New Place

Ok.  I did it again.  I changed my blog name and location.  I’m really not that ADD – I’m just trying to find my place in the blogosphere.  On the advice of some smart people, I relocated my blog to Area Voices.  A place where I may have a stronger local presence.  I’m going to stop this nonsense now… I promise.  This is it.  Probably.

Still me.  Same blog, same content – just a different name.  I’m still experimenting with the appearance – so it may be changed up each time you come back until I get it just how I want it.

I would love your company and comments In the Middle – it’s where I always seem to find myself anyway.  Thanks so much.

http://inthemiddle.areavoices.com/

That Hurt

I’ve never had great spatial skills when it comes to personal space.  I’ve opened cupboard doors into my forehead – once even gave myself a shiner, jammed my fingers while guiding a sliding pocket door back into the wall (my middle finger usually gets the brunt of that maneuver), and have a permanent bluish ellipse of bruises on my thigh where I continually bumped into tables in my Kindergarten classroom.  However, I wasn’t aware of how these dangerous behaviors could be passed on to my children just by proxy.

Last night, we had another “Head ‘em out, move ‘em up” bedtime dash.  I was in deep concentration (actually just pondering the  feasibility of fish with parachutes) while listening to my daughter read a rather dramatic interpretation of Dr. Seuss’ McElligot’s Pool.  The other was brushing his teeth with the least amount of effort possible.  We finished up quickly and I ducked into the next room to sincerely (but in a bit of hurry) discuss how fish really like spinner bait on cold days and Gulp bait on sunny days and blah, blah, blah. (Sorry, Buddy – it was just getting too late.)  I rounded out that conversation, did the routine of good nights, and headed to my usual 9:00 pm destination: the laundry room.

Not three minutes later, I heard footsteps coming down the stairs.  I thought, “What now? Why can’t they just embrace the bed!?”  I dropped my basket and headed toward the footsteps – in a little bit of a huff.  At the midpoint of the stairs I found my son with an apparent explosion of the Kleenex box held to his face.  I calmed down.  ”What happened?”  And this is where I realized that I, alone, have doomed my children to a lifetime of trying to explain to their future friends how in the world they cut their nose with a zipper… or how in the heck did they possibly get such a large paper cut across their forehead.

He went on to explain that while he was trying to pull the charger for his iPod out of the wall by his bed, it somehow slipped out of his hand, and his own fist came back and bopped him square in the nose… so much that he now had a bloody nose.  He wasn’t crying (which is a good sign, as this affliction seems to be chronic).  He just wanted to tell me that he was surprised how much it smarts when you take a fist to the nose.

We stopped the bleeding and laughed while he reenacted the incident several times for me.  I showed him a few of my scars that were totally self-inflicted, and then apologized to him for the bruises, cuts, gashes, and blows he will no doubt experience at his own hands in the future.  At least we can suffer together. I put my arm around him, guided him back to bed and couldn’t help but think, actions speak louder than words, it’s true… but actions hurt more, too.

Needless Worry… I Think

I’ve always been a worrier.  A trait I’m not particularly proud of, but mine none the less.  For example, if I have a tingle in my left arm – I google up “stroke symptoms.”  If my daughter complains of an itchy scalp – I assume there must have been a lice outbreak at school – in the locker next to hers.  When my parents report that the surf was rough on the beach – I suspect a Tsunami must be on the way.  I once spent an entire school year obsessing about how I was going acquire medical supplies for my family when we all undoubtedly would contract Bird Flu.

This evening, my children asked me what I think is the hardest part about being a mom.  Before I could speak, my son offered, “I bet I know what it is… having to buy all the groceries and then we eat it all up before you can cook it – is that it?”  Then my daughter added, “No… I bet it’s when she does all of our laundry and we just keep gettin’ dirty.”  I smiled and assured them that, yes, those chores can be frustrating, but they aren’t hard - and I expect them to eat and get dirty on a daily basis.

I was about to delicately tell them about how I worry about them, and how I don’t look forward to them growing up and leaving to live their own lives.  I wanted to frame it in a healthy way and not break down into a menopausal mess in front of them.  Before I could get that out, my daughter raised her voice and announced, “I’ve got it!  She’s afraid that when she’s not around we might smoke cigarettes and drink alka-law – whatever that is… anyway, I don’t know why she worries about that because I don’t even like chicken, so I have no idea why she thinks I’m going to stick yucky stuff in my mouth!”  And then the next bomb dropped.  My son retorted, “No she only worries about weird stuff like birds getting sick and stuff.”

I think the real question is: What’s the hardest part about being raised by a kooky mom?  And great – now I gotta add alka-law and cigarettes to the list.

 

The Real Meaning of a Free Lunch

Several days ago, we headed out to our local Mexican food joint to “celebrate” the end of spring break.  My husband was still out-of-town, so my sister joined me and my two children for an evening of yummy food and silly laughter.  In an unusual turn of events, both my sister and I took a gander at the cocktail menu and on a whim, both ordered up some tropical, fruity margaritas – not our usual Thursday night fare.  And when the kids asked (like they always do) for an order of the super yummy, special, secret cheese dip – I indulged them this time. The sun was shining – which can be unusual for supper time in March and the birds may as well have been singing – we were livin’ big!

The kids gave their accounts of our recent trip to the Gulf of Mexico – sea slugs, Man-o-war jellyfish, two stops to the yogurt stand, sand castles, fishing off the beach with Papa, collecting shells with Nana, mini golf and holes in one – all stories that needed to be told.  We all got the giggles when my sister ordered her dinner with her non-existent Spanish accent: “Tah-Keeeeeee-tohs” – always good fun for the little sister in me.  To the random on-looker, I’m sure our demeanor and laughter truthfully displayed a happy gathering.

As we were finishing up our rather indulgent meal, the waitress dropped off the bill.  I put the appropriate plastic in the folder without looking at the total and set it out to be handled by our very pleasant (and patient) waitress.  We continued to gobble up the remaining chips and salsa as I half-heartedly searched for the waitress to come by.  She circled our table without really noticing I was waiting for her – which seemed uncharacteristic based on the service she previously been delivering.  When my belly could no longer handle any more food being mindlessly stuffed down my gullet, I (more aggressively) just waved my hand with the bill in it to try to get her attention.  She paused slightly, and then finally responded to my waving.  She took the bill, casually opened up the folder, took my debit card out, and handed it back to me.  It was like the whole thing happened in slow motion.  I was obviously confused.

“Your bill has been taken care of,” she said.  ”Wha – huh?” I very intelligently replied.  ”Your bill has already been paid.  The lady that was sitting just over there to your left asked me if she could pay for your meal, but she wanted me to wait until she was gone to tell you.”  I was in complete shock.  I have heard of this happening to others – like in magazine articles, but I was completely at a loss for words – which doesn’t happen enough in my husband’s opinion.  My sister and I looked at each other and rattled off some more blather about “What?  Who?  Are you sure?  Is she still here?  Can we pay your tip?  Are you really sure?”

The waitress continued to reassure us in a very kind manner, so we gathered our things and left with happy dazes on our faces.  I still have no idea why the kind woman decided to take care of our burritos, cheese dip, tacos, margaritas, and tah-keeeee-tohs, but we were all so grateful.  Not just because it was a completely generous and random act of kindness, but because it was contagious.  The kids wanted to immediately find someone whose dinner they could secretly pay for.  They brainstormed ideas in the back of the van on the way home of other ways to secretly help someone – “Let’s pay for somebody else’s food the next time we go to Panera!  Yeah – or no, let’s leave extra money at the dry cleaners for someone else’s Dads’ shirts!  No – let’s buy some Happy Meals for the car behind us next time we go through a drive-thru!”  Ultimately, all the parenting, churching, modeling, preachin’ and praying sometimes just doesn’t hit home on how to really be selfless – until it is experienced in the flesh.

So, to the anonymous angel out there who paid for our meal, with our sincerest gratitude we thank you.  Your kindness and example of generosity did not go unnoticed.  Pay it forward lesson learned?  Check.

Lucky Streak

I found this letter on the breakfast island this morning.

Dear Prize Givers,

Thank you for considering me for this prize.  I love your puzzles!  It is very clever how you put in an added puzzle within the word search by making me look for a secret word after I found all the words.  If you select my name and give me the prize of $1,000, I will use it wisely.  I will give half to my sister and we will both put this toward our college plans.  Thank you again.

Sincerely,

A very thankful fifth grader, (very fancy signature)

I brought this to my son and asked him what he would like done with this very polite letter.  He found his worn and wrinkled puzzle book to proudly show me the back page where all the contest information was boldly displayed.  ”Look at this, Mom!  There’s going to be 150 first prizes and 5 grand prize winners!”  He is my eternal optimist.  He went on, “They are going to announce the winners on March 18th, Mom, and that’s really close to my birthday!  Wouldn’t that be great if I get the money almost on my birthday?”  As his mother, I thought it might be my duty to explain that yes, he could win, but is more likely that he won’t.  ”I know, Mom, but what if I do?  I know you think it’s just like those Claw Games – no one ever wins the good stuff – but somebody has to win this!”

So we found the address and read through the rules.  That’s where he discovered that all participants must be at least 18 to enter the drawing.  He suggested I just sign my name instead.  I explained that his letter was much more appropriate for him, and that we would need to rewrite the letter.  But then I started to get the prize-winning mojo with him, and I loved his words of sincere enthusiasm more than whatever dull, adult greeting I would write.  ”Okay, Mom – just take out the part at the end about the fifth grader… and the part about the college plan.”  I stopped him there to compliment his choice to share with his sister and his plan to save for college.  I asked him about what he wants study in college.  ”I don’t know, but I know I’m going to go, so I don’t have to stand on the corner outside with one of those stupid sale signs – and this prize money will be the perfect start!”

In the last couple of years of harder economic times, we’ve seen quite a few people holding signs on the corners at busy intersections advertising “Going Out of Business Sale” signs.  And I guess that on more than a few occasions, my husband or I have indicated our preference for our children to go to college… so they don’t have to stand outside with a sign for their profession.  Maybe we’ve been hitting that a bit too hard.  Anyway, I heard some shuffling and witnessed a few random papers flying out of our junk drawer.  The contest fever was getting hotter, “Where’s a stamp, Mom?  We need to get this in the mail by midnight!  Also, can I have a metal detector for my birthday?  I think I’m on a lucky streak!”  This had me thinking: I don’t know if it’s harder to raise the kid who wakes up with a snarl and is sure it’s going to rain – or the kid who jumps out of bed and is ready to bet all the marbles on the half-dead horse?

Note to self: Next lecture opportunity, add in a few words about the possible detriments of gambling.  I’ll keep you posted on the contest results… somebody has to win.

 

Only The Fish Knows

Fishin’.  Sounds like a grand idea, right?  Just you and a lazy river, sunshine, birds chirpin’, a sandwich and a cool drink, throwin’ in a line.  Sounds like a relaxing way to whittle away a summer afternoon… unless you’re me.  When I hear, “Let’s go fishing!” it’s as good as “Let’s go accidentally break some expensive piece of fishing equipment that means a lot to someone else!” or “Let’s see who can cause an emergency room trip first!” I tried.  I really did.  I wanted to be that little fishin’ buddy my Dad longed for.  But it didn’t take.  I’m all about the snacks and a sunny afternoon… but me and fishing just never cemented our relationship.

One of my earliest memories of a failed fishing trip began as a simple outing to a park.  I assume that my mom had put my dad in charge of child duties for the day.  He had decided to while away the afternoon with a little fishing trip for me and my sister.  I know I couldn’t have been more than three years old – as I know the day included a ride on my Dad’s shoulders.  This particular trip’s demise wasn’t really my fault, but it should have been an omen for trips to come.  Just as we had settled in along the crusty shore of the quarry pit, and had our lines in, I had to use the restroom.  My Dad, no doubt a bit exasperated, scooped me up, took my sister by the hand and headed for the nearest park bathroom.  When I look back, I remember it being sort of a Bugs Bunny in the desert, searching for water montage – each time we approached a grassy hill, I was certain there would be a bathroom in sight.  And each time, the possibility turned out to be a mirage.  I was sure we had been hiking for hours by the time we finally reached a hovel of a restroom.  I did my thing, and we started the long journey back to the fishing hole.

When we returned, there was only one fishing pole still lying on the shore – and it wasn’t mine.  This part is so fuzzy to me.  I have no idea why in the world my dad abandoned our poles with their lines in the water.  Maybe he too was thinking the restrooms were closer.  Or maybe that lack of multi-tasking skill forced him to take care of just one task at a time.  Maybe I was whining and crying, and throwing a holy fit.  Who knows?  More importantly, what I clearly remember is that he was not upset or angry.  He just laughed and said, “Wow, Julie!  That must have been one big fish that took your pole!”

There were many failed attempts at fishing enjoyment in the years to come.  However, this next one, was the last.  When I was about thirteen, we packed up the poles, some snacks, and a couple of cousins, and set out for another “relaxing” afternoon of shore fishing in southern Missouri where we had been visiting relatives.  The tricky piece about fishing with me was that my Dad always had to monkey around with the reel on my pole because I am left-handed.  On this trip, my Dad had set up a pole for each of my cousins, my sister, and finally me.  I had his best pole.  It  was the only one that would make the reel “switch-over” quickly.  I thanked him and set out along the shore to get in conversation-distance of my cousin.

Since I wasn’t so crazy about this fishing stuff anyway, I looked forward to the social opportunities.  I was walking sideways, carefully watching my line and making sure it wasn’t crossing anyone else’s.  I wasn’t watching my feet.  As you can guess, my feet weren’t watching either.  Somehow, I tripped over the tiniest, eensy-weensiest trunk of a shrub.  Because I was so bent on getting over to talk with my cousin and not tangling up any lines, and had both hands on the prized fishing pole, I went down like a totem pole that had been whacked at its base. Kah-whamp.  As I was lying on my side in the scratchy weeds, I realized my fist was still gripped tightly around something… but the pole was lying about two feet away from me in two pieces.  I had obliterated the prized fishing pole and the “switch-over” reel.  If I could have magically turned into a grasshopper,  I would have shamefully and quietly hopped away – never to be in pole breaking distance again.

In time, my Dad forgave my gaff, and he excitedly looked forward to purchasing a new pole – an even better one!  My Dad never stayed angry for long.  I think he secretly knew he should have left well enough alone.  The unknowing fish that went home with an entire pole that warm afternoon years before was wise beyond his years.

Fire and Ice

Yesterday, my son was giving my husband the potential odds of falling through the ice on their upcoming ice fishing extravaganza.  He thought there was probably a 20% chance one of them might not make it.  He wanted to know what his dad would do if he broke through and couldn’t get out – to which my husband answered flatly, “Well, I guess I’ll see you in Heaven.”  Not a beat passed when my son replied, “I hope!”  With a bit of surprise, his dad questioned him.  ”Are you worried about not going to Heaven?”  And as any ten-year old who has yet to commit any sins worse than a few white lies, he said, “I’m not worried about me!”

We’ve recently been studying the Ten Commandments at our house in preparation for our daughter’s First Communion this spring.  We covered the easy to understand ones through our parent/child classes at church, and then were sent home to discuss some of the more “abstract” ones at home.  The words “covet” and “adultery” came up during our conversation with our eight-year old.  She’s a bit of an old soul, so I thought I should just come out with the truth about what they mean – in kids terms.  She stared blankly out the kitchen window for a few moments after I tried to explain adultery in an eight year old kind of  way.  I asked if there was anything I could clear up for her.  She simply said, “Now I know why they sent us home to talk about this stuff – moms and dads are probably too embarrassed to talk about that stuff in front of a room full of other moms and dads.  Now… let’s get to the important stuff – Dad’s bad word problem.”

I’m guessing that this has been weighing on their minds more than the Quick-tempered Head of Household thought.  I’ve decided that it’s not entirely necessary to let your conscience guide you.  If you have children… that may be good enough.

Just Relax Dad

My dad could give lessons on how to enjoy life.  This is a long-lost art for some.  We get so busy.  First it’s our career – or the making of it.  Then it’s the social opportunities that start to weave themselves into our nine to five day.  Next, we add children… and their schedules with friends and school and activities.  At this point, we stop, take a breath, and look at our spouse and say something like, “We really need to plan something for just the two of us.”   So we juggle, reschedule, make calls, stay late at work, plan, arrange, and then when we are entirely exhausted… we push ourselves out the door and resolve to relax.

That has never been the case for my dad.  My dad rarely missed a day of work.  He committed himself completely to the job, responsibilities, and his employees for eight hours (and them some), Monday through Friday, every week of every month for 38 years – all with a good-natured demeanor that endeared him to many.  What my dad did that set him apart from many of us is this: Every hour that he wasn’t at work…well, he wasn’t at work.  He filled his time with life – not with work.

My dad has now been retired for almost 14 years.  He has continued to fill his days with family, friends, fishing, afternoon naps, traveling, and lots of laughs. Recently, my parents traveled to Idaho to take in the vast, blue skies, great food, and of course, the company of dear friends. Although his body says he’s in his seventies, my dad’s sense of adventure and a good time put him much closer to his twenties.

I happened to call them when they were mid-adventure.  Even before a familiar voice answered the phone, I could hear giggling and teasing in the background.  When he finally got around to greeting me, he said, “Hey, Jule!  We’re out here in the middle of nowhere having a picnic with our buddies!  Guess what we’re going to do next?”  Without letting me throw out a guess, he announces, “We’re going to the hot springs!”  In the background, I could hear the five other adults ribbing each other about whether or not they were allowed to wear bathing suits (too much information).  I have been assured that all participants wore their swimming suits.  Whatever it was I called to tell them was happily forgotten in their giggling and laughter.  As is usually the case now, I told them to have a good time and call me later.  I didn’t get a call.  All that came through the waves of communication, is the picture below – sent to me by one of his cohorts.  I hear there’s still a few seats in the class he’ll be teaching this spring, “The Art of Relaxation – Outside.”

Rest In Peace, Purse

I just got a call from a good friend.  Her minivan window had been barbarically smashed (in the elementary school lane in broad daylight), and her purse was stolen.  We cursed and commiserated.  I listened to her list of all that had been lost, and how her credit cards had already been traced back to ATMs located at several local gas stations. I felt violated for her.  This is what men may or may not understand: we do not own our purses; our purses own us.  Yes, we keep money and other valuable items in these wonder bags, but the relationship we have with them goes much deeper.

The process of just finding the right purse is a marathon event in itself.  For years and years and years and years… I have been on quests with my mother to help her acquire the perfect purse.  I don’t think we’ve found it yet.  I have yet to hear, “I love this purse!” from her lips.  The problem is this: she hates purses.  But because we all need a place for our sunglasses, extra keys, a checkbook, Tylenol, worn and faded photos of our children that make us happy, coupons we’ll never use, our favorite shades of lipstick, bills that must be mailed, the dry cleaning ticket, the cell phone that’s rarely charged when we need it, the book we read while we wait for whatever, hand sanitizer, Kleenex, mints, gum, everything our children and husbands do not want to be bothered with having to carry, and the scores of store reward cards… the quest goes on.

We sling our purses to our backs or stuff them into our armpits when we need to get a closer look at a price tag or to apply a band-aid to the finger that got pinched while our children were horsing around in the clothing racks. They hurt our backs and shoulders.  I once had a purse strap get caught up on someone else’s purse as that person was trying to quickly pass by me on a down escalator – on that day, not only did my purse take me down, but gravity and dignity both got a swipe at me as well.  They rip.  The handles give out and dump our belongings just as we are reaching for our luggage on the carousel at the airport.  They can be the bane of our existence.   But bane or no bane, we still need them.

We spend many hours debating the merits of pockets, straps, snaps, colors, flaps, handles and zippers. We devote hours to lingering around the leather and not-so-leather aroma-ed alcoves of department stores, specialty shops, and even purse parties…  all for the primary purpose of schlepping our most “prized” possessions from one spot to the next.  We compliment each other on them.  We give them as gifts to our friends and sisters.  Our hearts skip a beat when we find a Kate Spade or Coach for a crazy low sale price. I’m not even talking about the purses we buy for the sole purpose of matching an outfit for a special event.  No, I’m simply talking about the schlepper we need for our daily lives.  That’s what a purse is – a life holder.

So… when some bored, impatient, less than inconsiderate punk decides to wallop a fist into the passenger window of the dreaded minivan we all swore in college we’d never drive, and swipes a purse from under the seat, that hoodlum didn’t just take the loose cash we may have intended for gas, groceries, books orders, field trips, or dance lessons.  No.  Much more was stolen.  The hours it took just to find the right purse in first place… are gone forever.  And the worse part?  Chances are fairly good that the life holding, perfect feel of leather, sometimes bane of our existence, matched our gloves and shoes, with the perfect cell phone pocket purse – is not even what the perpetrator wanted.  No, it’s probably just soaking up its new digs in some smelly, green dumpster – that doesn’t even match.

Breaking to Bond

I had an epiphany last night as I sat squinched on to the same sofa cushion with my 10-year-old son.  It was far past his bedtime… far past.  He has this issue of roaming the halls  - just as I relax with a big fat brownie , or something out of his candy stash.  I don’t know how many times I’ve had to stuff diabetes-inducing food up my sleeve, under a sofa pillow… or (don’t tell my husband) into the couch rather quickly and covertly in order to hide my poor choices from this free range rover.  So down the stairs he pads,  just as I am cramming a frosted brownie down my gullet and settling in for some mindless Bravo! TV.  I was so busted.  So, instead of marching him back up the stairs, lecturing at him while puffing clouds of chocolate breath into the air, I let him stay… and fed him a brownie too.

I do hold a degree in Child Development and I have held conversations with parents of students expounding on the importance of a regular bedtime, no TV before bed, and healthy snacking habits.  But at this point, I was not about to stop chewing my delicious, chewy brownie, so I figured, “Aw, the heck with it!  Slide on in here, grab a brownie, and finish out Top Chef with me!”  It gets worse.  The show had almost come to a close, but there were still more brownies to eat – so as not to tip-off the now slumbering 8-year-old who would be all over me like stink on … well…you know – when she discovered the missing cut-outs, and I wasn’t about to go down for these jointly committed sins by myself!  So we watched “Watch What Happens Live with Andy Cohen” as well.  Let’s all say it together: BAD MOMMY!

The good news is this: the guests on the show were a judge and a former contestant from Top Chef – so the banter was mild.  No inappropriate innuendo or foul language – just the vocal stylings of one very charming Chef Fabio.  My son could not stop giggling over his Italian accented pronunciation of “burger” – which sounded like, “borgor.”  We slumped there together on the couch with chocolate frosting remnants fixed in the corners of our mouths and just laughed.  A very bonding moment.

This made me think.  Maybe it isn’t that we let our children break the written or unwritten rules of the house on occasion to somehow prove that we can be cool now and again, but that we break a rule or two with our children.  When I was a kid, my father had several short business trips a year – as well as at least two fishing trips.  We definitely missed my dad, but we also looked forward to the break in our usual routine.  At least one of those evenings, we would get to choose a Libby TV Dinner (I usually picked the ever-delicious Salisbury Steak), and then actually eat it in the living room with my mom.  We thought this was “off the chart fun.”  Not because it was so crazy and wild – but because we always ate at the table, with the entire family, a fruit, a vegetable, bread and butter, a meat, and a potato.

Another time, while my father was out-of-town, my mom had promised to take us out to eat and then to the movie, “Peter Pan” at the Palace Theatre.  However, there were a few bumps in the road.  This was in the land before ATMs.  When you were out of cash and the banks were closed in those days, you just didn’t do things that required cash.  End of story.  She had forgotten to write herself a check and it was now the weekend.  But being a woman of her word, she set out to find a solution: our piggy banks and her penny collection.  The total cost for three tickets was going to be $7.00.  I think there may have been 3 dimes in the sea of hundreds of pennies.  No matter.  We counted out nearly seven hundred pennies, slid them into a fold over top “baggie” and headed out the door.

When we were jumping around in excitement as 6 and 8-year-old girls sometimes do, we noticed a pained look on my mother’s face.  For whatever reason, her car was out of gas.  BUT… my dad’s company car (which was strictly off-limits) was just sitting there in the drive way… with a smug “come hither” look.  My dad worked for the public utility company and kept a hard hat in the back seat for use at work sites.  Without a lot of instruction or commotion,  my sister and I took our places in the back seat, my mother donned the hard hat, and off we went.  First stop: the Pancake Inn and then on to the Palace Theatre.  I haven’t forgotten this yet – and it’s been a few decades since that took place.

Did we break the law?  No.  Did we bend some rules?  Absolutely.  Do I hope that my son remembers sitting with me throwing back brownies at 10:00 pm on a school night, repeating the word “burger” with an Italian accent?  Without a doubt.