What Has Happened to This Family???

WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO THIS FAMILY???

Last evening I spent quite a few minutes talking to a friend whom I have not seen in ages, commiserating about our  daughters. I explained that they can definitely be cold and prickly, especially with their mothers and that I have been regarded in the same manner as one would regard a dirty Kleenex for about six years and I have just gotten used to it and have learned to  take it in stride.  I take pride in the fact that when my daughter  marches up the stairs and into her room to complain to her friend about how flaky I am, I say “I'm so glad I am able to give her the freedom and privacy to do so.”

Then, TODAY, as I was already basking in an increasingly rare moment when not one, but two sons were  in our bed - the same bed, at the same time -and they might have even been touching, albeit accidentally and not in a way that leaves bruises, my daughter sauntered into the room and draped herself on the bed. With US! Her PARENTS - and her BROTHERS! And after said brothers had hopped away and gotten on with the business of whatever brand of mischief was on the menu for the day, she stayed. For half an hour and talked to us. And listened. To her PARENTS of all people. In a normal and pleasant tone of voice no less. It was wonderful. She didn't even yell at me when I suggested that when she goes away to college she might want to consider toning down her man-hating verbalizations, since not all men are total bleeping lunatics (to put it lightly), her father being a case in point (of a non-lunatic in case that was unclear).

Anyway, I arrived home from shopping to discover that my daughter had asked me to friend her on facebook. In case you didn't get that, the word is FRIEND. F-R-I-E-N-D. As in someone you do not hate. Or at least someone you acknowledge in a friendly manner occasionally at minimum. The problem is, even though as a parent I have always read and heard that we are supposed to friend our kids so we can lurk in the shadows and lecture them about their posts, I have always maintained that the very last people on earth I want trolling my facebook are my kids. My facebook is one long, rambling, TMI session and the TMI is mostly about my kids so I have historically kept them and anyone who might be associated with them decidedly on my stranger list at the very least. I hated to disappoint her, but I informed her at dinner that I would have to think before I could consider friending her. She informed me that it was too late and that I already had. Accidentally. Crap. Now I'll have to un-friend her in order to make this post. And that might arouse some suspicion, but there is no avoiding it. This is a little too much topsy-turvy for someone my age in the space of a day. (Update: I took a break from writing and discovered that she has already begun to comment on my posts. I'll have to give her some time to troll and when the novelty wears off I'll un friend her, put up this post and then friend her again in a couple of days after the post is buried under a few days of my usual drivel. I'll say it was an accident. She'll believe me because she “knows” that I'm totally incompetent.

As a last resort, I could start posting things like “I pooped today” (which is about the only thing I haven't posted yet) and that'll get me unfriended in a heartbeat.

And it doesn't stop there...The other kids are acting weird also.   When I sat down to write this, I had to tune out the third instrument I have heard being practiced today. The third. That means that not one, not two, but all three kids have practiced their instruments today. The instruments that they never play. Ever. At least in earshot of their mother. And Johnny. The one whom his older sister describes as feral, whom I have described as the most demanding and least appreciative of my three children (he has lots of wonderful qualities too), who asks for Nike merchandise repeatedly despite how his siblings lunge at him like junk yard dogs across the dinner table, veritably spitting about sweatshops and hyper-capitalism, said “thank you” after I bought him some clothes today. It had become imperative that I buy him some pants that reached below his calves and shoes that were not full of holes.  When I took in his appearance,  I wished I had thought to stop by Church Street on the way to the store and  parked him on a corner with a tin cup with which to collect some alms. I could have paid cash and avoided using the credit card for the new clothes. Anyway, I digress. On the way home, Johnny said: “thank you, Mom, for buying me some new clothes...and I think I'll try to help around the house more often.” Of course I did not let on that I'm no dummy  and that someone can't help around the house if they are never around the house. Johnny sometimes sleeps in his bed at night and spends the rest of the time at the neighbors on either side of us; an arrangement which eliminates almost all possible opportunities to help at home.  However,  I appreciate the offer.   The thought does count. Quite a lot, actually.

...And...the topper is... that when I got home with the groceries both boys put all the food away after only one martyrish request.

And the sad part is... I had an unusually large number of social obligations this week which caused me to have to be out drinking with my friends last night and the night before. Until 12:30. Um, and Wednesday til 10. As I said, an unusually obligation-heavy week. I can either hit myself over the head in self punishment or lecture myself with guilty phrases, or say “hey, it works for me!” But first I have to spend some time wrapping my head around all this change.

Johnny just whined “ETHAN HIT MEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!” Whew. Back to normal.

Nope. Ten minutes have passed and Johnny is out of the shower and asking me to clean his ears and kiss him goodnight and it is only 8:23. Now THAT'S weird.

Shopping Notes

I am sure that nobody really cares what thoughts go through my head whilst I am shopping, and in fact it is probably the epitome of narcissism to even post them, but on the other hand, perhaps you share them and can relate.

Produce Isle: This is where I get to be the mother I always wanted to be - in my mind. I fill the top of the cart with all manner of green. Broccoli, spinach, peppers, beans. I am going to, after seven years of planning, finally make tabouli salad. I have until the parsley I just bought rots to make good on my plan. I know from experience that I have up to three weeks if I'm lucky. I have all kinds of fantasies about making wonderful healthy meals for my family since I have Monday off this week (which is now half over). It is not going to be like those other times, where eventually I slop all the slime from the bottom of the crisper box into the compost and soak the crisper in bleach. This time I'm going to finally embody the pinnacle of perfect motherhood and cook. I am as sure of it as the father who says "I know I haven't called you in a year and a half but I promise that when I get back in-state I'll take you to Disney". Or Russ will cook us great meals like he always does provided he is not working til 1 am.

I progress to the deli. This is where I decide while my ham is being sliced that I am going to get Johnny to quit his pepperoni habit. Next week. Everyone knows that pepperoni is just a gateway drug and can lead to all manner of worse addictions, but heck, he has made himself a pepperoni wrap with cheese five days a week for the whole school year, so another week isn't really going to make a difference. Plus it might make for better relations if he tapers off rather than going cold turkey. And I don't think he likes turkey anyway. So putting off the "you're eating turkey instead of pepperoni" battle makes a lot of sense. It is good parenting to mentally prepare for these kinds of interventions.

On to the meat section. It is at the bottom of all the rest of the aisles and I dread getting near it. I can pretend I don't see it the first couple of times I pass into another aisle, but eventually I have no choice but to face it. DINNER! It's not about how to cook, but what to cook, as my mother always said. But as I peer at the cuts of meat and packages of chicken and wonder what the heck I'm going to do with it once I get home, I try and make myself feel better with the happy fact that at least I don't have to go out and kill it. In fact, that is what I mention to the gentleman next to me who is an acquaintance and has just muttered a polite hello. He says: "what"? And I say: "I said that at least I don't have to go out and kill it, skin it, drag it in, cook it, and all that. You know what I mean?" He laughs weakly and suddenly gets very interested in the turkey burger a few yards away.

Now that I have called Russ three times to ask how to pick out meat to cut up for stew and what else should we make on the nights when we are not buying burgers at the swim meet, I can move on to more important things.

The bread Isle is easy. Back when I was younger I had this idea that I would read labels and try and find bread without high-fructose corn syrup, which, in this country, is harder than you might think. I got around the issue by spotting a very healthy-looking mom with a very healthy looking child in the bread section. I know how to pick-em, because sure enough, she started reading labels while her kid sat patiently in the cart. Must be the lack of sugar that keeps him so calm. Since my toddler was too jumpy for me to even consider stopping to read anything, I just muddled about near the rolls and semi-stalked the woman until she put a loaf of bread in her cart and then I ran over and grabbed a loaf from the same place. That bread is no longer available, but now I have different criteria. If my kids will eat it and it says “natural”, “12 grain” and is even moderately brown I buy it and move on. Plus I never have glasses with me for reading nor the time to wait around for unsuspecting health-conscious mothers to happen on the scene. And they make me feel old and fat by comparison so I'd just as soon skip it.

As I approach the diaper aisle, I muse at how things have changed over the years with respect to the diaper aisle. In my early 20's I looked down it and said: “thank goodness I don't have to go down the diaper aisle yet”. In my late twenties it looked slightly more inviting. In my thirties it was where I spent the majority of my shopping hours, perusing and evaluating what goods to buy for my little treasures. In my 40's I smugly glance and say, “thank goodness I'm done with THAT aisle, with a little wistfulness that I can't deny. Now, approaching 50, there is a tiny thread of dread as I peer down the aisle and the thought occurs to me that I might have to revisit that aisle again in not so many years. The big packages of Depens leer at me, bigger than life as I say to myself “thank goodness I don't have to go down the diaper aisle again. YET.”

I pass rather uneventfully through the frozen section, peering over the pile in the basket every so often to wonder how much it is all going to cost. If it is time to buy chicken “strips” (not the same as chicken nuggets, mind you, because the package says “white meat” and the shape is oblong and not nugget-shaped and it costs $7.95), then I grab it and stuff it as deep as possible in the cart and cover it with vegetables. That way I can tell myself as well as the rest of the shoppers at Hannaford that I am a good mother because I buy good food. If it is baseball season and my cart has too many convenience foods and too few vegetables with which to cover them up, then I casually mention to people I know that it is baseball season and that isn't it terrible that we have to feed our kids (all beef and nitrate-free and make sure to mention that part) hot dogs and rush off to the games. Not that they are in any different predicament than I and in fact I am not peering into their carts so why should I think that they are peering into mine, but that is beside the point.

I would live to hear your shopping thoughts.

Another Concert

Another concert...Two for two in two days.

Russ and I moved mountains. I mean mountains (he moved, I stood by mostly helpless) to put a healthy dinner of chicken breast, quinoa and two vegetables on the table before we rushed off to the BFA concert. As I was rushing out the door to pick up my "baked good" from Food City for the bake sale, the boys asked if they could make chocolate chip cookies while we were gone (oh the irony-couldn't they have made them an hour ago for the bake sale?). First I said "no", then "yes", then "no, okay, yes - do whatever you want as long as you clean the kitchen." I rushed out leaving Russ to bring my dad.

At the concert, by the time I decided where and with whom I was going to sit, I was trotting down the aisle after lights out and had to climb over my dad to take my seat. It took me a while to calm down and sink into the auditorium chair and absorb the music. Shortly, my phone rang and said "HOME' on the screen. I couldn't answer it of course and since I had disturbed everyone in order to sit down I couldn't get back up, emergency or no. So I listened to the BFA band and thought of every possible catastrophe that could have befallen my boys: They blew up the oven or burned the house down. The guy I heard about who is purported to be a fake vacuum salesman and who pushes the person who answers the door into the house and robs them or worse came by and the boys answered the door. Ethan finally killed Johnny or vise versa. I had visions of my gray (years ago they were white) carpets covered in the blood of my babes (it is hard to even write that). I finally decided to text a neighbor, which was difficult because after yesterday's concert, Russ told me about Frank's speech before the show telling what he was going to do to people who were caught texting during the performance. I was late so I didn't get the memo. So when I didn't hear in nanoseconds from the first neighbor, I texted another, and then another to ask them to call the boys and ascertain that they had not been blown up or bludgeoned. As people have lives and perhaps might be busy or not have their phone on, I was tapping my fingers and wondering why I wasn't getting an IMMEDIATE response. Finally one person said she would call. I waited. It didn't occur to me that she might be attending her kid's baseball game and witnessing a great play by her son and not sitting at her kitchen table waiting for me to call with a myriad of emergencies. So at the intermission I jumped over my dad and went to call the boys.

"Hi, Johnny, are you okay?"
"Yeah, why?"
"Well, why didn't you leave a VOICEMAIL???"
"Because I never leave voicemails."
"Well, what did you call me for in the middle of a concert?"
"We were just wondering if we could have some ovaltine."
"OVALTINE? You called me at a concert to ask if you could have some OVALTINE?
"Yeah. So can we?"
"I thought you were going to make cookies."
"We already made the cookies. Can we have one?"
"I don't care if you raid the LIQUOR CABINET - just don't call me at a concert to ask me first, leaving me with terrible visions of your violent demise..." (NO I did NOT say that, for the record. Should I type that twice just in case you are skimming and call the authorities or decide that you will never ever send your kid over here?)
"Do you know how many people I called to check on you?"
"Yeah. they called us. So can we have a cookie and some Ovaltine?"
"Yes. I gotta go. And the kitchen had better be clean when we get home."

On the way back to the concert I stopped to talk to the French teacher who was working late, and I of course in an attempt not to be rude, I was ignoring all of Russ' texts imploring me to tell him if his boys were alive and well and not at the Emergency room or worse. "Are they okay? Shall I go home??? Hello, HELLO???"
By this time it was past lights out again and I had to make the walk of shame (sound familiar? I make a lot of those) - okay, I just have to jump in here and, pardon the enormous digression - I always have Russ read these posts just in case I'm really screwing up and he pointed out that "the walk of shame" is, well, what you probably think it is. He looked it up in the urban dictionary so I'll just let you find out for yourself (by clinking the link I mean, not by going out and experiencing it - although, hey, don't let me stop you if that is what you really want) - make sure you read the long definition as it is quite funny - I had to convince Russ that I did not write it myself- and after you surf the interned for 20 minutes make sure you can pick up the rest of the sentence that I just so rudely chopped up with all this stuff about walks of shame - and the most important thing is that I clarify that with this new clarification, I have made a very small number of these and not lots - http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=walk+of+shame (back to the story here)... and climb back over my dad to enjoy the concert - as much as anyone can who is sitting behind a guy who is holding his ipad in front of one's face so it is not in front of his own.

True Confessions of an Aging Modern Parent

Confessions of an aging modern mom (Alternative title: “A woman has needs”)

I work til 6:20 and am supposed to catch Johnny's baseball game that began at 6 and then go to Ethan's concert, leaving my dad home with a frozen pot pie after the rest of the family has had hot dogs for dinner again. I make a point of mentioning to my dad that it is not the best choice but they are at least nitrate free.

I arrive at the game about ten minutes before I should be at the concert, but since my kid is in the Senior Band I figure that, although it is terribly bad form to show up late, I will have to so I can take in a few minutes of my other son's game while the junior band is playing their numbers. The real reason for stopping in at the game is so I can get some dinner. I am starving. To death, practically. I drank protein shakes all day and am shaking from lack of real nourishment. I march up to the snack bar and purchase a nitrate-laden hot dog and a bag of popcorn. There is no real beer (sadly) so I get the next best thing – a root beer. I sit on some bleachers, take a much-needed breath and sink my teeth into my hot dog, with a bit of aluminum foil for good measure. Ahhh. Finally time to relax and watch a game. My pocket vibrates and I see that Russ is texting me that the orchestra, of which my son is a member, is on first. When I was young, we played ONE instrument, but life was so much simpler in those days. I gobble my hot dog and grab my unopened popcorn and rootbeer (thank goodness the can is still sealed) and rush to the car. Mr. Mehaffie's mantra is that if you are on time you are late, so I arrive at 7pm on the dot and catch the second half of the first number.

I know that no one does this stuff on purpose to shame latecomers, but the door to the gym squeaks extremely loudly and I am glad that I had not waited until between numbers to open it. I see a music stand holding a stack of programs, which I need so that I will know when to run out again, but the stand is in view of all of the onlookers, so I have a short walk of shame to collect it. Late. Another parent squeaks through the door and I show him my program. He gives me a very appreciative look and says a very kind “thank you” and takes it. Not only do I have to again do the walk of shame, even later, to get another program but I also don't want him to feel badly that he has taken my program. I finally pay attention to the music and am delighted to discover that I have a nice clear view of my son. Until I see the high water pants, the ratty sneakers and the outgrown shirt that I thought I had buried in Johnny's drawer so that Ethan doesn't remember he owns it and takes it back or tries to beat up his brother for taking his shirt. And I don't know how he can read music from under that mop of hair he has been asking me to cut or get cut for months. I a, so consumed with his attire that I forget to obsess about the fact that he never ever practices his violin.

Ok, the Orchestra has finished. Time to sneak out before the next band starts and get back to the game. Again, I know that it is terribly bad manners to leave after your kid's performance, but manners or no manners, I just have to get back to my dinner. My stomach is turning inside out. The car reeks deliciously of popcorn but I abstain until I get to the game. I find a place on a little grassy incline, take a bite of popcorn (not worth the wait or the calories) and a sip of my root beer and decide I need some salt. I see the guy whom I almost blew up with the grill on the day of my stint as a snack bar walk by away from the ball field, so I figure it is safe to approach the snack bar. I sprinkle a ton of salt on my popcorn, citing low blood pressure as my license to do so to a woman who couldn't care less and go back to settle back on my little hill for a bit of peace and popcorn. I discover that my root beer has been perched, and, subsequently overturned on the hill and so without any admonishments to myself or angst of any kind, I march to the snack bar to purchase another one. I need something to cut the grease of the popcorn and that is that. On the way back I see someone I know walking by with cupcakes. “Cupcakes!” I scream to myself. “Someone has time, not only to show up at their kid's game, but to show up with cupcakes!” I try to imagine having the time, wherewithal or desire to even think of making cupcakes. I mention this good-naturedly to the woman with the cupcakes who I know is as busy as I am, and she mentions that she doesn't have time either but she got up at 5 am to make them. I digress, as usual. Anyway, this time I sit on some nice flat bleachers and eat and drank. I am only about a third of my way through the bag of popcorn and just barely over the threshold of nausea (which usually takes at least 2/3 of the bag) when I get a text that the Senior Band is starting. I dutifully jump up and rush to the car. The wrong one of course, as I seem to have this propensity to just rush to and open any car that has a color that remotely resembles that of my own, but after whipping it open, letting out a kind of yelp and closing it again, I look around and see that no one is the wiser, so I get into my own car and drive away, narrowly missing my friend's mother who is crossing in front of me (sorry Heather, “narrowly” was a bit of an exaggeration).

I am locked out of the school but a woman sees me on her way out and holds the door open for me. She also accidentally slams it with a sound that rivals a gunshot. However, when the people near the door hear it between music pieces, they look back and see me through the window of the inner door standing there, innocently. I wait for the music to start and sneak in as unobtrusively as possible given the squeaky door. I breathe and watch the rest of the concert in an utter state of relaxation. And indigestion. I see my boy playing music and muse that he is correct, there are a lot of hot girls in the flute section. Not that I am seeing them that way myself, but through the eyes of a 7th grader. And I thought Ethan chose the flute to save me buying one as I have my old one lying around.

When I get back to the car, the kids devour the remnants of my sad little dinner, but I do not care. I have not seen them all day (except from a distance with an air of perceived and projected judgment) and embrace them. Or at least I try.

Going to Church

How I manage to show up at church once in a while, in ten steps or less...1. Become informed that my presence is required at my daughter's confirmation. 2. Decide that I should probably wear something half way decent since the usual attire I wear to drop my kid off at the back door of the church doubles as my pajamas (TMI? sorry). 3. Open the closet. Actually I can skip this step as the folding doors of the closet are wedged open and have been for about ten years by various junk mashed up against them in such a way that renders them permanently open. How convenient. On to step 4. With much effort, extract the most recently bought old lady dress with a vintage of circa 2007, which is not really that old for me. I am usually 20 years behind the times, or even more since I only recently stopped wearing what I call Laura Ingalls Wilder dresses. I only stopped wearing them because they no longer fit. (No wonder the Mennonites used to give me that "eye" when I went anywhere near them.) Anyway, I digress. 5. While trying to wrestle said dress out of the closet, I silently chant: "I hope it fits, I hope it fits, cause God knows what I'm going to wear if it doesn't (the thing is, He does)." 6. Put it on and smile because it does indeed cover my body, even though I had to do a bit of wriggling to get into it (and NO there is no video) and be glad it comes with a loose shirt to go on top. 7. Try and zip it up but realize that the front just doesn't fit right and realize that I have put it on backwards. 8. Go downstairs and ask husband to help get the dress off. Ignore the look of glee and eyebrows raising on his forehead and hope that he doesn't have to get the fire department to help (that actually might make a really interesting video). 9. Thank goodness for a really "with it" husband who saves me from putting the dress on inside out. 10. Smooth out the wrinkles, get a flashlight to search for some decent shoes in the basement and rush out the door... Voila! All in ten steps. Notice I did not say "easy".

An Old Person at a Young Person's Concert

An Old Person at a Young Person’s Concert

Ahhhh.   I'm sitting in a Starbucks in Montreal.  Heavy traffic to get here. Found a nearby parking space after depositing the girls on the sidewalk with all the other emos (they said it, not me) to wait in line for the show.     What luck. There is a Starbucks right at the place where the girls are waiting in line.  I have two hours, a credit card and a kindle.  What a wonderful way to pass a two hour wait til the doors open -  not til the show,  just to get in the doors.  In fact I can even sneak back here during the show if I so desire.  I have a seat in the coffee shop where I can look right out at the girls standing in the street sipping their chai tea lattes. But alas.  Even though when I come to Quebec I almost never hear the English language spoken, despite the large percentage of anglophones, I hear it next to me. It is very distracting. A young man and woman.  He must be talking about his break up.  "I just want to lie in bed with her all day, tangled in the bedsheets..."  No. It appears they are composing or practicing a play.  I look over and see highlighted packets. Must be scripts. Something about making love...bodies, naked... raw ... Flesh coming together...and...  I try and tune it out to read my book but it is impossible. Since I’m a Therapist, I'm reading a book about bullying, which is good, but not gripping enough to tune out the goings on next to me.  If I were reading 50 shades of gray, which is not any more gripping, I could just close my eyes and pretend I'm listening to the audiobook.  If they were only speaking French...


Okay.  Now she is saying "that was great! Now we can ('please say now we can go home, please...') take it from the top. I love your expression, keep going with that."   But they stop after a few sentences and are now going on and on about scars and poetry.  And something about stardust.  Now the other available seats are filling up.  Why do things always have to be bait and switch with me? Murphy’s law all the way.   Oh. OH.  They have their date books out for next week. Thank Goodness!   No.  They are taking it from the top again.   Only louder.  With even more expression about how he wants to be tangled in the bedsheets again. I know the play by heart now.  He keeps fucking up after "bed sheets" and has to start over. All this sex is making me begin to fantasize. About all the ways one could strangle a man in a coffee shop with a set of bedsheets.  I imagine myself as a character like Katniss Everdeen, running through the streets of Montreal, cops and bedsheets in tow... hot cops at that. And French. It takes a LOT of imagination, but it can be done.    Now there is some other entertainment.  A young woman with her laptop just sat down right next to them. I'm peering over my reading  glasses trying to read her expression. She would make a much better Katniss than I, but twenty years ago I could have kicked her ass  and everyone else's.   Plus I have more cleavage. Not necessarily better,  just more.  Her eyes are moving back and forth. How can she read with this going on?  The girl of the pair got up to get coffee. I read for a wonderful few minutes.  But then he begins to recite the lines alone.  Someone shoot me.

Now I'm in the concert hall to have an hour wait for the opening band. The two hour wait was worth it to the girls (not to me) apparently as they are near the stage. They do not have varicose veins and give no thought to the idea of standing for hours practically nestled up to next to goodness knows who. So much for stranger danger.  As an old person at a young persons concert, my first order of business is to scope out a place to sit.  And a beer.  I was going to wait a while to order my one beer but like Pavlov's dog, I don't know what else to do in a bar (sorry, venue) other than to order a beer.  My first goal actually was to lounge, beer-less and engrossed in my kindle  in the glorious balcony that beckoned  to me from above and that was clearly pointed out by my daughter.  It was closed.  Barred by a huge gate and padlock. I entertained briefly some hilarious scenes in my mind  if an almost 50-year old parent scaling the walls, trying to be Katniss Everdeen, or worse, Jane of the Jungle and landing effortlessly on the balcony.  I don't see a chandelier or I would be dangerously close to actually breaking the fantasy-reality barrier. I would hate for my kid to miss the concert or to have to hitchhike home afterwards and tell her dad to bail her mom out of a foreign jail in the morning.  Or the hospital. I digress from my search for a chair.  I spy a bench.  Is it a bench or merely a ledge?  I can't see from across the room but when I get closer it turns out to be the latter.  No worries.  It will do fine for my butt.  And my beer.  It is like finding a cup of water in the desert.  And it is mostly unused.  I hope the bouncer doesn't kick me off, or I'll have to resort to my Katniss impersonations again.  It appears that the girls room is near by as a stream of girls are parading by. If I get bored, which I already am, I can entertain myself by tripping people and then pretending it was an accident.  I wonder how many times I can get away with it. Probably once.  Or less. I see a woman who looks ten years my senior.  Will I be obliged to give up my perch on the ledge if it gets crowded in here?  I ask myself "what would Katniss do?"  Damn.  She would certainly not trip people on purpose, that's for sure. Neither would I.  But In my mind I can channel my inner mean girl who never had a chance to flourish all I want.

I've been here 20 minutes and I'm already experiencing muscle fatigue from perching.  If I cross my legs to get more comfortable I will trip someone and it will be an accident, which means I'll waste my one "free" chance at entertainment.  Pulling the fire alarm would just be totally inappropriate.  I realize that I can now most certainly go back to Starbucks, leaving the girls pressed up against goodness knows who but now I have the dilemma of losing my perch, as it is beginning to fill up.  Damn Again. Plus my butt is asleep and it is entirely possible that I am unable to walk. I wish I had downloaded a more interesting book.  I'd take book three of 50 shades right now if it were the last book on earth even though I vowed I'd never read it.  Oooooh. Lights out.  Cheers from a thousand girls.  Crap. I might have to un-perch to ask at  the bar if they have earplugs. At the last concert  I made  Alison wear them and now I'll have to fight through all those goodness knows who's to get them to her if they even have them.  I have enough to buy two more pairs. Gosh, what an oversight. Those girls are feet from the speakers.  There is a sea of bodies between me and them. Perhaps I can get the crowd to "mosh" me over there.  Perhaps I'm nuts.  

My butt has enough feeling left in it to feel every vibration of the music, despite the slight reprieve provided by the earplugs that I am most selfishly wearing at the back of the concert "venue" as the girls make a point of calling it.  Put another feather  in my “bad mother”  cap.  Oh. Fancy that.  The older lady has found a place next to me on our ledge.  I don't have to move after all.  I feel so cozy sitting next to what appears to be a kindred spirit.  I try to chat her up by pointing out that the bar has earplugs for two bucks, but she turns away from me, oblivious (or because of) my friendly overtones. Or because she doesn't hear me or is French.  Or all of the above.  Perhaps I won't trip her when she goes to the bathroom.  Maybe I'll offer to save her perch while she goes.  Although most old ladies pee all over the seat so if she does, maybe I'll...  Oh this is getting ridiculous.  

I'm going back to my kindle.  All I have on there are educational books about parenting and Mental Health or preteen books about dragons, and I'm afraid of dragons. Gosh how boring is that?  How boring am I? The most gripping thing I could find was Anna Karenina, which I have already read. Fortunately I am old and can  remember only that the book is about a girl - and the picture on the cover clued me in to that as it is.  The old lady has left me. Do I smell?    Oh. She's back. I feel like we are old friends, albeit silent ones.   Perhaps my next form of entertainment should be to sidle up to her (although I'm as close as I can get to her already) and put my arm around her, just to revel in her reaction.  I could try my hand at a duckface perhaps.  As I said, this is getting ridiculous.  As ridiculous as my sitting here for five hours and then getting lost on the way home like I always do.  I have been informed that we are in fact going to stand in the cold for as far into the night as we need to to get an autograph.  I am in trouble for not doing so on that rainy night last fall in Boston when I insisted on hitting the road at midnight so I could make it to work in the morning.  What a kill-joy, eh?

Score!  Take that feather out of my cap, I am a good and dedicated parent after all (depending on the age of whom you ask)!  During the break I purchased two pairs of plugs with the last of my cash and "excused me'd" my way through the crowd to deliver them.   My reward, other than a look of utter disdain, bordering on hatred, from my beloved offspring today will perhaps be a thank you years from now when my daughter is able to hear me yelling from the other room for her to bring me another Depens. She will not connect her ability to hear with my supreme sacrifice when she was sixteen, but I will remind her many times.

I left my perch to watch the band for a while.  I actually like the singer, although he is certainly no Neil young (I hope Neil never finds out that I was in Starbucks, since we are supposed to be boycotting it).  However, there is a mom in front of me, waving her arm in the air in the same manner as is her daughter and 95 percent of the audience, but she looks as if she is having a religious experience. She is not young, either. Younger than me, but not young by a long shot.   I'm all for being a cool mom within reason and identifying with the younger generation and all, but there is such a thing as over-doing it, lady (So says Miss I'm-Katniss-Everdeen-in-my-mind). This is what parenting is all about, isn't it?  Shameless put-downs of others to bolster our own shaky sense of security.  Right?  RIGHT? Incidentally,  the daughter waved her left hand for the entire duration of the concert.   Her mom gave up after five minutes.

My perch has been taken.  By a young hairy guy.  I'm next to him with my back against a picture frame. I sit in fear of knocking down a giant canvas. And I'm sorry but he smells.  I wonder if he has been scoping out my treasured spot near the wall. With no picture frame.  I am sure of it.  Katniss is tired.  Can't even drum up any visions of kicking his sorry ass.   As I said,   Ridiculous.  It is this or Anna K.  

Okay. I'm enjoying the show. I'm trying not to, but it certainly rivals Leo Tolstoy at this moment.  I bet even Katniss Everdeen would like it.  I actually really liked this guy’s other band before they broke up.  But I'm NOT going to wave my hands in the air, especially because some young punk who is half my age with a microphone tells me to.  Okay?

I am happy.  Blissful, in fact. Bordering on numb (at least my buttocks are).  Not to the point of religiously blissful, mind you, but blissful, nonetheless.  I am blissful because Alison is no doubt full of bliss at this moment. I am vicariously as happy as an aging mother can be, perched on a ledge trying desperately to hold up an enormous canvas so she doesn’t make a total fool of herself when it all comes crashing down and the bouncers totally come over and give me a rash of shit. The punk (who in reality is a nice guy) who is singing is my daughter’s favorite human being in the world besides her dad.  I'm probably third in line I am hoping, but ill take up to fourth if I have to.  This guy’s picture  is on my daughters wall and has been for years. There is a creepy likeness of him, in the form of an action figure (unopened) on her bookshelf.  She wears a picture of him on a t shirt. She loves him. He is singing a few feet away from her and other than the fact that he is robbing her of her hearing I really appreciate him for this.  And his band is quite nice.  Now he is giving advice for life.  A twenty five year old. Half my age (almost).  Giving advice.  But it is  good advice, in fact. "You gotta figure out what the fuck you want to do in life and go do it". Good advice.  I can't argue. I could give the same advice and be ridiculed til the cows come home. But I don't care.  It doesn't matter who gives it as long as it’s good.   Now this is getting seriously ridiculous.  No it's not.  He's telling the kids to go out and find somebody to talk to if they need to.  He's making a plug for Therapists. Awesome.  Keeping me in business and dispelling the stigma.  I wish I could ask this guy over for dinner.  Too bad he is already married and can't date my daughter.  And is way too old. For her. 

I am actually disappointed that there is no autograph line. I find out because I make the sacrifice to miss the last song in order to get in line outside the venue so we can be first and get on the road. The guys at the door tell me this is the last stop on the tour and the singer has to get home to his wife and daughter. But we get over it, we get more coffee and head home.

Too Many Cooks in the Kitchen - More on ADHD

Too Many Cooks in the Kitchen: How to man the snackbar with ADHD: (I know this is long and belongs on a blog; will get it there eventually)

I have a fear of making change. I am perfectly capable of doing it, but I have a fear. In fact, I have a fear of snack bars. Running them that is. And I do not work well in groups. There is usually someone who is super competent and in charge, which always gives me some sort of compulsion to be the yang to the ying, the mirror opposite, whatever you want to call it. We can't all be leaders, there have to be some followers, so I am happy to do what I'm told, except that I usually forget what I was told.

A woman comes over and gives me the drill on the popcorn machine. I do a bit of this, a bit of that, and I handle a few customers and start to feel a gust of confidence and tell myself "hey, I can DO this." Then some kid asks me what we should do with the popcorn. I look over and see that I am the only one in the vicinity and realize that the popcorn lesson was given because I was apparently assigned to that duty. I do remember now that I had asked to be assigned to a duty. Oh crap. It is burned. Now, in most situations, I have matured enough to just admit my mistakes with a laugh that says "silly me", but this situation seemed to warrant a cover-up. So I looked to see that everyone else was distracted with customers, emptied the burned popcorn onto a paper plate, opened the back door and handed the plate to Johnny while whispering to him to take it outside. "Where?" "Anywhere - anywhere, but here..." So he bumps into the door and knocks the plate and the burned popcorn all over the floor and the snack bar is getting busy and I quietly ask a kid for a broom and he starts asking everyone for a broom. And Johnny whispers: "I'm just glad you are not cooking the burgers, Mom." I am assuming he is talking about the "hockey pucks" I make at home but then I realize he is referring to last week's stint at the snack bar.

I had a similar experience last week at the snack bar when someone put me on grill duty. The wind blew the flame out, unbeknownst to me, so I turned the dial a little past the picture on the flame that I assumed to mean "highest heat" to see if perhaps the flame might go higher. I smelled gas and was about to turn down the dial when a man (of course) came over and said "you don't need to turn these up this far". I wanted to say "yes, (Duh) I realize that and I was just about to turn it down" but I saw him reaching for the red button and I said "I don't think that's a good...." and then he pushes it with an air of expertise and I hear a pop and the door at the bottom of the grill flies open and the grill is all dislodged from the explosion and so are about a hundred black specks that have landed all over the burgers. Just a long winded way of saying that I'm glad snack bar duty is over.

How to Mow the Lawn When You Have ADHD

How to mow the lawn with ADHD (yes, I know it is over-diagnosed but please don't take the Dx away from me, I need it desperately)...

Take an hour to decide that you are actually going to mow the lawn. Locate the mower. Drag it out and check for gas. Locate the gas, fill mower, don't worry about spilling a little gas in your hurry to fill the tank. Go inside to wash gas off your hands. Come back out. Look for ages for the cap to the gas tank of the mower. Go inside in case you brought it in. Go in and out of the house five more times because the darned thing was JUST here five minutes ago and it can't have gone far but you might have left it in the bathroom, at the top of the ladder, who knows... find some earbuds on one of your journeys through the house, locate ear protection and spend a few minutes fixing the music under the ear protectors so you will have something to listen to while you are losing your sanity looking for something that was JUST here. Realize that yelling and screaming will do no good since no one is at home and the most likely people to hear you are the brand new neighbors whom you have yet to meet. Decide to attach a baggie with a rubber band over the gas tank. Pull on the starter a few times and realize you have lost your gloves. Go in and locate them fairly easily on the kitchen counter. Pull a few more times and swear under your breath because you have to call a MAN to help you out. Reluctantly pull Tom Petty out of your ear and call your out -of-town husband in case there is a spark plug to attach or something. He says to put it on "choke" and you just want to kick yourself and say "DUH" and are really glad your husband is too nice to say it for you. Spend some time re-inserting Tom Petty under the ear protectors, move the bar to "choke", congratulate yourself on starting it on the first pull and watch something shoot out of the side of the mower. Examine it and realize that the gas cap is no longer missing, but mangled beyond repair. Leave the whole mess and come in and write about it on facebook.... Then, having recovered from the brink of insanity, go out and mow. Half way through, when you replace the earbuds that have fallen out, ask yourself, "where the hell are the ear protectors?" Shrug and say, "well the Indigo Girls are probably going to damage my eardrums more than the sound of the mower." And, no, I do not make this stuff up or embellish just to write about it. I only wish that were the case.

The Easter Bunny is tired

My advice to a young parent: First, if you are getting an Easter basket that you plan to use in subsequent years for your little cherub, or if you are planning to have more children, choose a very small basket. If you are trying forgo junk food overload and plan to dilute the pounds and pounds of chocolate with some non-edible trinkets, know that you are screwing yourself over forever afterwards because you have just perpetuated the “Easter is the New Christmas” ritual in your house; an idea at which you vehemently scoffed before you had any children. Although it might be easy to fill a basket with cheap, Chinese, lead-laden plastic when your child is three, it becomes exponentially difficult in subsequent years to fill that same basket with anything for $5 that you plan to spend.

My advice is if you choose the basket idea at all, which I highly advise to never take up in the first place, to choose a small one (we never had Easter baskets and we woke up early and watched my big brother find all the Easter eggs and eat them in front of us and we all turned out fine -yes, I know that last fact is debatable). Fill the basket to the brim with high-quality chocolate and eat most of it yourself and when it's gone it's gone. Plus you wont have to step on broken plastic junk for the next six months.

If you carry the charade for years after the kids no longer believe in the Easter Bunny, you can just tell the kids that the Easter Bunny went bankrupt and do the minimum and they won't even notice as long as there is some degree of chocolate in the morning.

Or you could move to Europe where people undoubtedly think that the Easter Bunny is the most ridiculous thing they have ever heard of besides Santa Clause.

There you have it. Unsolicited advice. I love to give it out and it's free.

Five in the Bed

This is a new post but it was written years ago....

FIVE IN THE BED...

“You could be divorced quite comfortably in a king-sized bed,” my dad announced to me one day. “Your mother and I slept in one at a hotel on the way back from your sister's, and we felt like we were miles apart.”

I have heard that kids can be a barrier to intimacy. I would say they are more like ten-foot stone walls topped with barbed wire. Nature has it's way of making sure that children are sensibly spaced in a family. My husband and I have gone through three bed sizes during our ten-year marriage. We upgraded with each new addition to our family. We now have a king-sized bed so that six elbows can jab us in the ribs even though in theory there is plenty of room for morning snuggles. It's hard to even hear your own thoughts while hearing “scootch over!” “No you scootch over!” “Mommmmyyyyyyy...he won't scootch over...” “OUCH! Watch the family jewels there, son!” Never mind hearing sweet nothings whispered from the other side of creation.

We got a cheap bed for half the price of a fancy no-flip brand, so we can truthfully say that our sex life is in a rut. We just have to decide “will it be my rut or yours?” In addition, at least one of us has to have the desire and the wherewithal to ascend the growing mountain of mattress between the ruts in order to make any intimate contact whatsoever. To a childless couple that may seem easy, but to tired parents it can be as daunting as ascending Mount Everest. All the right conditions have to be met before any mountain climbing can be done. The kids have to be in their own beds, ASLEEP. It can't be too late. It will NEVER be too early. It is always better if the dishes have been done, preferably without argument, because even the slightest tiff can ruin the mood for a tired couple. Even if all the right circumstances are in place, in fragile harmony, if one of the parties is nursing, all bets may be off for the next year or so.

Just in case anyone is wondering why we don't just flip the mattress more than once a year - well, first of all, we're just too tired. Plus, last time we flipped it I had a raging backache the next morning and every morning after that until we re-flipped it. Besides, let's face it - sometimes it's just more comfortable to stay in a rut.

The last time we spent the night at my parents' house, the kids and I brought them their morning tea in bed. Well, what a coincidence. Turns out my parents are in a rut also, although their's is smack dab in the middle of their full-sized bed. There they were, sleeping, arms wrapped around each other; I don't know if a chisel could have separated those two. It was a very endearing scene. One that not too many of us get to see any more. It all ended too soon. The threat of the next course of porridge in bed got them up in a hurry. No need for a chisel.

Working Together - A Labor of Love

Working Together

(Sadly,  since I wrote this a year or two ago,  we lost Grandma)

As a child growing up in rural Vermont, there were some chores I hated doing,

and, yet, for some reason I have this strange compulsion to drag my kids through

the same motions I so despised in my childhood. Why? Because now I see these

experiences as valuable.

This past weekend, while my husband and daughter were out on a father-daughter

trip, I spent the afternoon with my boys, ages 7 and 9, stacking wood for my

parents. There have been times when the kids have balked at the idea of manual

labor, but on this particular day they were amenable to participating. It was a

beautiful sunny, but chilly, day and perfect for such an activity. We went with

Grandpa to fix the tractor , but as daylight waned we decided to use more old

fashioned methods instead. The boys cooperated (a rare sight between

brothers in our household) to fill a dolly with wood and transport it across the

dirt road. My youngest, in little brother fashion, tried to one-up his big brother in

strength, but had to accept the fact that his brother had two years on him which

was not going to be ignored.

For a while, my 7 year old helped stack wood in the basement. He made a game

of it and started trying to see how many logs he could throw in before I grabbed the

next one to stack. Later, while I collected wheelbarrows full to add to the pile, he

showed me a marvelous stack that impressed me, and him. He was so proud of his

work, celebrating the sense of mastery he felt over a job well done. He didn't even

need praise from me, although I acknowledged the size of the stack he had built.

I left him to finish his work and went to look for his brother who was shirking in the

kitchen. After a bit of coaxing, my older son came with me to add to the stacks in

the woodshed. While he worked, he talked about the exercise we were getting

from all this work and mused: “Ya know, we don't do this to get rewarded, we do

this to help out the family; to be out on this nice day and so Grandma and Grandpa

will be warm”. All of this came not from me, but from the act of putting in some

good honest work. Sometimes, as a busy parent,  I forget how these experiences

provide, all by themselves, a sense of accomplishment, mastery and strength. Had

I paid the kids or even tried to sell the activity as a “good deed,” the point that didn't

need to be made would not, in fact, have been made at all.

As I worked, I thought to myself how thankful I am to have such an experience

to share with my children. As I breathed the fresh, crisp air that was infused with

woodsmoke and looked at the setting sun over the mountain, I thought about how

valuable this whole experience was and on how it was right on so many levels. It

would be a challenge to conjure up an activity that could rival this one for teaching

self-esteem, healthy exercise, the value of hard work and giving to others. And

the best thing of all is that it was free. Plus, when it was too dark to work, we

went inside and had endless cups of tea and chocolate-covered tea biscuits with

Grandma and Grandpa.