8-year-old features seemed so soft and new and had the nearly-alien look of cherubic loveliness that all babies exude.
“I don’t ever want you to leave me, Mom,” he says, clutching my hand, nuzzling into the space between my jaw and my collarbone.
“I’m always here with you,” I say, touching his chest. “in your heart, even when I’m not with you. You know that, right?”
“I know.” He nods. “Even when you’re passed away, right?”
“Even then.”
At that moment, I’m not sure if I’ve done an excellent job teaching my precious child about the circle of life (or at least exposed him to The Lion King enough times), or if maybe I was too matter-of-fact in my discussions when our Aunt Mary died recently.
Either way, it makes me ache to have had my children in my early 20s instead of late 30s.
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Yesterday
Yesterday my seven-year-old told me he is "in love." He wants to kiss her. NO !!!! I practically shout, envisioning the zero-tolerance rule coming crashing down upon him...I can see it now -- expelled from school in second grade for aggressive romantic actions! Think it, honey, just don't do it, I counsel. Yesterday, I volunteered at my 12-year-old son's school and got to see, but not be seen, while his class worked on a project in a large multi-purpose area. And, if at age 46 I still remember correctly way back to what it looks like when a 12-year-old girl thinks a 12-year-old boy is pretty special, well, there it was....Wasn't it just yesterday when they were babes?
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Winter....still
Something must be seriously out of kilter, when on a freezing, icy night in early March, the town's baseball "commissioners" have scheduled a "workout," weeks before teams are even chosen?
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Post-Olympic Thoughts
The Olympics have finally ended and now I can put away the broom my husband and son were using to practice their curling. Curling? Don't get me wrong, but can you get any more bored watching a so-called sport? I suppose if the International Olympic Committee suddenly decided that dusting or tub scrubbing merited tome on the Olympic agenda, we'd see women heading for spas on Saturday mornings as men and boys in households across the nation wielded Pledge wipes and Tilex bottles with competitive aplomb.
Anyway, I have decided I could live quite happily for many more decades without ever again watching skeleton, in which otherwise sensible-looking athletes plunge head first down an ice run at speeds I've never even driven, or the speed skating group race, which requires guys and gals with more muscles than Ahnold to pat one another's bottoms on international TV. When I was a kid, our parents actually encouraged us to watch the Olympics TV coverage; we'd get up close and personal (remember grand ole Jim McKay?), learn something about dedication in pursuit of a goal; get a geography lesson and maybe pick up a few foreign words.
My kids are no different than I was; they wanted to watch every second of Olympic TV. Trouble was, I got worried what words they'd learn, what lesson they'd deduce from a "sport" called half pipe. We live on a steep hill and I swear I could see the gears turning in my younger son's brain, hoping for ice so he could skeleton. My pre-teen son actually went around declaring his love of curling. And then there was my husband -- who refused to see Brokeback Mountain -- setting the VCR to record the two-man luge and in case you don't know, this is the exciting sport in which two buff men in spandex lie down one on top of the one other before skittering down an ice run, vibrating. For the record, I myself have now seen enough figure skaters reaching up behind their head and grabbing their skate blade to last me two lifetimes.
So now that the Olympics are finally over, our family can return to its regularly scheduled TV fare; you know, educational programming, arts and cultural performances and the like.
In other words, isn't it time for American Idol?
Anyway, I have decided I could live quite happily for many more decades without ever again watching skeleton, in which otherwise sensible-looking athletes plunge head first down an ice run at speeds I've never even driven, or the speed skating group race, which requires guys and gals with more muscles than Ahnold to pat one another's bottoms on international TV. When I was a kid, our parents actually encouraged us to watch the Olympics TV coverage; we'd get up close and personal (remember grand ole Jim McKay?), learn something about dedication in pursuit of a goal; get a geography lesson and maybe pick up a few foreign words.
My kids are no different than I was; they wanted to watch every second of Olympic TV. Trouble was, I got worried what words they'd learn, what lesson they'd deduce from a "sport" called half pipe. We live on a steep hill and I swear I could see the gears turning in my younger son's brain, hoping for ice so he could skeleton. My pre-teen son actually went around declaring his love of curling. And then there was my husband -- who refused to see Brokeback Mountain -- setting the VCR to record the two-man luge and in case you don't know, this is the exciting sport in which two buff men in spandex lie down one on top of the one other before skittering down an ice run, vibrating. For the record, I myself have now seen enough figure skaters reaching up behind their head and grabbing their skate blade to last me two lifetimes.
So now that the Olympics are finally over, our family can return to its regularly scheduled TV fare; you know, educational programming, arts and cultural performances and the like.
In other words, isn't it time for American Idol?
Monday, February 27, 2006
Office Furniture
Don't ask me, but if you do, I will tell you that I think putting a piece of exercise equipment, no matter how sleek it looks or practical it seems, in your home office, is a colossally stupid idea.
I know this because I recently did this exact stupid thing. So now, as I sit at my desk browsing catalogs, reading unimportant blogs (not this one of course), ordering DVDs from Netflix, and otherwise procrastinating and NOT writing, I can look across the room and see my brand new, exceedingly well-designed, $879 NordicTrac treadmill, with the built in multi-speed fan, and think....oh, fine, another thing I'm not doing that I should be doing.
However, I have found that the treadmill is actually quite useful as a landing strip for my son's new Lego Luxury Passenger Jet, as well as a handy spot to plunk down the bags I keep bringing home from Staples, containing the new magazine holders, smoothly-flowing Uniball fine-line markers, color-coordinated file folders, and other nifty items I absolutely positively need for my work.
The work, which at the present moment, I am not doing. Not doing while staring at the treadmill. Feeling guilty. And fat.
I know this because I recently did this exact stupid thing. So now, as I sit at my desk browsing catalogs, reading unimportant blogs (not this one of course), ordering DVDs from Netflix, and otherwise procrastinating and NOT writing, I can look across the room and see my brand new, exceedingly well-designed, $879 NordicTrac treadmill, with the built in multi-speed fan, and think....oh, fine, another thing I'm not doing that I should be doing.
However, I have found that the treadmill is actually quite useful as a landing strip for my son's new Lego Luxury Passenger Jet, as well as a handy spot to plunk down the bags I keep bringing home from Staples, containing the new magazine holders, smoothly-flowing Uniball fine-line markers, color-coordinated file folders, and other nifty items I absolutely positively need for my work.
The work, which at the present moment, I am not doing. Not doing while staring at the treadmill. Feeling guilty. And fat.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Legos..In the bathroom?
It's true, I must have never been a kid, as my husband told me tonight. He on the other hand, must have been enough of a kid for both of us.....what brought this up was, I was trying to take a nap, but kept hearing my two sons in the bathroom, very loudly making up stories about their newest favorite things...a Legos jetliner and helicopter.....Stumbling in to investigate, I find older son in the shower, younger son on bathroom floor and both Legos aircraft (they are big, let me tell you), on the bathroom rug, in various stages of take-off and landing, and numerous loose Lego pieces scattered from sink to toilet.....WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH LEGOS IN THE BATHROOM? I said very calmly (well, maybe I yelled, or screamed or something)...anyway, younger son exits downtrodden, and I huff away. Later, husband says I am a killjoy. "Wasn't I ever a kid who wanted to bring their favorite new toy everywhere?" Well, I was. But bringing my Baby Wetsy doll in the bathroom was clearly a different matter, don't you think?
Thursday, February 23, 2006
help......
Ask any mom.....why is it that we can figure out how to navigate the school system, what teen clothes are cool to buy(usually), and which member of the family likes which peanut butter (plain, crunchy, extra-crunchy, honey-roasted, low-fat, natural)....but we can't figure out how to work our new blog!!
Another day, another few hundred dollars
We moms learn something new every day. Like how difficult it is to go from 51 miles an hour, (which is one mile over the posted speed limit), down to 35 miles an hour (the new posted limit), exactly 1/4 mile before encountering the six (6!) police officers who are pulling over a high percentage of cars, and, with alarming pleasure, issuing tickets.
And, to further my education this particular morning, I learned that 15 miles over the speed limit is a nominal (not more than dinner out) fine, but 16 miles over the limit is a major fine, 4 points on your license and an insurance surcharge for the next three years.
Yes, we moms learn something new every day....unfortunately we often don't learn these things from unfortunate friends who had the above misfortune. No, we learn them first-hand, with children in the back seat, a grocery bag of melting ice cream on the front seat and the sinking feeling that the municipal court probably won't take Visa.
And, to further my education this particular morning, I learned that 15 miles over the speed limit is a nominal (not more than dinner out) fine, but 16 miles over the limit is a major fine, 4 points on your license and an insurance surcharge for the next three years.
Yes, we moms learn something new every day....unfortunately we often don't learn these things from unfortunate friends who had the above misfortune. No, we learn them first-hand, with children in the back seat, a grocery bag of melting ice cream on the front seat and the sinking feeling that the municipal court probably won't take Visa.
Ask Any Mom
A mom learns something new every day: 1. Today's speeding ticket will usually be roughly the same amount of yesterday's unexpected rebate check.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Welcome
Hi readers, Thanks for visiting my brand new blog. I planned to write a brilliant and witty opening, but because: 1. husband needs help operating complex machinery in the kitchen (dishwasher); 2. one child has something in his eye (I'm assuming he means other than normal anatomy) and is screaming; 3. other child wants desperately to clue me in to the delights of watching curling on the Olympics and won't take no for an answer; and 4. I just remembered the laundry I put in the washer six hours ago, the Ring Ding I started eating while cleaning out cabinets and quickly stashed in the good china cupboard when I heard above-named husband and kids coming home, and the invitations to child number one's birthday party that should have been mailed three days ago and I am sincerely hoping are still under the front seat of the car where they slipped when I slammed the brakes because my friend, on my cell-phone speaker shrieked, "I can't be pregnant. I'm 44!" So, instead of a lovely welcome message about how this is going to be a random account of my life as a mom, and occasionally, my life as an individual person, you get this....my life. Welcome.
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