Friday, July 6, 2012
Monday, September 26, 2011
Spontaneous Emotions vs. Planned Response: A Study of the Heart (Don't worry, it's not nearly as boring as it sounds...give it a chance).
My first born is going to high school.
This comes as no surprise to me, naturally, as I was there when he came into the world--and I've been keeping tabs on his age ever since. So, I've expected this for quite some time now.
There is no question that he'll do well there. He's loved school since he was little, and has never been one to need any prodding to do his work. He's naturally curious, wonderfully creative and amazing to talk to. I really like the guy.
Last night we enjoyed the final music concert of his k-8 career. He's a comfortable singer--he's there, in the back row (taller than most in the class), with an actual expression on his face while he sings. This is rare for his age-group; it must not be cool to express yourself while singing in public (however, with your friends, it's another story. By the way, do they think we don't know they do that sort of thing?). He's also an accomplished percussionist. It was fun watching him stroll around back there where they keep the percussionists--you know, behind the rest of the band--where he occasionally changed instruments and floated to and away from other band members' sides during the pieces they played. It looked like he was in charge back there.
After the concert was the traditional "8th Grade Slide Show". This is what everyone who attends my childrens' school looks forward to from the time they start kindergarden. It's meant to bring tears of sentimentality to all who hang around to enjoy it. A month, or so ago, we parents were asked to send the media guru at school a handful of baby/early school year photos. From these, he creates a work of art, set to tear-jerking music and the whole things comes together to form one big sob-fest. Last night's was no exception.
Understand that my son has had some tough years at this particular school. He's not really too upset to be moving on, let's just put it that way. He'll still be in school with these same classmates, but there will be another 325, or so, new people he'll be able to get to know over the next 4 years. He likes to meet new people. I'm excited for this next phase in his life.
Well, I certainly shed my requisite share of "Mom tears" last night. Seeing my beautiful boy's 'life-so-far' reduced to 5 pictures was too much--I might even call the feeling I had, daunting--not unlike the task of choosing them was. (The "media guru" I mentioned before told me one mother sent him 30 pictures. We were asked to pick FIVE. It was hard!). Yes, daunting--watching his few moments of the show made for an odd mix of happy plus sad, with some confusion (really? I knew he had changed, but REALLY? THAT much?) and protectiveness tossed-in --(Did they applaud and whoop as much for him as they had for the others whose pictures were before his? Do they like him as much as the other kids???). I was relieved when it was over.
So was he, I think. His little brother shot him a 'boy insult' the instant he caught-up to him afterward:
"Hey, you were CRYING, weren't you?!?" He probably did shed a tear, but I think, all things considered, he's done with this part of this life.
Since I kissed him goodbye that first day of kindergarden I knew that I'd be sitting there last night. I expected to feel more sadness...I expected to feel some "Wait! Slow down! I don't want this moment to end"- ish stuff. But I didn't. What's even more strange is that it didn't even occur to me that I didn't feel what I had thought I'd feel until hours later. Usually I am 'hyper-aware' of my thoughts and feelings. Usually, I decide how I should think, what I should say, and am positive about how I should feel under whatever circumstances I am anticipating encountering in any given situation. (Yes, I take medication...but, that's beside the point).
Anyway, I guess the point is, that I know he's ready and happy. That makes a mom like me Just Plain Content. "Content" was not one of the emotions I had decided I'd have at the 8th grade slide show. I was caught off guard by my own spontaneous feelings which must have finally had enough of the controlling part of me last night and thought: "The hell with it--we're taking this one on our own." I'm glad they did. And, truth be told, I think I'll be happy if they take the wheel more often from now on.
Epilogue:
The school year has begun and, as predicted, my son is loving his life! He's meeting new friends, and even is planning for his first dance. With a girl. Now THAT is something I'm SURE I'm not ready for--no question about my feelings around THIS topic...but, here we go...
This comes as no surprise to me, naturally, as I was there when he came into the world--and I've been keeping tabs on his age ever since. So, I've expected this for quite some time now.
There is no question that he'll do well there. He's loved school since he was little, and has never been one to need any prodding to do his work. He's naturally curious, wonderfully creative and amazing to talk to. I really like the guy.
Last night we enjoyed the final music concert of his k-8 career. He's a comfortable singer--he's there, in the back row (taller than most in the class), with an actual expression on his face while he sings. This is rare for his age-group; it must not be cool to express yourself while singing in public (however, with your friends, it's another story. By the way, do they think we don't know they do that sort of thing?). He's also an accomplished percussionist. It was fun watching him stroll around back there where they keep the percussionists--you know, behind the rest of the band--where he occasionally changed instruments and floated to and away from other band members' sides during the pieces they played. It looked like he was in charge back there.
After the concert was the traditional "8th Grade Slide Show". This is what everyone who attends my childrens' school looks forward to from the time they start kindergarden. It's meant to bring tears of sentimentality to all who hang around to enjoy it. A month, or so ago, we parents were asked to send the media guru at school a handful of baby/early school year photos. From these, he creates a work of art, set to tear-jerking music and the whole things comes together to form one big sob-fest. Last night's was no exception.
Understand that my son has had some tough years at this particular school. He's not really too upset to be moving on, let's just put it that way. He'll still be in school with these same classmates, but there will be another 325, or so, new people he'll be able to get to know over the next 4 years. He likes to meet new people. I'm excited for this next phase in his life.
Well, I certainly shed my requisite share of "Mom tears" last night. Seeing my beautiful boy's 'life-so-far' reduced to 5 pictures was too much--I might even call the feeling I had, daunting--not unlike the task of choosing them was. (The "media guru" I mentioned before told me one mother sent him 30 pictures. We were asked to pick FIVE. It was hard!). Yes, daunting--watching his few moments of the show made for an odd mix of happy plus sad, with some confusion (really? I knew he had changed, but REALLY? THAT much?) and protectiveness tossed-in --(Did they applaud and whoop as much for him as they had for the others whose pictures were before his? Do they like him as much as the other kids???). I was relieved when it was over.
So was he, I think. His little brother shot him a 'boy insult' the instant he caught-up to him afterward:
"Hey, you were CRYING, weren't you?!?" He probably did shed a tear, but I think, all things considered, he's done with this part of this life.
Since I kissed him goodbye that first day of kindergarden I knew that I'd be sitting there last night. I expected to feel more sadness...I expected to feel some "Wait! Slow down! I don't want this moment to end"- ish stuff. But I didn't. What's even more strange is that it didn't even occur to me that I didn't feel what I had thought I'd feel until hours later. Usually I am 'hyper-aware' of my thoughts and feelings. Usually, I decide how I should think, what I should say, and am positive about how I should feel under whatever circumstances I am anticipating encountering in any given situation. (Yes, I take medication...but, that's beside the point).
Anyway, I guess the point is, that I know he's ready and happy. That makes a mom like me Just Plain Content. "Content" was not one of the emotions I had decided I'd have at the 8th grade slide show. I was caught off guard by my own spontaneous feelings which must have finally had enough of the controlling part of me last night and thought: "The hell with it--we're taking this one on our own." I'm glad they did. And, truth be told, I think I'll be happy if they take the wheel more often from now on.
Epilogue:
The school year has begun and, as predicted, my son is loving his life! He's meeting new friends, and even is planning for his first dance. With a girl. Now THAT is something I'm SURE I'm not ready for--no question about my feelings around THIS topic...but, here we go...
Monday, May 23, 2011
"HIT ME with your stupid lightning. Just do something to show me you're thinking about me AT ALL."
(...from, How to Train Your Dragon, by Cressida Cowell)
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Sometimes I get SO frustrated because I can't figure out what's happening to one of my children (it's usually just one at a time), that I get to a point of giving up.
Giving up looks like this in my world: First, I beg for an explanation. (From a child, mind you, who is intellectually unable to give one). Second, I bang a few pots and pans as I'm emptying the dishwasher, or throw a couple of shoes on the floor with a satisfying amount of OOMPH packed behind my pounding.
Next comes the stomping and ranting. That seems to be the family "favorite"-- and by favorite I mean most terrifying. At this point, they all scatter like centipedes when you turn on the light. You would think that, at this point, when things are all quiet and everyone is invisible, I'd calm down. But no.
Instead, the fact that I'm being ignored only adds fuel to my internal fire/external fury. NOT a good combo. My mind goes right to the same, sad place every time: "If they're going to ignore me, I'll just ignore them".
And so I do. Most of the time, I go into my room, lock the door and cry--really cry--for a good, long time. I lick my wounds and feel the world turning it's back on me. Then, after my wallow, comes my most dreaded part of the entire process: the guilt.
The guilt is, by far, The Worst piece of this oft repeated cycle. Ultimately, I reach the point I wish I could reach long about part 1 1/2: I need to get my shit together, quit feeling sorry for myself, grow-up and just be the adult here.
Kids need their parents to pay attention and BE THERE. It's not rocket science. And yet, for some reason, getting past my own needs, even after 14 years of parenthood, is so very difficult.
It's my fatal flaw and a mortal sin. (Okay, I'm Catholic, but my definitions of 'mortal' vs 'venial' are cloudy...maybe it's venial...). Parents are supposed to give themselves to their children entirely, right? I am right here, aren't I? At the very least, parents should tune-in often enough, to know that, when something weird is going on with one of their children, something needs to be done. Right away. That means putting down whatever I'm doing, stop whatever is happening in my life, and look my child in the eye and communicate.
Books and classes told me this when I had little babies--but obviously I didn't pay close enough attention--I thought I could take a little 'mental break' at these points of the lectures, since I knew I had this particular parenting base covered. No child of mine would steal second without me noticing and perfectly achieving the early cut-off. That in-born, supernatural connection I have with my children was my shortstop--my guarantee I'd never fail.
Man, was I wrong. Lately our family is suffering a lot from my ugly cycle of fury--the indoor thunderstorm we can't shelter ourselves from. I think I'm slowly, painfully coming to realize that I'm not the ultra-connected Mom I just took for granted that I naturally was. God gave me 5 perfectly good senses to use when things get tough. Sight, Touch and Sound would come in especially handy about now.
If I'd merely get off my butt, open my eyes, listen to my child's words and take him or her in my arms and just LOVE, that innate 6th sense might actually kick-in. Duh.
In the meantime, the children will act in even more outrageous ways--be more disrespectful to me and cruel to each other--until I give them what they need and what they are simply unable to verbalize: they need my attention. They'll take the lightning and thunder I dish-out, because, at least it's a sign that I'm there--giving them something. And something, even if it's a storm--or maybe just the calm that follows-- is better than giving up and giving them nothing at all.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Sometimes I get SO frustrated because I can't figure out what's happening to one of my children (it's usually just one at a time), that I get to a point of giving up.
Giving up looks like this in my world: First, I beg for an explanation. (From a child, mind you, who is intellectually unable to give one). Second, I bang a few pots and pans as I'm emptying the dishwasher, or throw a couple of shoes on the floor with a satisfying amount of OOMPH packed behind my pounding.
Next comes the stomping and ranting. That seems to be the family "favorite"-- and by favorite I mean most terrifying. At this point, they all scatter like centipedes when you turn on the light. You would think that, at this point, when things are all quiet and everyone is invisible, I'd calm down. But no.
Instead, the fact that I'm being ignored only adds fuel to my internal fire/external fury. NOT a good combo. My mind goes right to the same, sad place every time: "If they're going to ignore me, I'll just ignore them".
And so I do. Most of the time, I go into my room, lock the door and cry--really cry--for a good, long time. I lick my wounds and feel the world turning it's back on me. Then, after my wallow, comes my most dreaded part of the entire process: the guilt.
The guilt is, by far, The Worst piece of this oft repeated cycle. Ultimately, I reach the point I wish I could reach long about part 1 1/2: I need to get my shit together, quit feeling sorry for myself, grow-up and just be the adult here.
Kids need their parents to pay attention and BE THERE. It's not rocket science. And yet, for some reason, getting past my own needs, even after 14 years of parenthood, is so very difficult.
It's my fatal flaw and a mortal sin. (Okay, I'm Catholic, but my definitions of 'mortal' vs 'venial' are cloudy...maybe it's venial...). Parents are supposed to give themselves to their children entirely, right? I am right here, aren't I? At the very least, parents should tune-in often enough, to know that, when something weird is going on with one of their children, something needs to be done. Right away. That means putting down whatever I'm doing, stop whatever is happening in my life, and look my child in the eye and communicate.
Books and classes told me this when I had little babies--but obviously I didn't pay close enough attention--I thought I could take a little 'mental break' at these points of the lectures, since I knew I had this particular parenting base covered. No child of mine would steal second without me noticing and perfectly achieving the early cut-off. That in-born, supernatural connection I have with my children was my shortstop--my guarantee I'd never fail.
Man, was I wrong. Lately our family is suffering a lot from my ugly cycle of fury--the indoor thunderstorm we can't shelter ourselves from. I think I'm slowly, painfully coming to realize that I'm not the ultra-connected Mom I just took for granted that I naturally was. God gave me 5 perfectly good senses to use when things get tough. Sight, Touch and Sound would come in especially handy about now.
If I'd merely get off my butt, open my eyes, listen to my child's words and take him or her in my arms and just LOVE, that innate 6th sense might actually kick-in. Duh.
In the meantime, the children will act in even more outrageous ways--be more disrespectful to me and cruel to each other--until I give them what they need and what they are simply unable to verbalize: they need my attention. They'll take the lightning and thunder I dish-out, because, at least it's a sign that I'm there--giving them something. And something, even if it's a storm--or maybe just the calm that follows-- is better than giving up and giving them nothing at all.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Just When you Think You Know Sombody...Part 2
"Shit", she said, recalling the emotions of that night over jars of hot strawberry filled jars. "How the hell did this happen?" She recalled, thinking, " What did I miss? I was sure I covered all my bases. Damn." She was ready to leave right then and there, but something deep in her primordial mind told her "don't flee, Diane, FIGHT!" And fight, she did. She stuck to it, attended all 6 of those #^%,>@* classes, and came out more determined than ever to truffle the crap out of Dauffie if it was the last thing she did.
"Exactly how many categories are you entering this year?" I asked. Her back was turned, but I heard her answer, softly, "you don't want to know."
"I really do", I said, "come on, just tell me". I'm pretty sure she was almost embarrassed at how this determination had pretty much blinded her for an entire 9 months. About "58", I heard her whisper. "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!! FIVE-EIGHT???" Yes, it was true.
"You have no idea. I'm totally out of control! Now, I'm starting to feeling the pressure. My corn is canned, but I'm not happy with it's color--I might have to do that again...I can't bake the cupcakes too early or they'll dry out--if I wait too long, they won't cool in order to time the frosting...plus, the boys' things still need to be touched-up and I have to set aside time to coach them on their presentations. I'm really feeling the crunch, now." I'd never seen her this way--she was actually breaking a sweat.
Now, I tried to put this in perspective. What the hell, after all? We all have our thing ; mine happens to be a 'gigantic, unpredictable explosions of rage caused by a combination of having too many children too close in age and a case of Bipolar Disorder tossed into the mix' weakness. With Diane, well let's just call hers the 'mess with my obsession and I'll do whatever it takes to blow your butt out of the water' secret personality trait. Do we ever really know someone?
In the days leading up to the final deadlines, Diane was unreachable by phone. I pictured her a frazzled mess, apron on, frantically searching the kitchen for some oil-smudged 'to-do' list which is buried under a bunch of cook books and scattered recipe's in a kitchen blocked-off with police tape. There's a cot in the corner with a few tousled sheets, used when she can catch a few winks while something's baking or cooling. I could do nothing for the poor thing; she was in over her head. The only relief would come after the deadlines had been met. Only then, would she be able to relax and breathe and sleep. Although, I suspected that she wouldn't really be able to relax until the results were in.
I saw her for the first time in three weeks when I accidentally ran into her at the fair. She had just turned-in the last of her entries. She looked like a prisoner of war, like she hadn't slept since I saw her last Her clothes hung off of her malnourished body. Had she even been feeding the children, I wondered? I pictured them scrounging around the garden, eating green beans off the vine, sitting in the dirt, chomping tomatoes, the juice dripping off their unbathed chins. Pathetic and sad.
The fair started and I called her a couple of times, late, on the evenings after judging had taken place. No answers. I think she was screening. She had to keep the line open for the important, judge's calls. Two days in, I ran into her in the Fine-Art's building. This was a good sign; she thought she'd walk through and view a little amateur drawing and painting to take her mind off of the judging that was occurring as we spoke: Candy.
"How you feeling?", I asked. "So far, so good", she said, "I'm feeling pretty good about my caramel truffle, especially. The ganache was the best I've ever made! It's in the hands of the experts now." Knowing how important this was to her, I bit my tongue, holding myself back from what comes natural to me in such situations--making some sarcastic remark about how we all know the integral role caramel truffles play in the food chain. "Dauffie's taken a few of the predictable categories," she continued, "but did you see, I got her in Quick Breads and Fruit Pies!?" I did know this, as I had been following the results closely in the paper. "Yeah, way to go!", I said, encouraging and supportive-like. "When will you know about tonight's judging?" "Not sure", she sighed, "the word is it could go pretty late. We usually wait around, but I don't think I can take it. I think we'll head home and wait for the call." I suggested a warm bath and a glass of wine. "No, I wanna keep my head clear for the call". We half-hugged--she's not much of a hugger on a good day, plus she was obviously SO distracted-- and I wished her luck.
As I drove my kids home that evening, I wondered what Diane would be like when the fair was over. Would she collapse? Would she go into withdrawals and continue moving at the pace of a mad-woman? Would we need to do an intervention? Would she go into a depression--that anti-climactic kind? Who knew, but clearly, she'd have to react somehow. After the time she'd devoted to this event, I was ready to help her through whatever emotions might come.
The call finally came. Dauffie had taken the blue ribbon in Candy.
Diane called me with the news. Remarkably, she didn't sound out-for-blood. She didn't really even sound very disappointed. "It was really close. They said Dauffie won by 1/2 a point. It took three counts before they could be sure. It was density. She got me on density."
"I'm so sorry", I said, trying to sound conciliatory, "she's been doing this for so many years...some day you'll be the one to beat." "I'm going to bed. I'll talk to you tomorrow", she said and we hung up. I felt sad and let down. Maybe her candy tasted like poop--I don't know--but I knew how hard she worked and I thought she deserved Grand Champion.
The next morning, I called to check-in. I didn't hear anything but exhaustion in her voice. "Yeah, I'm disappointed, but it's no big deal", she said. Then we went on to talk about school supplies being so ungodly expensive. Unbelievable.
I should have known she'd take this, like everything else, in stride. Life goes on, there's always something else to get done. Move on. She was my hero.
We rarely talked about the fair after that. The school year was under way and we moved-on. I'd tease her about the change in her personality--how it was a side I'd never dreamed she'd have. She'd take the ribbing in good humor.
The next spring came around, summer followed and the fair approached. At coffee, a few weeks before the fair was to start, it occurred to me that Diane hadn't been nearly as busy as she had the year before. She wasn't chatting, complaining, even mentioning the fair. "Hey, what's your strategy to beat Dauffie this year? More flour sifting, maybe?" I asked.
"I'm not sure," she said, clearly steering me off-topic.
A few days later, I ran into her sister-in-law. "What's Diane entering in the fair this year?", I asked. "Nothing", she replied.
"Sorry, did you say, 'nothing'?" (my mouth ajar)
"Right. Nothing. I think last year was a wake-up call--she's taking a break this year."
---------------------------------------------------------
Whenever I think of that summer I can't help laughing. Rarely have I seen such a drastic, unpredictable side emerge from someone I thought I knew. She insists she'll never get caught-up in that scene again. I'm not so sure. Once in a while, when she's decorating a cake, she seems to slip into a 'zone' and her face takes on just a teensy bit of the intense expression I remember from the 'Summer of the Truffle'. That's the face that crept into my mind this morning--the frenzied, "Help me!" face. Maybe I'll drive through Starbucks, grab a couple of strong coffees and head to the farm. Who knows, maybe there is something I can do to help?
---------------------------------
Epilogue~
After showing this post to Diane for permission to print it, I got this in response:
"Sure. Go ahead and print it. I like it! I don't know if anyone else will want to read it though.", (Typical Diane-esque modesty) " Did I tell you the news? Dauffie can't enter anything in the fair anymore! They gave her a 'Lifetime Achievement Award', then took away her right to submit anything from now on. She's just too good. I guess the last laugh's on Dauffie!"
I guess it is. Despite my opinion that stripping someone of the right to compete simply because they are too good seems pretty unfair to me, I can't help but think it might cause Diane to reconsider. Time will tell how Diane feels about Dauffie's forced retirement as spring turns to summer this year...never say never! Diane & Jack did, after all, remodel their kitchen last fall. Who could resist another go-round, in a new, state of the art kitchen? I mean, it would almost be a sin not to go for it, don't you think?
"Exactly how many categories are you entering this year?" I asked. Her back was turned, but I heard her answer, softly, "you don't want to know."
"I really do", I said, "come on, just tell me". I'm pretty sure she was almost embarrassed at how this determination had pretty much blinded her for an entire 9 months. About "58", I heard her whisper. "ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!! FIVE-EIGHT???" Yes, it was true.
"You have no idea. I'm totally out of control! Now, I'm starting to feeling the pressure. My corn is canned, but I'm not happy with it's color--I might have to do that again...I can't bake the cupcakes too early or they'll dry out--if I wait too long, they won't cool in order to time the frosting...plus, the boys' things still need to be touched-up and I have to set aside time to coach them on their presentations. I'm really feeling the crunch, now." I'd never seen her this way--she was actually breaking a sweat.
Now, I tried to put this in perspective. What the hell, after all? We all have our thing ; mine happens to be a 'gigantic, unpredictable explosions of rage caused by a combination of having too many children too close in age and a case of Bipolar Disorder tossed into the mix' weakness. With Diane, well let's just call hers the 'mess with my obsession and I'll do whatever it takes to blow your butt out of the water' secret personality trait. Do we ever really know someone?
In the days leading up to the final deadlines, Diane was unreachable by phone. I pictured her a frazzled mess, apron on, frantically searching the kitchen for some oil-smudged 'to-do' list which is buried under a bunch of cook books and scattered recipe's in a kitchen blocked-off with police tape. There's a cot in the corner with a few tousled sheets, used when she can catch a few winks while something's baking or cooling. I could do nothing for the poor thing; she was in over her head. The only relief would come after the deadlines had been met. Only then, would she be able to relax and breathe and sleep. Although, I suspected that she wouldn't really be able to relax until the results were in.
I saw her for the first time in three weeks when I accidentally ran into her at the fair. She had just turned-in the last of her entries. She looked like a prisoner of war, like she hadn't slept since I saw her last Her clothes hung off of her malnourished body. Had she even been feeding the children, I wondered? I pictured them scrounging around the garden, eating green beans off the vine, sitting in the dirt, chomping tomatoes, the juice dripping off their unbathed chins. Pathetic and sad.
The fair started and I called her a couple of times, late, on the evenings after judging had taken place. No answers. I think she was screening. She had to keep the line open for the important, judge's calls. Two days in, I ran into her in the Fine-Art's building. This was a good sign; she thought she'd walk through and view a little amateur drawing and painting to take her mind off of the judging that was occurring as we spoke: Candy.
"How you feeling?", I asked. "So far, so good", she said, "I'm feeling pretty good about my caramel truffle, especially. The ganache was the best I've ever made! It's in the hands of the experts now." Knowing how important this was to her, I bit my tongue, holding myself back from what comes natural to me in such situations--making some sarcastic remark about how we all know the integral role caramel truffles play in the food chain. "Dauffie's taken a few of the predictable categories," she continued, "but did you see, I got her in Quick Breads and Fruit Pies!?" I did know this, as I had been following the results closely in the paper. "Yeah, way to go!", I said, encouraging and supportive-like. "When will you know about tonight's judging?" "Not sure", she sighed, "the word is it could go pretty late. We usually wait around, but I don't think I can take it. I think we'll head home and wait for the call." I suggested a warm bath and a glass of wine. "No, I wanna keep my head clear for the call". We half-hugged--she's not much of a hugger on a good day, plus she was obviously SO distracted-- and I wished her luck.
As I drove my kids home that evening, I wondered what Diane would be like when the fair was over. Would she collapse? Would she go into withdrawals and continue moving at the pace of a mad-woman? Would we need to do an intervention? Would she go into a depression--that anti-climactic kind? Who knew, but clearly, she'd have to react somehow. After the time she'd devoted to this event, I was ready to help her through whatever emotions might come.
The call finally came. Dauffie had taken the blue ribbon in Candy.
Diane called me with the news. Remarkably, she didn't sound out-for-blood. She didn't really even sound very disappointed. "It was really close. They said Dauffie won by 1/2 a point. It took three counts before they could be sure. It was density. She got me on density."
"I'm so sorry", I said, trying to sound conciliatory, "she's been doing this for so many years...some day you'll be the one to beat." "I'm going to bed. I'll talk to you tomorrow", she said and we hung up. I felt sad and let down. Maybe her candy tasted like poop--I don't know--but I knew how hard she worked and I thought she deserved Grand Champion.
The next morning, I called to check-in. I didn't hear anything but exhaustion in her voice. "Yeah, I'm disappointed, but it's no big deal", she said. Then we went on to talk about school supplies being so ungodly expensive. Unbelievable.
I should have known she'd take this, like everything else, in stride. Life goes on, there's always something else to get done. Move on. She was my hero.
We rarely talked about the fair after that. The school year was under way and we moved-on. I'd tease her about the change in her personality--how it was a side I'd never dreamed she'd have. She'd take the ribbing in good humor.
The next spring came around, summer followed and the fair approached. At coffee, a few weeks before the fair was to start, it occurred to me that Diane hadn't been nearly as busy as she had the year before. She wasn't chatting, complaining, even mentioning the fair. "Hey, what's your strategy to beat Dauffie this year? More flour sifting, maybe?" I asked.
"I'm not sure," she said, clearly steering me off-topic.
A few days later, I ran into her sister-in-law. "What's Diane entering in the fair this year?", I asked. "Nothing", she replied.
"Sorry, did you say, 'nothing'?" (my mouth ajar)
"Right. Nothing. I think last year was a wake-up call--she's taking a break this year."
---------------------------------------------------------
Whenever I think of that summer I can't help laughing. Rarely have I seen such a drastic, unpredictable side emerge from someone I thought I knew. She insists she'll never get caught-up in that scene again. I'm not so sure. Once in a while, when she's decorating a cake, she seems to slip into a 'zone' and her face takes on just a teensy bit of the intense expression I remember from the 'Summer of the Truffle'. That's the face that crept into my mind this morning--the frenzied, "Help me!" face. Maybe I'll drive through Starbucks, grab a couple of strong coffees and head to the farm. Who knows, maybe there is something I can do to help?
---------------------------------
Epilogue~
After showing this post to Diane for permission to print it, I got this in response:
"Sure. Go ahead and print it. I like it! I don't know if anyone else will want to read it though.", (Typical Diane-esque modesty) " Did I tell you the news? Dauffie can't enter anything in the fair anymore! They gave her a 'Lifetime Achievement Award', then took away her right to submit anything from now on. She's just too good. I guess the last laugh's on Dauffie!"
I guess it is. Despite my opinion that stripping someone of the right to compete simply because they are too good seems pretty unfair to me, I can't help but think it might cause Diane to reconsider. Time will tell how Diane feels about Dauffie's forced retirement as spring turns to summer this year...never say never! Diane & Jack did, after all, remodel their kitchen last fall. Who could resist another go-round, in a new, state of the art kitchen? I mean, it would almost be a sin not to go for it, don't you think?
Monday, May 31, 2010
Just When You Think You Know Someone...Part 1
I'm just waking up from a luxurious night's sleep---it's 9:20 am. My bedroom windows are open for my sensory pleasures--lawn mowing, birds, fresh air wafting in causing the sheer curtains to billow like boat sails. I am calm and rested. Various thoughts drift in and out of my head as I slowly awaken. Then, BAM! My friend, Diane's face suddenly bursts into my consciousness. She is glaring at me, wild eyed, and she says, "Why are you just lying there? Get off your lazy butt and help me! (Then, as we used to say in the resaurant business during crazy rushes), she says, "I'm in the weeds, here!!!". (Diane would never use this phrase, of course, since we never worked in a restaurant together, but it's an awesome phrase and this is my drowsy fantasy, not hers...). Suddenly, with a jolt, I realize what day it is. It's a Saturday--in June: we're in the thick of cake season. Weddings, 1st Communions, Confirmations, Graduations...she's glaring because she's been up for hours working her little ass off in the kitchen. It doesn't take long for the quiet contentment I was basking in only moments ago to turn into pity and guilt. Poor Diane. I wish I could help.
---------------------------------------------------
Before I met her, my impression was that Diane was sweet and down to earth-a, 'what you see is what you get' kinda gal. I had seen her at school many times and our oldest boys had recently become good friends. There didn't seem to be anything pretentious about her and I admired that--she stood-out among the crowd we contend with daily, those with lots of money and time to flaunt it. (Besides being frightfully unaware of current trends and styles, I really don't care about that stuff. Plus, it's just plain too much work for me...wears me out thinking about the effort it must take). I could tell Diane and I were kindred spirits in our opinions of this aspect of "the lifestyles of the rich and catholic school families".
She lived on a farm. Basically, that was all I knew about her. When we formally met, it was in my driveway when she dropped-off her son to play. She made a comment like, "I don't know how you always seem so calm. Nothing seems to get you worked-up." Oh, jeez, clearly, this woman knew nothing about me! I liked the sound of it, though, and let her think it was true. It would inevitably turn out to be a joke, since she is the one who is remarkable cool and calm--able to take life in stride; I'm the one who's anxiety levels hit record highs, depression levels--record lows. Regardless, I knew we'd be good friends right from the start.
Our boys' friendship was the reason we met, but we quickly began to have coffee together nearly every week. Our connection seemed somewhat odd, since we were opposite in most ways. Then again, I've always been drawn to an eclectic group of friends--it makes sense, given my short attention span, I guess: I bore easily.
Diane grew up in a farming family--dairy. At college, she met Jack--the son of a corn and bean farmer. They got married and after a few years of living away, they moved into Jack's childhood home, on the farm, where she became the down to earth wife and mother I knew.
When I visited Diane on the farm, it always felt cozy--like farm-life on TV. I was right about her. She was just as she seemed: kind and calm. I usually did most of the talking. She listened and laughed at me. We were a good fit. I really liked when she did talk, though. She's not really shy, it's just that I think she's more comfortable when the topic is something other than her. When the topic was her, she'd let me in on her world; farming, baking, canning, gardening.
My grandma canned everything, and I always wanted to learn, but was secretly afraid. When I was really little, I heard someone--Grandma or one of my aunts, maybe--comment that if the seal on the jar wasn't set properly a person could eat the contents and suffer a grotesque, painful and lingering death by poison. Well, that was enough to scare me away; I'd find other, less dangerous things to eat, thank you very much.
I mentioned this to Diane once and when strawberry season rolled around, she offered to show me how to make jam. While we were going through the steps we chatted. Diane did amazing cake decorating work. Once, a mutual friend even requested a cake with a replica of that famous "Last Supper" picture we all have in our heads--complete with 3-d Apostles! A daunting task for the most seasoned of bakers, Diane took it on and pulled-it off. (I told her to give herself a break and leave Judas off the cake--he wouldn't stick around after dinner anyway. But, not one to leave a task incomplete, Judas was there with the rest of the gang, as Diane delivered that cake, many, many hours later.)
As she coached me on jar boiling and smashing berries, our talk turned to the fair. Our county fair is a pretty big deal. Diane's kids are 4-H kids. They work all summer on projects to present for judging at the fair in late August. Some raise animals, some build things, some sew, some draw, some grow stuff. They take it all very seriously, whatever the project. Everyone knows that, as the time for the fair gets closer, the 4-H'ers are less and less available as they fine-tune their presentations. It's just a given.
Diane was explaining her kids' projects and how much time they had left--not a lot--to complete them. She had to help them, of course, and in a rare moment of complaint, she mentioned, in her mild manner, that she sort of resented that their projects were cutting into the time she had to finish her own fair entries. That's when it happened: from that moment on, I would never look at Diane in quite the same way.
See, underneath this sweet, simple country-girl exterior, lurked a ruthless competitor. As she talked about the fair I could have sworn I was witnessing a 'Jekyll-Hyde' sort of deal going on, right before my eyes. It turned-out that she was living a double life. I couldn't believe it! I watched her whole being transform into something resembling a cut-throat athlete in training; single-minded and fine-point focused. As it turned-out, Diane had been planning and plotting all winter long about how she was going to beat her main opponent this year; an old grandma named Carolyn Dauffenbach. I knew that name from somewhere...
During fair time, the local paper publishes the names of the winners and runners-up of all the categories of competition. There are hundreds (seems like thousands) of categories, and the paper names them all. (Obviously, not a lot goin' on around these parts in late August, if the paper can afford to devote 3 entire pages (of it's 7, or so), to results of flower arranging, watermelon pickle canning and amateur photography contests.)
So, I'd heard of her, the legendary Grandma Dauffenbach. She had indeed made a name for herself in the county fair world. Even I knew she was the one to beat. Diane had saved the papers from last year and studied them closely. She admitted to me, with a cannibalistic grin and a slight foaming at the mouth, (what the--was that a fang, peeking out from under that top lip?), that she had finally identified 'Dauffie's weakness' about mid-October: Candy. Diane knew that, if she could somehow beat Dauffie in this category, she'd make a clean sweep of the entire 'Culinary Arts' competition this year. It had become her mission to work her little fanny off until she had the worlds' best frickin' truffle recipe and could produce it, flawlessly, blindfolded, with one hand tied behind her back, in her sleep. She let me in on another secret: after completing the scientific process of identifying Dauffie's weak spot, Diane had enrolled in a candy-making class at the local community college. Holy Moly. This was serious, I thought. This coupon-cutting frugal farm girl I thought I knew so well, was investing hard-earned money in an effort to whip this lady's butt, and good, at the county fair.
The first day of class, she was running a little behind schedule. She was high on smugness, knowing, beyond a doubt, she had a fool-proof plan. She slipped in to the room a couple of minutes late and found a seat toward the back. She was surprised to see the size of the group assembled. A January night (burr) and all of these people made the after-dinner trip to learn to make candy? Whatever. She needed to focus completely on the task at hand--keep her eyes on the prize.
Just before the instructor began class, Diane scanned the room, mostly to see what ingredients were on the cooking counter, when, much to her horror, she saw, shining through the crowd as if it was spot-lit, the familiar looking silver head of a person sitting front and center. Even though she could only see her from the back, she'd know that grey-haired cranium anywhere: it was CAROLYN DAUFFENBACH.
to be continued...
---------------------------------------------------
Before I met her, my impression was that Diane was sweet and down to earth-a, 'what you see is what you get' kinda gal. I had seen her at school many times and our oldest boys had recently become good friends. There didn't seem to be anything pretentious about her and I admired that--she stood-out among the crowd we contend with daily, those with lots of money and time to flaunt it. (Besides being frightfully unaware of current trends and styles, I really don't care about that stuff. Plus, it's just plain too much work for me...wears me out thinking about the effort it must take). I could tell Diane and I were kindred spirits in our opinions of this aspect of "the lifestyles of the rich and catholic school families".
She lived on a farm. Basically, that was all I knew about her. When we formally met, it was in my driveway when she dropped-off her son to play. She made a comment like, "I don't know how you always seem so calm. Nothing seems to get you worked-up." Oh, jeez, clearly, this woman knew nothing about me! I liked the sound of it, though, and let her think it was true. It would inevitably turn out to be a joke, since she is the one who is remarkable cool and calm--able to take life in stride; I'm the one who's anxiety levels hit record highs, depression levels--record lows. Regardless, I knew we'd be good friends right from the start.
Our boys' friendship was the reason we met, but we quickly began to have coffee together nearly every week. Our connection seemed somewhat odd, since we were opposite in most ways. Then again, I've always been drawn to an eclectic group of friends--it makes sense, given my short attention span, I guess: I bore easily.
Diane grew up in a farming family--dairy. At college, she met Jack--the son of a corn and bean farmer. They got married and after a few years of living away, they moved into Jack's childhood home, on the farm, where she became the down to earth wife and mother I knew.
When I visited Diane on the farm, it always felt cozy--like farm-life on TV. I was right about her. She was just as she seemed: kind and calm. I usually did most of the talking. She listened and laughed at me. We were a good fit. I really liked when she did talk, though. She's not really shy, it's just that I think she's more comfortable when the topic is something other than her. When the topic was her, she'd let me in on her world; farming, baking, canning, gardening.
My grandma canned everything, and I always wanted to learn, but was secretly afraid. When I was really little, I heard someone--Grandma or one of my aunts, maybe--comment that if the seal on the jar wasn't set properly a person could eat the contents and suffer a grotesque, painful and lingering death by poison. Well, that was enough to scare me away; I'd find other, less dangerous things to eat, thank you very much.
I mentioned this to Diane once and when strawberry season rolled around, she offered to show me how to make jam. While we were going through the steps we chatted. Diane did amazing cake decorating work. Once, a mutual friend even requested a cake with a replica of that famous "Last Supper" picture we all have in our heads--complete with 3-d Apostles! A daunting task for the most seasoned of bakers, Diane took it on and pulled-it off. (I told her to give herself a break and leave Judas off the cake--he wouldn't stick around after dinner anyway. But, not one to leave a task incomplete, Judas was there with the rest of the gang, as Diane delivered that cake, many, many hours later.)
As she coached me on jar boiling and smashing berries, our talk turned to the fair. Our county fair is a pretty big deal. Diane's kids are 4-H kids. They work all summer on projects to present for judging at the fair in late August. Some raise animals, some build things, some sew, some draw, some grow stuff. They take it all very seriously, whatever the project. Everyone knows that, as the time for the fair gets closer, the 4-H'ers are less and less available as they fine-tune their presentations. It's just a given.
Diane was explaining her kids' projects and how much time they had left--not a lot--to complete them. She had to help them, of course, and in a rare moment of complaint, she mentioned, in her mild manner, that she sort of resented that their projects were cutting into the time she had to finish her own fair entries. That's when it happened: from that moment on, I would never look at Diane in quite the same way.
See, underneath this sweet, simple country-girl exterior, lurked a ruthless competitor. As she talked about the fair I could have sworn I was witnessing a 'Jekyll-Hyde' sort of deal going on, right before my eyes. It turned-out that she was living a double life. I couldn't believe it! I watched her whole being transform into something resembling a cut-throat athlete in training; single-minded and fine-point focused. As it turned-out, Diane had been planning and plotting all winter long about how she was going to beat her main opponent this year; an old grandma named Carolyn Dauffenbach. I knew that name from somewhere...
During fair time, the local paper publishes the names of the winners and runners-up of all the categories of competition. There are hundreds (seems like thousands) of categories, and the paper names them all. (Obviously, not a lot goin' on around these parts in late August, if the paper can afford to devote 3 entire pages (of it's 7, or so), to results of flower arranging, watermelon pickle canning and amateur photography contests.)
So, I'd heard of her, the legendary Grandma Dauffenbach. She had indeed made a name for herself in the county fair world. Even I knew she was the one to beat. Diane had saved the papers from last year and studied them closely. She admitted to me, with a cannibalistic grin and a slight foaming at the mouth, (what the--was that a fang, peeking out from under that top lip?), that she had finally identified 'Dauffie's weakness' about mid-October: Candy. Diane knew that, if she could somehow beat Dauffie in this category, she'd make a clean sweep of the entire 'Culinary Arts' competition this year. It had become her mission to work her little fanny off until she had the worlds' best frickin' truffle recipe and could produce it, flawlessly, blindfolded, with one hand tied behind her back, in her sleep. She let me in on another secret: after completing the scientific process of identifying Dauffie's weak spot, Diane had enrolled in a candy-making class at the local community college. Holy Moly. This was serious, I thought. This coupon-cutting frugal farm girl I thought I knew so well, was investing hard-earned money in an effort to whip this lady's butt, and good, at the county fair.
The first day of class, she was running a little behind schedule. She was high on smugness, knowing, beyond a doubt, she had a fool-proof plan. She slipped in to the room a couple of minutes late and found a seat toward the back. She was surprised to see the size of the group assembled. A January night (burr) and all of these people made the after-dinner trip to learn to make candy? Whatever. She needed to focus completely on the task at hand--keep her eyes on the prize.
Just before the instructor began class, Diane scanned the room, mostly to see what ingredients were on the cooking counter, when, much to her horror, she saw, shining through the crowd as if it was spot-lit, the familiar looking silver head of a person sitting front and center. Even though she could only see her from the back, she'd know that grey-haired cranium anywhere: it was CAROLYN DAUFFENBACH.
to be continued...
Thursday, May 13, 2010
God, Ellen DeGeneres and an Electric Hair Trimmer
Self deprecation has always been a hobby of mine--and a defense mechanism which allows me to slam myself before someone else even has the chance to think it, much less say it.
I love to tell stories on myself--to get a laugh. Truly, over the years, I've really tried hard to "care less" about what other people think of me, but I've not quite been able to master this skill. Deep inside, others' opinions have always mattered way too much. As I've gotten older, though, I've come a long way. Far from developing an absolute "devil may care" attitude, I'm coming into my own, slowly but surely. I've gradually been gaining a realization, thanks to loads of therapy and my husband's wise advice, that other people don't think about me nearly as much as I think they do. They have better things to think about. (That hurts. I'm relieved, but it hurts. What could possibly be more interesting to ponder than ME and absolutely anything about ME?)
The ego is hilarious when thrown into the universe's giant pot to simmer along with a little irony, some bad timing and lots of stupid, spurr-of-the-moment decisions. Oh-- and God. I suspect He's got all the ingredients in this particular recipe down pat and has a pretty firm grip on the mixing spoon.
This all came clear to me during Lent this winter. As a family* we decided to give-up "all forms of media" = anything electronic. "What about the fridge?", asked my ever-literal Frankie. I wanted to slap him for asking such a smart-alliky question, but since we're against physical punishment in our house, I had to settle for shooting him a major glare. GGggrrrr. No, I said, it means stuff like 'game boys', TVs, computers (except for homework purposes, (and NO, "www.clubpenguin.com" is not homework--don't even try that on me, Frank), Wii, etc. Insert a catastrophic sigh here; the children did, when they heard the official declaration.
One of the reasons I decided we should give up these things was because, secretly, I had been spending too much time with my friends on daytime TV. My husband says he worries sometimes that I think they are my real friends. Like, if I ran into Bonnie Hunt on the street, I'd go up to her and say, "Hey, Bon, it's ME! How ya' doing? Let's grab a wine and chat!" I had been thinking he might be right, and thought it was the perfect time to put some distance between me and these pals of mine and maybe devote some more time to the needs of the household. I felt ever so disciplined.
Now, I trim my own hair on occasion. (Lest you get whiplash, let me assure you, this fact is important to the story. Just try to stay with me--hopefully it'll be worth it.) I sport this hairdo that I call "someplace between Sharon Stone and Phyllis Diller". So, when I felt like it was getting a little too Phyllis Diller, a few months ago, I got out the electric trimmer we use on the boys' hair for their "summer buzz cuts". As there is no outlet in my bathroom (I know! Can you imagine???), I had to plug the trimmer into an outlet in front of the mirror in my bedroom. This mirror happens to be right next to the TV set. Well, one thing led to another (nobody home, what harm could a little 'ELLEN' do?, a brief angel-devil dialogue, etc.), pretty soon there I was, trimming, willy-nilly, and watching and trimming and glancing and trimming. All at once, I caught a glimpse in the mirror. Even without my glasses, I could tell I'd done something beyond drastic. I dropped the running razor and threw on my glasses, only to discover a gigantic, 8 foot wide strip of BALD running from my bangs clear down the back of my head: a reverse mohawk. (Okay, it wasn't exactly that big, but close!). Stunned, I just stood there for a bit and then started to laugh.
If you knew me as a teenager, you would stop reading right now and double check to make sure it's actually MY blog you're reading. See, I was the world's most hair-obsessed teenager back then. My best friend promised me that, when I die, he would make sure my headstone read, simply: "LOOK AT MY HAIR!!! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH MY HAIR???".
Well, I've grown. I stood there, looking and laughing. I had to be somewhere in 15 minutes and had just, accidentally, shaved a bald spot on my own head. Who does that?
I threw on a scarf/headband and finished the day. That evening, after sharing the story with my family and, having removed the scarf before bed, my daughter and I were talking. She was devastated. In her pre-adolescent mind, how was I ever going to survive this calamity??? There she stood, at the foot of my bed, talking about her day when she suddenly stopped and covered her eyes, saying: "Mom, I have to leave the room right this minute or I'm going to say something VERY disrespectful." I asked her what was wrong and she repeated herself, insisting that she needed to leave immediately. I assured her that she could say anything and I would not take offense. Finally, she relented and said, "It's about your hair. You look like an IDIOT!!!!". We both burst into tearful laughter and I told her that indeed I was an idiot. This was an idiotic thing to do. Then I reminded her that I wear scarves and hats a lot, anyway, so nobody would even notice. I wasn't worried about it, and neither should she be.
She seemed comforted and relieved of the burden. About 10 minutes later, there she was again, at the foot of the bed. "Mom? Since you don't seem to care too much about it, is it OK if I tell my friends?". Of course, now I was juicy news. Fifteen minutes ago I was embarrassment incarnate. No problem, I said--anything for my little girl.
Fast forward 2 months. The bald spot is hardly noticeable now, the hair has continued to grow along with the story. The way I tell them, stories continue to evolve and take on a life of their own.
Anyway, for what it's worth, here's my advice: Don't break your Lenten resolutions. Friends: God is watching and he doesn't care about your daytime TV addictions. He DOES, however care about your ego. He'll go on ahead and mess with it (or allow us to mess with it on our own) because we need to shave ourselves silly sometimes to realize that the hair and the make-up and the clothes are all just props, helping us to keep getting into character--trying to be someone we think other people expect us to be. We just don't want to believe that we're not even on their radar 99% of the time. God's just going to sit back in his heavenly recliner, and let us do stupid stuff until we learn to laugh it off rather than freak out about it; until we can admit that we are the only ones who really see the bald spots. He's just going to continue to shake his big, holy head and giggle a bit, then grab the remote and enjoy a little Ellen.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Me. I decided completely on my own, without consulting absolutely anyone else in the family.
I love to tell stories on myself--to get a laugh. Truly, over the years, I've really tried hard to "care less" about what other people think of me, but I've not quite been able to master this skill. Deep inside, others' opinions have always mattered way too much. As I've gotten older, though, I've come a long way. Far from developing an absolute "devil may care" attitude, I'm coming into my own, slowly but surely. I've gradually been gaining a realization, thanks to loads of therapy and my husband's wise advice, that other people don't think about me nearly as much as I think they do. They have better things to think about. (That hurts. I'm relieved, but it hurts. What could possibly be more interesting to ponder than ME and absolutely anything about ME?)
The ego is hilarious when thrown into the universe's giant pot to simmer along with a little irony, some bad timing and lots of stupid, spurr-of-the-moment decisions. Oh-- and God. I suspect He's got all the ingredients in this particular recipe down pat and has a pretty firm grip on the mixing spoon.
This all came clear to me during Lent this winter. As a family* we decided to give-up "all forms of media" = anything electronic. "What about the fridge?", asked my ever-literal Frankie. I wanted to slap him for asking such a smart-alliky question, but since we're against physical punishment in our house, I had to settle for shooting him a major glare. GGggrrrr. No, I said, it means stuff like 'game boys', TVs, computers (except for homework purposes, (and NO, "www.clubpenguin.com" is not homework--don't even try that on me, Frank), Wii, etc. Insert a catastrophic sigh here; the children did, when they heard the official declaration.
One of the reasons I decided we should give up these things was because, secretly, I had been spending too much time with my friends on daytime TV. My husband says he worries sometimes that I think they are my real friends. Like, if I ran into Bonnie Hunt on the street, I'd go up to her and say, "Hey, Bon, it's ME! How ya' doing? Let's grab a wine and chat!" I had been thinking he might be right, and thought it was the perfect time to put some distance between me and these pals of mine and maybe devote some more time to the needs of the household. I felt ever so disciplined.
Now, I trim my own hair on occasion. (Lest you get whiplash, let me assure you, this fact is important to the story. Just try to stay with me--hopefully it'll be worth it.) I sport this hairdo that I call "someplace between Sharon Stone and Phyllis Diller". So, when I felt like it was getting a little too Phyllis Diller, a few months ago, I got out the electric trimmer we use on the boys' hair for their "summer buzz cuts". As there is no outlet in my bathroom (I know! Can you imagine???), I had to plug the trimmer into an outlet in front of the mirror in my bedroom. This mirror happens to be right next to the TV set. Well, one thing led to another (nobody home, what harm could a little 'ELLEN' do?, a brief angel-devil dialogue, etc.), pretty soon there I was, trimming, willy-nilly, and watching and trimming and glancing and trimming. All at once, I caught a glimpse in the mirror. Even without my glasses, I could tell I'd done something beyond drastic. I dropped the running razor and threw on my glasses, only to discover a gigantic, 8 foot wide strip of BALD running from my bangs clear down the back of my head: a reverse mohawk. (Okay, it wasn't exactly that big, but close!). Stunned, I just stood there for a bit and then started to laugh.
If you knew me as a teenager, you would stop reading right now and double check to make sure it's actually MY blog you're reading. See, I was the world's most hair-obsessed teenager back then. My best friend promised me that, when I die, he would make sure my headstone read, simply: "LOOK AT MY HAIR!!! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH MY HAIR???".
Well, I've grown. I stood there, looking and laughing. I had to be somewhere in 15 minutes and had just, accidentally, shaved a bald spot on my own head. Who does that?
I threw on a scarf/headband and finished the day. That evening, after sharing the story with my family and, having removed the scarf before bed, my daughter and I were talking. She was devastated. In her pre-adolescent mind, how was I ever going to survive this calamity??? There she stood, at the foot of my bed, talking about her day when she suddenly stopped and covered her eyes, saying: "Mom, I have to leave the room right this minute or I'm going to say something VERY disrespectful." I asked her what was wrong and she repeated herself, insisting that she needed to leave immediately. I assured her that she could say anything and I would not take offense. Finally, she relented and said, "It's about your hair. You look like an IDIOT!!!!". We both burst into tearful laughter and I told her that indeed I was an idiot. This was an idiotic thing to do. Then I reminded her that I wear scarves and hats a lot, anyway, so nobody would even notice. I wasn't worried about it, and neither should she be.
She seemed comforted and relieved of the burden. About 10 minutes later, there she was again, at the foot of the bed. "Mom? Since you don't seem to care too much about it, is it OK if I tell my friends?". Of course, now I was juicy news. Fifteen minutes ago I was embarrassment incarnate. No problem, I said--anything for my little girl.
Fast forward 2 months. The bald spot is hardly noticeable now, the hair has continued to grow along with the story. The way I tell them, stories continue to evolve and take on a life of their own.
Anyway, for what it's worth, here's my advice: Don't break your Lenten resolutions. Friends: God is watching and he doesn't care about your daytime TV addictions. He DOES, however care about your ego. He'll go on ahead and mess with it (or allow us to mess with it on our own) because we need to shave ourselves silly sometimes to realize that the hair and the make-up and the clothes are all just props, helping us to keep getting into character--trying to be someone we think other people expect us to be. We just don't want to believe that we're not even on their radar 99% of the time. God's just going to sit back in his heavenly recliner, and let us do stupid stuff until we learn to laugh it off rather than freak out about it; until we can admit that we are the only ones who really see the bald spots. He's just going to continue to shake his big, holy head and giggle a bit, then grab the remote and enjoy a little Ellen.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Me. I decided completely on my own, without consulting absolutely anyone else in the family.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Oh, What a Beautiful Morning
You have to enjoy the magic when it happens, know what I mean?
This weekend was full of it. It was one of those periods of time that you dread, fearing you'll never get through it, and that you'll be too exhausted from all the preparation once it arrives to enjoy any part of it. And then you're absolutely knocked off-balance by the pure goodness of what comes.
There was a family wedding on Friday night, which actually started Friday at noon --blah, blah, boring details involving tuxedo mishaps, a "sudden" discovery that the dress I planned to wear was too small (MMMMMmmmm-hmmmmm, that's right ladies: I've officially entered the Spanks phase of my life), and a lesson for my children I like to call, "on-the-road-change-of-clothes".
(Sidebar: Mom, remember that time when you followed me home in your car, and when we arrived at our destination I was in an entirely different outfit than the one I set-out wearing? You told me that "changing-while-driving" was illegal and that you almost had a heart attack driving behind me, wondering "what the hell I was doing up there?!!"? Well, I've passed this talent on to your grandchildren now. Telling you via Blog, I figure at least I don't have to see the horror on your face.)
OK, back to the good stuff. So, we have this incredible, high-church wedding on Friday night--one of those times when I felt suspended, holy, blissful, surrounded by some other-than-earthly warmth I'm trying to (but can't seem to) put into words. I'm not sure how everyone else felt about it because I didn't want to spoil it by asking. The moment was just unlike any other. Thanks, Laura and Tim.
Saturday rolls around and starts out as usual, except for the BONUS sleep-in (yippee!). Usually, I'm up early, teaching singing lessons. (That doesn't seem possible, does it--someone having the ability to actually SING early on a Saturday morning? Luckily, I'm not the one doing the "actual" singing, I'm the one faking the singing, and doing the TEACHING! They're kids, for goodness sake--they can do ANYTHING at ANY TIME, lucky ducks.) Thanks to 3 cancellations in-a-row, I got to snooze later than usual, helping me feel like I'd been re-charged. (I'm almost never even charged, much less re-charged!)
Lessons went better than usual. Maybe it was this new-found energy, I don't know, but my words came out sounding elloquent and, I'm pretty sure they made sense, too! Most times while teaching, I find it hard to verbalize the art of vocalizing. It seems to me, since I'm a pretty seasoned singer, and a trained educator, that I should be able to explain how to do it, don't you think? Well, it's not that easy, friends. But this time, things just flowed, as they do on occasion--and I channelled some authentic voice teacher whose knowledge stuns and inspires her students minds--and mouths. There's nothing like that feeling: that rare moment when we look at each other, student and teacher, and we just KNOW something special just happened. I love that moment.
I REALLY did NOT want to go home after teaching. But I had to. Sunday held too much in store and I had a pig sty house to clean & 5 children to coax into the bath, as well--their dirty, little and not-so-little-getting-bigger-by-the-minute bodies desperate for a scrub-down. (Quick question: At what point does one cross-over from fighting about bathing and napping to BEGGING for a bath and a nap?) Again, I digress.
My husband picked me up and, after discussing the plan for the rest of the day like 2 adults, we entered the house armed with good intentions. I promptly ditched the agreed-upon plan and took charge. A little "voice raising" and a dash of threatening later, the house was good-to-go! Another miracle.
Spending the evening with old friends (who made an unexpected 6 hour drive to be with our family for a special Sunday) was sublime. They're the ones you rarely see or speak to, but somehow never loose touch with. Time together is so easy. We eat, we chuckle, cry a little, eat more, laugh more. We lose our breath with gut-wrenching giggles at long ago memories and make some new ones for the next time around. Unforgettable nights when we linger in our goodbye-ing because we all know how precious this time together is.
Sunday morning could have been, and usually is hell. I often say that Satan moves in on Sunday mornings, trying to keep these 7 souls out of heaven. (Not this week, baby.) Thanks to good prep. on my husband's part, the children were clean and clad for the holy occasion. Our child, pure of heart, happily made his First Communion--a big deal to us all--loved and surrounded by everyone in his little universe. Even Mimi and Papa made it from Florida, just in time. What could be better (other than the chocolate fountain, cake and presents that followed, obviously!)? My last little angel, another sweet crossing over the bridge to what comes next.
Sigh. Smile. Savor.
This weekend was full of it. It was one of those periods of time that you dread, fearing you'll never get through it, and that you'll be too exhausted from all the preparation once it arrives to enjoy any part of it. And then you're absolutely knocked off-balance by the pure goodness of what comes.
There was a family wedding on Friday night, which actually started Friday at noon --blah, blah, boring details involving tuxedo mishaps, a "sudden" discovery that the dress I planned to wear was too small (MMMMMmmmm-hmmmmm, that's right ladies: I've officially entered the Spanks phase of my life), and a lesson for my children I like to call, "on-the-road-change-of-clothes".
(Sidebar: Mom, remember that time when you followed me home in your car, and when we arrived at our destination I was in an entirely different outfit than the one I set-out wearing? You told me that "changing-while-driving" was illegal and that you almost had a heart attack driving behind me, wondering "what the hell I was doing up there?!!"? Well, I've passed this talent on to your grandchildren now. Telling you via Blog, I figure at least I don't have to see the horror on your face.)
OK, back to the good stuff. So, we have this incredible, high-church wedding on Friday night--one of those times when I felt suspended, holy, blissful, surrounded by some other-than-earthly warmth I'm trying to (but can't seem to) put into words. I'm not sure how everyone else felt about it because I didn't want to spoil it by asking. The moment was just unlike any other. Thanks, Laura and Tim.
Saturday rolls around and starts out as usual, except for the BONUS sleep-in (yippee!). Usually, I'm up early, teaching singing lessons. (That doesn't seem possible, does it--someone having the ability to actually SING early on a Saturday morning? Luckily, I'm not the one doing the "actual" singing, I'm the one faking the singing, and doing the TEACHING! They're kids, for goodness sake--they can do ANYTHING at ANY TIME, lucky ducks.) Thanks to 3 cancellations in-a-row, I got to snooze later than usual, helping me feel like I'd been re-charged. (I'm almost never even charged, much less re-charged!)
Lessons went better than usual. Maybe it was this new-found energy, I don't know, but my words came out sounding elloquent and, I'm pretty sure they made sense, too! Most times while teaching, I find it hard to verbalize the art of vocalizing. It seems to me, since I'm a pretty seasoned singer, and a trained educator, that I should be able to explain how to do it, don't you think? Well, it's not that easy, friends. But this time, things just flowed, as they do on occasion--and I channelled some authentic voice teacher whose knowledge stuns and inspires her students minds--and mouths. There's nothing like that feeling: that rare moment when we look at each other, student and teacher, and we just KNOW something special just happened. I love that moment.
I REALLY did NOT want to go home after teaching. But I had to. Sunday held too much in store and I had a pig sty house to clean & 5 children to coax into the bath, as well--their dirty, little and not-so-little-getting-bigger-by-the-minute bodies desperate for a scrub-down. (Quick question: At what point does one cross-over from fighting about bathing and napping to BEGGING for a bath and a nap?) Again, I digress.
My husband picked me up and, after discussing the plan for the rest of the day like 2 adults, we entered the house armed with good intentions. I promptly ditched the agreed-upon plan and took charge. A little "voice raising" and a dash of threatening later, the house was good-to-go! Another miracle.
Spending the evening with old friends (who made an unexpected 6 hour drive to be with our family for a special Sunday) was sublime. They're the ones you rarely see or speak to, but somehow never loose touch with. Time together is so easy. We eat, we chuckle, cry a little, eat more, laugh more. We lose our breath with gut-wrenching giggles at long ago memories and make some new ones for the next time around. Unforgettable nights when we linger in our goodbye-ing because we all know how precious this time together is.
Sunday morning could have been, and usually is hell. I often say that Satan moves in on Sunday mornings, trying to keep these 7 souls out of heaven. (Not this week, baby.) Thanks to good prep. on my husband's part, the children were clean and clad for the holy occasion. Our child, pure of heart, happily made his First Communion--a big deal to us all--loved and surrounded by everyone in his little universe. Even Mimi and Papa made it from Florida, just in time. What could be better (other than the chocolate fountain, cake and presents that followed, obviously!)? My last little angel, another sweet crossing over the bridge to what comes next.
Sigh. Smile. Savor.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Love Letter
Dear "You-know-who-you-are",
Always most important, I love you.
When I first saw you, I fell in love. I'm the type who believes in stuff like that, you know, "love at first sight". In fact, before you, I was absolutely convinced--about 8 times--that I was "in love". I was wrong. I didn't know or understand love until you came along.
But I'm not going to waste time and space with an attempt to explain it. You and I have something between us that words can't touch.
Why write this via blog? I'm not sure...all I know is that I was taking a walk yesterday and suddenly felt like some part of me wanted to erupt with love for you! Keeping this inside or even keeping it intimate wouldn't be enough! I just have to do it this way. Precious things aren't necessarily always private, you know?
We've grown-up together. There's no doubt that you'll move on and away from me someday--sooner, rather than later--and I can't promise you that I'll help make it pretty when you do; in fact, I can pretty much guarantee that I'll make an embarrassing spectacle of myself. But I won't stop it from happening. I read something shortly after you came along that I tucked away in my memory, knowing I'd need to recall it many times throughout our relationship: "From the moment I first held you, I began the process of giving you to the world--of letting you go." The sharp, deep pain I felt upon reading those words was the knowledge that they were absolutely true.
Lately, you've made it clear that things are happening fast. We don't talk as much as we used to, we don't spend as much time together. You seem to think other people and things are more important than I am. We fight more.
But this might surprise you: All of that makes me happy! There is order in God's world (at least our little corner of it), and watching you pull away just assures me that all is going along as it's supposed to. True, we don't talk as much as we used to, but when we do talk, we still speak the same language--I still feel deeply connected by that forever brand of unnameable bonding (patent pending).
True, our time together isn't quantity time anymore--believe it or not, I used to get a little bored when we spent ALL of our time together! I used to PRAY for someone ELSE to talk to (your end of the conversation wasn't always as stimulating as it came to be with time). Our time together these days isn't even what I'd call "quality". Usually, we just co-exist, sometimes we even talk between two closed doors. Or we yell.
As we've gotten to know each other better, we've had to wage some major battles--sometimes as allies, sometimes enemies. Bipolar, bathing, bullies...we've screamed at (and with) each other over all of these and much more. I've hurt you. I'm sorry. You've hurt me. I forgive you. (That's an eternal forgiveness, by the way--as I've always said: nothing you do or could EVER, EVER do could make me mad enough to NOT forgive you!).
I know my unpredictability scares you, even if you can't admit it. (Ironically, it's one of the few consistencies in my personality!). I have a love/hate relationship with it, myself; it's spontaneous, but explosive. We've had to make silent agreements to accept it, though, haven't we? Reluctantly, daringly, you've done your best to love me through the worst of times. I have been Ugly (capitol U intended) when "the beast" has reared it's head, but you've slain that dragon for me many, MANY times with a mere,gentle stroke of my back and a wipe of my tears. You'll never know the comfort you've brought me without saying words. Your compassion shines. You have been a small, weak David against the Goliath that is MY RAGE: your slingshot: blind love.
As I've said, things are happening fast. You're moving on--in my core I feel it coming. How about we make a deal? I'll gladly give you whatever it is you need from me now, if you promise me one thing: you'll take along what I've already given you, too. Pinkie-swear?
"...let them tell me love's not worth going through!
If it all falls apart,
I will know deep in my heart:
the only dream that mattered had come true-- in this life, I was loved by you."
~ Mom
Always most important, I love you.
When I first saw you, I fell in love. I'm the type who believes in stuff like that, you know, "love at first sight". In fact, before you, I was absolutely convinced--about 8 times--that I was "in love". I was wrong. I didn't know or understand love until you came along.
But I'm not going to waste time and space with an attempt to explain it. You and I have something between us that words can't touch.
Why write this via blog? I'm not sure...all I know is that I was taking a walk yesterday and suddenly felt like some part of me wanted to erupt with love for you! Keeping this inside or even keeping it intimate wouldn't be enough! I just have to do it this way. Precious things aren't necessarily always private, you know?
We've grown-up together. There's no doubt that you'll move on and away from me someday--sooner, rather than later--and I can't promise you that I'll help make it pretty when you do; in fact, I can pretty much guarantee that I'll make an embarrassing spectacle of myself. But I won't stop it from happening. I read something shortly after you came along that I tucked away in my memory, knowing I'd need to recall it many times throughout our relationship: "From the moment I first held you, I began the process of giving you to the world--of letting you go." The sharp, deep pain I felt upon reading those words was the knowledge that they were absolutely true.
Lately, you've made it clear that things are happening fast. We don't talk as much as we used to, we don't spend as much time together. You seem to think other people and things are more important than I am. We fight more.
But this might surprise you: All of that makes me happy! There is order in God's world (at least our little corner of it), and watching you pull away just assures me that all is going along as it's supposed to. True, we don't talk as much as we used to, but when we do talk, we still speak the same language--I still feel deeply connected by that forever brand of unnameable bonding (patent pending).
True, our time together isn't quantity time anymore--believe it or not, I used to get a little bored when we spent ALL of our time together! I used to PRAY for someone ELSE to talk to (your end of the conversation wasn't always as stimulating as it came to be with time). Our time together these days isn't even what I'd call "quality". Usually, we just co-exist, sometimes we even talk between two closed doors. Or we yell.
As we've gotten to know each other better, we've had to wage some major battles--sometimes as allies, sometimes enemies. Bipolar, bathing, bullies...we've screamed at (and with) each other over all of these and much more. I've hurt you. I'm sorry. You've hurt me. I forgive you. (That's an eternal forgiveness, by the way--as I've always said: nothing you do or could EVER, EVER do could make me mad enough to NOT forgive you!).
I know my unpredictability scares you, even if you can't admit it. (Ironically, it's one of the few consistencies in my personality!). I have a love/hate relationship with it, myself; it's spontaneous, but explosive. We've had to make silent agreements to accept it, though, haven't we? Reluctantly, daringly, you've done your best to love me through the worst of times. I have been Ugly (capitol U intended) when "the beast" has reared it's head, but you've slain that dragon for me many, MANY times with a mere,gentle stroke of my back and a wipe of my tears. You'll never know the comfort you've brought me without saying words. Your compassion shines. You have been a small, weak David against the Goliath that is MY RAGE: your slingshot: blind love.
As I've said, things are happening fast. You're moving on--in my core I feel it coming. How about we make a deal? I'll gladly give you whatever it is you need from me now, if you promise me one thing: you'll take along what I've already given you, too. Pinkie-swear?
"...let them tell me love's not worth going through!
If it all falls apart,
I will know deep in my heart:
the only dream that mattered had come true-- in this life, I was loved by you."
~ Mom
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Those sad Statues of Liberty
April 15th and I'm depressed--like half the country, I know. But I'm not depressed for the same reason they're depressed. In fact, I like tax day! My husband and I don't listen to the sage advice of investment experts who tell you that if you do things "the right way", you should end-up not owing the government nor expecting a return at the end of the year.
No, we aren't savers. (Except for all of the crap we've accumulated around our house, but I digress.) We don't "do" money very well. So, we look at taxes as our own little savings plan. With 5 kids, we know we're in pretty good shape in the refund department. Cha-Ching.
Lot's of people would consider our view as unconventional. Others might see it as unconstitutional. Still others probably see it as sheer lunacy. We just like knowing that we'll have a few bucks in the bank come summer.
No, I'm not depressed because it's tax day. Well, that's not exactly true; I guess the date is part of it. I'm depressed because I know the local unemployment rates went up today. In our little neck of the woods there's a tax preparation company that uses the Statue of Liberty in their logo. Every winter, they hire people to work from about mid-February until April 15. Their job consists of standing on busy street corners, dressed in a head-to-toe teal velvet dress and matching spiked foam headpiece and waving their plastic, teal torch at all of the passersby. Some of them smile, but others just wave. I think some don't smile because it's cold in Minnesota at this time of year-- REALLY cold, and REALLY wet. Standing on a busy street corner'll get you pretty darn good and soaked. That can't feel good. It's also got to be very difficult to smile through it all.
I've seen a few of these folks wearing ski masks--like cat burglars wear--on especially cold days. This is scary looking and it's creepy, seeing the Statue of Liberty's face covered in black with only her beady little eyes shifting back and forth as cars whiz past her.
But, heck, let's face it: it's a job, after all! And, at least for a few months, these folks get a steady income. Sadly, I highly doubt they work in the office the other 10 months of the year; I'm quite sure they're temps.
So, today was their last day of work. That's why I'm depressed. And, to make matters worse, we all know Santa won't be hiring his elves for several more months. Maybe there is a line of Statues of Liberty sitting along the bar downtown right about now, drowning their sorrows and wiping their tears away with their long, soft, teal-colored sleeves. I'm so sad for them, maybe I'll go "belly-up" right alongside them all to express my solidarity. I guess I'd feel better if I gave one of them a job. I'd hire one to paint my house, but I can't get that done until I get my tax return.
No, we aren't savers. (Except for all of the crap we've accumulated around our house, but I digress.) We don't "do" money very well. So, we look at taxes as our own little savings plan. With 5 kids, we know we're in pretty good shape in the refund department. Cha-Ching.
Lot's of people would consider our view as unconventional. Others might see it as unconstitutional. Still others probably see it as sheer lunacy. We just like knowing that we'll have a few bucks in the bank come summer.
No, I'm not depressed because it's tax day. Well, that's not exactly true; I guess the date is part of it. I'm depressed because I know the local unemployment rates went up today. In our little neck of the woods there's a tax preparation company that uses the Statue of Liberty in their logo. Every winter, they hire people to work from about mid-February until April 15. Their job consists of standing on busy street corners, dressed in a head-to-toe teal velvet dress and matching spiked foam headpiece and waving their plastic, teal torch at all of the passersby. Some of them smile, but others just wave. I think some don't smile because it's cold in Minnesota at this time of year-- REALLY cold, and REALLY wet. Standing on a busy street corner'll get you pretty darn good and soaked. That can't feel good. It's also got to be very difficult to smile through it all.
I've seen a few of these folks wearing ski masks--like cat burglars wear--on especially cold days. This is scary looking and it's creepy, seeing the Statue of Liberty's face covered in black with only her beady little eyes shifting back and forth as cars whiz past her.
But, heck, let's face it: it's a job, after all! And, at least for a few months, these folks get a steady income. Sadly, I highly doubt they work in the office the other 10 months of the year; I'm quite sure they're temps.
So, today was their last day of work. That's why I'm depressed. And, to make matters worse, we all know Santa won't be hiring his elves for several more months. Maybe there is a line of Statues of Liberty sitting along the bar downtown right about now, drowning their sorrows and wiping their tears away with their long, soft, teal-colored sleeves. I'm so sad for them, maybe I'll go "belly-up" right alongside them all to express my solidarity. I guess I'd feel better if I gave one of them a job. I'd hire one to paint my house, but I can't get that done until I get my tax return.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
I'm trying to put my finger on it. The feeling reminds me of a cross between when I was 16 and hearing the phone ring, absolutely knowing, without a doubt that it was him calling for me (!), and the precise moment that followed giving birth; exhilaration and exhaustion and suprise. I'm beyond excited!
Here's the deal: someone I know and love and respect and trust read and commented on my writing today. She didn't have to say anything and I would never have known she read my blog. When I told her about it (NO ONE knew my little blogging secret at that point), I was killing time at the public computer in the coffee shop while I waited for her. I knew deep down that I was playing with fire--and I liked it. I was half - hoping she'd walk in and see what was on the screen and ask about it. "Oh, this?", I'd say, real cool-like, "I wasn't going to tell anybody, but now I guess I have to: I've been writing a blog. I know it's silly". Then, I'd quickly minimize it, playing on her curiosity, and we'd start for the comfy chairs. She wouldn't be able to stand it and the conversation would quickly turn back to my blog. It didnt' really go that way, so I pretty much forced her to read my first entry after I'd reluctently pried my hands away from the computer screen. I did that "read it...no, don't....OK, just please just read it--no wait, let's change the subject, I'm not ready yet....did you read the end? you have to read the end, I think it's really good (don't ask her if she thinks it's good)...." thing. And then I immediately felt like vomitting from nerves . . Writing this right now makes me sound like a game player and I'm absolutely not. I was just embarassed and scared and can't believe how much goes through my head in a split second.
Anyway, she's been my writing mentor, whether she likes it or not. I appologize for it constantly.
Not only did that happen--which would have been enough--but someone else, a stranger whose work I read and commented on myself--sent me an e- mail about my response to her work. And she liked it! I could fly!
I feel as though I've been published and I want to celebrate! Could I use more exclamation points? I don't think so! Disbelief that my words might reach someone who really knows their stuff--that she might not only understand what I wrote, but be moved to comment is pure gift.
I would consider myself a relatively successful vocalist. People have complimented my singing and paid me for it most of my life. That makes me a professional, by literal definition. Some people have even respected my vocal work enough to ask me to teach their child how to do it. In all the years of singing , though, I can't recall feeling like I do this very minute. Isn't that strange? Maybe that birth analogy isn't so cliche' after all. Something so difficult to which I feel absolutely called yet immeasurably inept at all at once is sort of just happening to me, right before my eyes and I have to completely let go of control. The reward, of course, is a new life.
I think that happened to me today. How great is that? I didn't even know I was pregnant!
Here's the deal: someone I know and love and respect and trust read and commented on my writing today. She didn't have to say anything and I would never have known she read my blog. When I told her about it (NO ONE knew my little blogging secret at that point), I was killing time at the public computer in the coffee shop while I waited for her. I knew deep down that I was playing with fire--and I liked it. I was half - hoping she'd walk in and see what was on the screen and ask about it. "Oh, this?", I'd say, real cool-like, "I wasn't going to tell anybody, but now I guess I have to: I've been writing a blog. I know it's silly". Then, I'd quickly minimize it, playing on her curiosity, and we'd start for the comfy chairs. She wouldn't be able to stand it and the conversation would quickly turn back to my blog. It didnt' really go that way, so I pretty much forced her to read my first entry after I'd reluctently pried my hands away from the computer screen. I did that "read it...no, don't....OK, just please just read it--no wait, let's change the subject, I'm not ready yet....did you read the end? you have to read the end, I think it's really good (don't ask her if she thinks it's good)...." thing. And then I immediately felt like vomitting from nerves . . Writing this right now makes me sound like a game player and I'm absolutely not. I was just embarassed and scared and can't believe how much goes through my head in a split second.
Anyway, she's been my writing mentor, whether she likes it or not. I appologize for it constantly.
Not only did that happen--which would have been enough--but someone else, a stranger whose work I read and commented on myself--sent me an e- mail about my response to her work. And she liked it! I could fly!
I feel as though I've been published and I want to celebrate! Could I use more exclamation points? I don't think so! Disbelief that my words might reach someone who really knows their stuff--that she might not only understand what I wrote, but be moved to comment is pure gift.
I would consider myself a relatively successful vocalist. People have complimented my singing and paid me for it most of my life. That makes me a professional, by literal definition. Some people have even respected my vocal work enough to ask me to teach their child how to do it. In all the years of singing , though, I can't recall feeling like I do this very minute. Isn't that strange? Maybe that birth analogy isn't so cliche' after all. Something so difficult to which I feel absolutely called yet immeasurably inept at all at once is sort of just happening to me, right before my eyes and I have to completely let go of control. The reward, of course, is a new life.
I think that happened to me today. How great is that? I didn't even know I was pregnant!
Thursday, April 1, 2010
There's Always a Bright Side!...blissful holiday musings...
Lakeside. Spring Break. Finally, after what seemed like a "forever" Minnesota winter--and I like winter--spring is here and we are celebrating symbolically with a visit to one of our all-time favorite cities in the world, where the ice has just gone out on Lake Superior: Duluth.
In the past, hotel stays haven't been much fun. In fact, they have consistently made my top ten list of "Things That, If I Mention Doing Them, Please Hit Me Hard In The Head With A Heavy Frying Pan" --if you can locate one in my kitchen.
However, a couple of weeks ago, I guess the cabin fever got the best of me. I went ahead and mentioned to the kids that we "probably" would go "somewhere" for "a few days" during Spring Break. Vague enough, right? I thought so. My ploy was to be vague, but plant the seed so I'd have a little support when I'd need it. Once I broached the subject with my husband, believe me, I'd need it. Problem is, I rarely think before I speak. (I'm one of the few people in my life who think this is a charming quality).
Now, my husband and I are not in the habit of communicating on a regular basis--it's just that, when he's home, things around the house happen at a sort of hyper speed, or something. I think it's because all the kids want to see, or talk to, or just be around their dad--even if they're not in the same room together. So, there is an atmosphere not unlike that of bees at work: a dull, hypnotic hum, lots of little bodies swarming around, headed in various different directions with no discernible destination. There is an air of quiet (really, it's not so quiet) mayhem. And me? I, too, love when he's around; it feels like I don't have to be in charge anymore. But, then again, it's not long before I realize: "Hey! Who does he think he is, acting all 'I'm in charge' and stuff? I'm the Boss around here!" You can imagine how this attitude of mine might cause problems. How's the poor guy supposed to act?
Then, there's the fact that he likes a clean house, so he cleans a lot when he's at home. Bless his heart, and (grab a chair, ladies) he actually relaxes by cleaning. This I don't understand: I'd do almost anything (except maybe spend the night in a hotel room with my children again, but I'm getting ahead of myself) to not have to clean! If you haven't already grabbed something to sit on, now you really should, because this next statement is going to knock you off your feet: I must admit that I often complain to him about his cleaning. (Now, if I could make that font any smaller and know that you could still read it, I would--that's how embarrassing that confession was to make.) Bless him! Who complains about a spouse who wants to clean?
My friends have wondered about this for years. (Courtesy pause here for any of my children who might be reading this: prepare for a "major gross-out" or just skip to the next paragraph). Over the course of our marriage, I've been the one with the stronger, shall we say, "drive" in the boudoir, while he could take-it or leave it. My friends have always seen my married life as ideal! A husband who basically leaves me alone in the area of connubial duties and who would rather clean than do most anything else. "What's to complain about???", they'd ask.
The bottom line: When he cleans, I feel like I have to, too. But, I don't WANT to clean. And, what's more, he says it "doesn't bother" him if I don't clean. I don't believe him. I know he's keeping score and is going to use it against me somehow down the road. When I least expect it, he'll toss it out there during an argument and I'll have no recourse. It's one of my biggest areas of paranoia.
So, here he is, this great guy who just wants to come home to his wife and kids and be able to unwind in front of a nice, filthy pile of whites, when I gently break the news to him that we'll be going "somewhere" for a "few days" over Spring Break.
I've told you how I feel about the hotel scenario. Want to know how he feels? Triple my angst. In his mind, everything about the definition of vacation goes against this idea. But, after much arguing and pleading on my part, (all of which is done passive-aggressively, mind you), he relents. After all, he knows that getting away to a hotel used to by one of my all-time favorite treats! He wants to make me happy! Sweetie.
Somehow, as parents, we develop a coping mechanism that allows us to forget things like the pain of childbirth (or the pain of witnessing it, depending on which spouse you are); that pungent, lingering odor of soiled diapers; the panic we hide as your child takes his or her first drive behind the wheel, and the horror of spending the night in a hotel room with your 5 small, cranky, sugared-up, car-weary kids. This ability to forget is one of life's beautiful mysteries. A gift from God.
After our first hotel incident years ago, we vowed to remind one another about the torment we put upon ourselves when first we made the mistake with two toddlers. "Repeat after me", we said, in turn: "If I ever again reach the point of insanity at which I suggest such craziness, you have permission to do your choice of the following: file for divorce or have me committed." We both took this oath fully and without hesitation. It was too soon after the event, however, to say we were of sound mind. That may have been the problem.
Yesterday, after joyfully grocery shopping with my 13 year old--actually a lot of fun, I'm not kidding here--and arriving home to a cute van-full of family, patiently awaiting our arrival home so we could leave town. Approx. 15 min. into the trip, my husband and I looked at each other knowingly. Neither of us said a word. Fast forward through our check-in at the hotel:
child #5: "MOM! MOM! MOM! CAN I PUT MY SUIT ON? CAN I GO SWIMMING NOW? MOM! ARE YOU LISTENI- "
me: "Sweetheart, please let me speak to this gentleman about our room. Then you ca-"
child #4:"MOM (hitting me in the back repeatedly--rounding the pillar next to me and pounding his fist into me each time it reaches me in his circle), WHEN CAN WE GO TO THE HARBOR? DAD SAID WE'D GO TO THE HARBOR RIGHT AWAY? MOM, YOU'RE NOT PAYING ATTEN-"
me: "Honey, PLEASE just let me finish here, and then we'll go to our roo-"
child #2: "MOM, DAD NEEDS TO KNOW WHAT ROOM WE'RE IN SO HE CAN BRING OUR STUFF IN. MOM, WHAT ROOM ARE WE IN? MOM!!!"
At this point, the young man behind the desk is on the phone scheduling his vasectomy and gives me the "be with you in a minute" pointer finger.
Finally, we actually made it into the room, to the pool for a brief swim, to the harbor and on a walk across the lift bridge. We even lasted through a pretty darned good meal. All seemed well, until we got back to the room. The kids were getting antsy, so they left the restaurant before my husband and me--(could it be that we have gotten to the point in life where the children can be sufficient without us, even if only for a brief moment?) An extremely cautious "yippy!" drifted over our lips as we paid the bill and walked across the street to the hotel. While he generously tended to the children during their pre-bedtime swim, I cozied into bed, my book in hand, a glass of wine on the bedside table.
It was all down hill from there. 623 entrances and exits later, they were all in for the duration. However, it took many, many combinations to get to the correct ones--you know, who could sleep with whom without murder or suicide as a result.
Finally, all was quiet. Then: the flatulence. Boys and gas. This MUST be the subject for a future blog. It's too soon for me to even re-live it, much less expound on it. The laughter ensued as did my husbands anger and my despair. We eventually threatened to pack-up our things "right here and now" and head home. That pretty much did the trick.
A few random toots and scuffles between the sheets later, and everyone was asleep.
Right now, my daughter and I are awake, in the lobby at 4:30, unable to sleep, with nothing to do. She's sending me instant messages and I'm attempting to blog without my glasses. Did I mention they fell victim to my eldest son's affections today? While he put his arm around be as we gazed out past the lighthouse onto the lake at sundown--a picturesque moment indeed, his hand bumped the glasses off of my face and down they went. We could do nothing. We just laughed and I reassured him that it was probably time for new ones, anyway.
Of course, morning will roll around and all will be well. I'm sure the kids, being used to our empty threats, are sleeping soundly, looking forward to another day of exploring the town. I'm sure my husband is cursing me as he drifts off, promising himself once again, that we'll never, EVER make this mistake again and knowing full well we will. Again, and again, and again.
In the past, hotel stays haven't been much fun. In fact, they have consistently made my top ten list of "Things That, If I Mention Doing Them, Please Hit Me Hard In The Head With A Heavy Frying Pan" --if you can locate one in my kitchen.
However, a couple of weeks ago, I guess the cabin fever got the best of me. I went ahead and mentioned to the kids that we "probably" would go "somewhere" for "a few days" during Spring Break. Vague enough, right? I thought so. My ploy was to be vague, but plant the seed so I'd have a little support when I'd need it. Once I broached the subject with my husband, believe me, I'd need it. Problem is, I rarely think before I speak. (I'm one of the few people in my life who think this is a charming quality).
Now, my husband and I are not in the habit of communicating on a regular basis--it's just that, when he's home, things around the house happen at a sort of hyper speed, or something. I think it's because all the kids want to see, or talk to, or just be around their dad--even if they're not in the same room together. So, there is an atmosphere not unlike that of bees at work: a dull, hypnotic hum, lots of little bodies swarming around, headed in various different directions with no discernible destination. There is an air of quiet (really, it's not so quiet) mayhem. And me? I, too, love when he's around; it feels like I don't have to be in charge anymore. But, then again, it's not long before I realize: "Hey! Who does he think he is, acting all 'I'm in charge' and stuff? I'm the Boss around here!" You can imagine how this attitude of mine might cause problems. How's the poor guy supposed to act?
Then, there's the fact that he likes a clean house, so he cleans a lot when he's at home. Bless his heart, and (grab a chair, ladies) he actually relaxes by cleaning. This I don't understand: I'd do almost anything (except maybe spend the night in a hotel room with my children again, but I'm getting ahead of myself) to not have to clean! If you haven't already grabbed something to sit on, now you really should, because this next statement is going to knock you off your feet: I must admit that I often complain to him about his cleaning. (Now, if I could make that font any smaller and know that you could still read it, I would--that's how embarrassing that confession was to make.) Bless him! Who complains about a spouse who wants to clean?
My friends have wondered about this for years. (Courtesy pause here for any of my children who might be reading this: prepare for a "major gross-out" or just skip to the next paragraph). Over the course of our marriage, I've been the one with the stronger, shall we say, "drive" in the boudoir, while he could take-it or leave it. My friends have always seen my married life as ideal! A husband who basically leaves me alone in the area of connubial duties and who would rather clean than do most anything else. "What's to complain about???", they'd ask.
The bottom line: When he cleans, I feel like I have to, too. But, I don't WANT to clean. And, what's more, he says it "doesn't bother" him if I don't clean. I don't believe him. I know he's keeping score and is going to use it against me somehow down the road. When I least expect it, he'll toss it out there during an argument and I'll have no recourse. It's one of my biggest areas of paranoia.
So, here he is, this great guy who just wants to come home to his wife and kids and be able to unwind in front of a nice, filthy pile of whites, when I gently break the news to him that we'll be going "somewhere" for a "few days" over Spring Break.
I've told you how I feel about the hotel scenario. Want to know how he feels? Triple my angst. In his mind, everything about the definition of vacation goes against this idea. But, after much arguing and pleading on my part, (all of which is done passive-aggressively, mind you), he relents. After all, he knows that getting away to a hotel used to by one of my all-time favorite treats! He wants to make me happy! Sweetie.
Somehow, as parents, we develop a coping mechanism that allows us to forget things like the pain of childbirth (or the pain of witnessing it, depending on which spouse you are); that pungent, lingering odor of soiled diapers; the panic we hide as your child takes his or her first drive behind the wheel, and the horror of spending the night in a hotel room with your 5 small, cranky, sugared-up, car-weary kids. This ability to forget is one of life's beautiful mysteries. A gift from God.
After our first hotel incident years ago, we vowed to remind one another about the torment we put upon ourselves when first we made the mistake with two toddlers. "Repeat after me", we said, in turn: "If I ever again reach the point of insanity at which I suggest such craziness, you have permission to do your choice of the following: file for divorce or have me committed." We both took this oath fully and without hesitation. It was too soon after the event, however, to say we were of sound mind. That may have been the problem.
Yesterday, after joyfully grocery shopping with my 13 year old--actually a lot of fun, I'm not kidding here--and arriving home to a cute van-full of family, patiently awaiting our arrival home so we could leave town. Approx. 15 min. into the trip, my husband and I looked at each other knowingly. Neither of us said a word. Fast forward through our check-in at the hotel:
child #5: "MOM! MOM! MOM! CAN I PUT MY SUIT ON? CAN I GO SWIMMING NOW? MOM! ARE YOU LISTENI- "
me: "Sweetheart, please let me speak to this gentleman about our room. Then you ca-"
child #4:"MOM (hitting me in the back repeatedly--rounding the pillar next to me and pounding his fist into me each time it reaches me in his circle), WHEN CAN WE GO TO THE HARBOR? DAD SAID WE'D GO TO THE HARBOR RIGHT AWAY? MOM, YOU'RE NOT PAYING ATTEN-"
me: "Honey, PLEASE just let me finish here, and then we'll go to our roo-"
child #2: "MOM, DAD NEEDS TO KNOW WHAT ROOM WE'RE IN SO HE CAN BRING OUR STUFF IN. MOM, WHAT ROOM ARE WE IN? MOM!!!"
At this point, the young man behind the desk is on the phone scheduling his vasectomy and gives me the "be with you in a minute" pointer finger.
Finally, we actually made it into the room, to the pool for a brief swim, to the harbor and on a walk across the lift bridge. We even lasted through a pretty darned good meal. All seemed well, until we got back to the room. The kids were getting antsy, so they left the restaurant before my husband and me--(could it be that we have gotten to the point in life where the children can be sufficient without us, even if only for a brief moment?) An extremely cautious "yippy!" drifted over our lips as we paid the bill and walked across the street to the hotel. While he generously tended to the children during their pre-bedtime swim, I cozied into bed, my book in hand, a glass of wine on the bedside table.
It was all down hill from there. 623 entrances and exits later, they were all in for the duration. However, it took many, many combinations to get to the correct ones--you know, who could sleep with whom without murder or suicide as a result.
Finally, all was quiet. Then: the flatulence. Boys and gas. This MUST be the subject for a future blog. It's too soon for me to even re-live it, much less expound on it. The laughter ensued as did my husbands anger and my despair. We eventually threatened to pack-up our things "right here and now" and head home. That pretty much did the trick.
A few random toots and scuffles between the sheets later, and everyone was asleep.
Right now, my daughter and I are awake, in the lobby at 4:30, unable to sleep, with nothing to do. She's sending me instant messages and I'm attempting to blog without my glasses. Did I mention they fell victim to my eldest son's affections today? While he put his arm around be as we gazed out past the lighthouse onto the lake at sundown--a picturesque moment indeed, his hand bumped the glasses off of my face and down they went. We could do nothing. We just laughed and I reassured him that it was probably time for new ones, anyway.
Of course, morning will roll around and all will be well. I'm sure the kids, being used to our empty threats, are sleeping soundly, looking forward to another day of exploring the town. I'm sure my husband is cursing me as he drifts off, promising himself once again, that we'll never, EVER make this mistake again and knowing full well we will. Again, and again, and again.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Caroline and Me
So, I just turned 46. One of the many, many things I've set-out to do this next year is to start writing. I'm quite frightened about what might actually be tranported from my brain through my torso and out of my fingers. I don't suppose it can be much worse than what travels the same route and spurts out of my mouth, instead.
I've been calling myself the "Caroline Ingalls of the World Wide Web" pretty much since home computers came along. (I guess they call them PC's or Mac's, or something similar. I can't say I know the difference.) Anyway, I assumed I'd have to give up that title once my family went online, but I was wrong! I'm so glad. Not only did I like Caroline's patient nature, but I so admired her work ethic (did she have a choice?) . She also had that great bun of hair which was a long braid wound around in a circle in the back of her head. At night, when she "let her hair down" for Charles, we never got to see it cascade--we only got to see the braid, pretty as it was, hanging down over her shoulder. And that nightgown. I can't stand anything tight around my neck at night (I have friends who wear turtle-neck shirts under sweatshirts every night of the year! I'm sure I'd suffocate or strangle), but this woman would never reveal skin that covered any part of her body that wasn't working all day. Personally, I don't recall ever seeing her feet, but I'm guessing she wore slippers.
My point is, Caroline and I are worlds apart in almost every way. She was modest, I am not. She was hard-working, again, I am not. She could sleep with a tight thing binding her throat. Me, I need to breathe. I want to be like her, though. Somehow, I feel like I've set before myself a quest: to, somehow, take the best of myself, and Caroline and make them work together.
Join me on this adventure. I've no idea where we'll go. Sometimes we'll go by covered wagon, sometimes by minivan. Sometimes, and I'm looking forward to this, we'll sneak out into the barn while the husband and children are asleep, and we'll saddle-up the most laid-back of the team and take off on a moonlight ride. That prairie will never be the same. And, maybe someday soon ( after I get my daily chores done, of course and feel that satisfaction), we'll take that moonlight ride bareback!
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