(Author's Note: I began writing this on the morning after the 2012 Presidential election. Writer's block took over and I have not been able to find my voice until today, January 10, 2013. This is pieced together from two days that were only two months apart in time, but a world apart in mood and mindset.)
Over the years I've had many arguments about politics. It started at the dinner table, when I, an impressionable teen and my father, a close-minded redneck (as I thought then) would come to blows over some new, radical idea I'd read, or heard about at school.
We would argue, and it often got unpleasant for the rest of the family, but I never thought it was wrong to argue about these matters. They seemed like important conversations, even though I usually left feeling young, stupid and thoroughly confused.
I remember reading an article in Reader's Digest in about 1977. It was about Ted Kennedy's son, who had his leg amputated because of cancer, I believe. The pictures showed a handsome teenage boy, a beautiful family, and told of young Edward's plucky courage and positive attitude. I came to the dinner table with the heartwarming story of this newest tragedy in the long list of family tragedies, and how Senator Kennedy seemed like such a good man. I was especially intrigued by his pet issue of socialized medicine.
All of my sisters probably remember that dinner and his reaction. It was explosive. My father ranted at my shallow, uninformed opinions and the abysmal state of education, when a reasonably bright girl could be fed a dose of pure Communism and not even be aware of it. I, knowing he was right about the shallow and uninformed part, continued to defend the principle of helping the poor and trying to prevent the future predicted by the senator, when people would be dying in the streets of treatable conditions, while doctors chose to only treat those with insurance.
I'm sure I had other heated discussions about politics and social issues in my youth, but this is the one that I remember best. I remember even better a few weeks later, at a larger family dinner at my grandmother's home, when I tried to broach the subject with my mother's parents and brothers present (I naively thought they would be sympathetic to my cause). I remember that my father wasn't present - another inducement to launch into my "new" idea.
I think I said something totally objective, as in: "I think the country's problems would be solved if we only had socialized medicine."
Was I in for a surprise when my beloved grandmother spoke first: "Michele, let's not discuss politics at the dinner table."
Pardon? If not at the dinner table, then when? I thought. Conversation moved on to other matters, like Auburn football and who had seen whom at church and other more important matters.
Dinner broke up, the women went into the kitchen and the men took over the dinner table. Eschewing the card games and dominoes on the living room floor, I boldly marched my 13 year-old self up to the table and started listening to my Uncle Howard telling a story about someone who left their truck gate open after filling the bed with watermelons. One of the most entertaining storytellers of all time, I waited until he was done, then jumped into the conversation.
"So, don't y'all think Ted Kennedy is right about socialized medicine?"
Another uncle, one of my mother's younger brothers, made a pained face and looked down at his hands. Yet another uncle, who had gone through a brief hippie phase and seemed at the time a potential ally, stared at me blankly. Uncle Howard cleared his throat and adjusted uncomfortably in his chair. And the first response to my question came from the unlikeliest person, my granddaddy. With me he was always kind and encouraging, although I knew he had a bit of a temper. With no sign of irritation, however, he looked right at me and said, mildly:
"My-chele, it's considered rude to discuss politics and religion in company."
Being called "rude" in my grandmother's house was the stuff of nightmares. He didn't say I was rude, but he implied that my desire to discuss politics was, and the effect was the same. I was horribly ashamed and spent the rest of the afternoon quietly (probably a first) pouting.
By the time I reached college I'd decided that the rule of polite society - the one that dictated that arguing about politics and religion was bad form - was just a bad rule. Debating with friend and classmates led to some of the most exciting and satisfying conversations of my early adulthood.
But in recent years, I've become reluctant to engage in those satisfying arguments with other adults. Too many times in the past few years, I've had friends and acquaintances react to my statements of opinion with derisive statements indicating that, since they disagreed, it would be rude for me to continue. In the interest of "live and let live" and "don't make waves," I saved my choicest statements for the captive audience at home - my children.
Many people are unable to tolerate opposing views being aired too close to their own safe space. I was given the cold-shoulder treatment at a neighborhood gathering by answering a direct question about who I was supporting in the presidential primaries. When I asked the man later why he drifted away, if he was uncomfortable discussing the election, he remarked something to the effect that politics had no place at happy hour. I defended myself by reminding him that I'd answered a question, not solicited his vote, but he said that it was all the same to him. Parties are supposed to be about fun, he said.
If that is true, then I hereby announce that I am not qualified to go to a party. If adults cannot listen to one another's opinions - on a wide range of matters, not just an election or a piece of legislation - then, in my book, they are not truly adults.I marvel that people who can have extensive, restrained discussion and disagreements about the relative strengths and weaknesses of their favorite or their least-favorite sports team, reject the idea that people can also have extensive, restrained discussions and disagreements about matters of policy or philosophy. But I digress, as usual.
Ultimately, in the name of getting along with a wide range of people, I have often bit my tongue rather than pick up the thread of a discussion and try to take it to the next level of analysis. Few people who know me well are unaware of my opinions and the thought processes I employ to arrive at them, but I don't always say what I'm thinking or try to convince another to think differently. This blog was, at one time, a place where I spoke freely, but even this platform was not safe from the slings and arrows and social consequences.
So keeping my mouth shut hasn't helped me, and it clearly didn't help advance my views in the last election. Like a coward, after being de-friended, literally and figuratively, I piped down for a while. Let the politicians, journalists and opinion-makers reach the confused masses and help Joe and Jan Q Public see what should be done to reverse the terrifying course sown which our government is taking our country. The politicians, journalists and opinion-makers are probably better insulated from the ill-will of their critics. I found I was too cowardly to become a true social pariah.
That was a mistake. My silence, my "keep your own counsel" attitude that so many others adopted as well, was one of many reasons why President Obama was re-elected. In my effort to protect my children from having a mother with enemies for neighbors set the worst kind of example for the very ones I thought to protect.
If all I cared about was social standing, this would already be a tragedy. But new friends appear, new books re-inspire, and children often tell you the truth about yourself when you least expect it.
The real tragedy is not fighting to save this country, my country and yours, for our children. I didn't campaign for or against issues that matter to me and will greatly impact their future. I didn't use my God-given talents or resources to try to reach others and perhaps give them something new to think about. I truly feel responsible for the outcome of the election. I have to answer to my children for my silence and passivity, while they look forward to a future that practically promises them a lifetime of uncertainty and insecurity.
The election amounted to nothing. We have the same president, committed to spending our way out of certain disaster, and a split congress intent on protecting their own hides while they dodge their responsibilities with more energy than they ever spend doing their jobs. As the "fiscal cliff" approached, leaders proposed turns and detours, but no meaningful, permanent changes of any sort that would help to avoid very bad economic policies from bearing toxic fruit.
I may suffer, you may suffer, but we voted for this. Or by not voting, we let it happen
.
But it is our kids will pay. They will pay when our federal debt becomes unserviceable. They will pay when the safety net programs, like Social Security and Medicare, go broke, and their generation has to support a huge, aging population by some means we can't even guess at now. They will pay with lost opportunities, as America continues to lose it's hold on global economic leadership. They will pay by never knowing the value of the capitalist principles that once made us a great nation of creators who were also workers, and workers who were encouraged to be more. The will pay by coming of age in a world where their capabilities are never tested, because government has told them that they will take care of them; government will educate them, give them a computer and a cell phone, underwrite their housing, pay for their health care, and if they still fail, government will give them more aid, and foot the bill for their inevitable mistakes. No need to learn how to work hard or take care of themselves - that's a useless, old-school way of thinking.
They will pay by never knowing the meaning of American exceptionalism. The concept has been deemed offensive, not taking into account the feelings of people who didn't succeed. They will pay because the social justice activists succeeded in appealing to our Christian charity and sense of right and wrong, and declared that the innovators and builders and creators and risk-takers were evil and just as dependent on the government as the welfare recipient.
Our kids will pay by growing up in an America that is not about hard work, or achieving difficult goals, or defending individual liberty, or respect for privacy on personal matters, or working through tough times by changing the behavior that got you there, or honoring the Constitution as the best instrument of social justice ever created.
My kids will pay because I chose to be silent. I let a little social disapproval stop me from speaking from my brain and my heart. I have helped deliver them into a future that is very, very different from the one I would have chose for them. My desire not to offend friends or cross swords with people I care about has not served me well. No friendship is worth the sense of guilt I feel toward my children. Any argument, no matter how unpleasant, is better than the shame I feel today for not working harder to prevent this outcome.
I held my tongue and silenced my blog because I didn't think it mattered. I didn't think the country would vote to continue the policies and actions that have sent us speeding toward this social and financial precipice. I didn't think you needed me to tell you what is patently obvious about the state of the world - that the change we needed isn't the change we got. I figured everyone knew that, and would vote in accordance with that knowledge. It also hurt to be called a racist for opposing the president's policies. I don't think that opposing the bad policies of the president makes me racist. But being called one hurt me, showing how thin-skinned I really am. I know I'm not racist, but if I offend like one, then I'm better off just keeping quiet.
My fear was stronger than my commitment. The fear of being called a tea-bagger and a right-wing Christian extremist for my views on the second amendment and the sanctity of life were stronger than my commitment to those views. Even though I never took part in any tea party activities and don't deserve the title of Christian or extremist, the brush is very broad in the name-calling business, and I feared being labeled and having that label reflect badly on my kids.
Well, I'm still not sure if I am strong enough to handle the criticism, but I will blog again, and I'll blog honestly. That means that Polite Ravings will be about what I want it to be. If I want to write about housework and stupid dogs, I will. If I want to write about news and politics, I will. If I start out writing as the Domestic Diva and end up sounding like Chicken Little, it's my blog and I don't have to be the ditzy, disorganized housewife every time I take it in my head to write. If freeze-dried journalists and Kardashians can broadcast their opinions, so can ditzy housewives.
To the friends and family who don't like Polite Ravings with my strong opinions and critical judgments of current events, do yourself a favor and don't read me anymore. I won't be trying to spare your feelings or apologize for mine. I welcome your comments of disagreement, and would enjoy them even more in person, perhaps around a dinner table with a good bottle of wine at the ready. I don't mind being called wrong. Just don't tell me what to write, or not to put it on Facebook, or suggest that you would read my writing, if only I would just remain light and humorous all the time. Here's your PSA: I won't.
And to the children, mine and yours, who are inheriting this mess, and the future we gambled and lost with a check written on their future earnings, I can only say Mea culpa and I'm very, very sorry.
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Thursday, January 10, 2013
Friday, April 27, 2012
How Can Playing With Legos Make Me Tired? (and other burning questions)
Sometimes I get down on myself for not doing more with my life professionally, not using my intellect or talents in a way that would bring security and financial gain to me and my family. For reasons beyond my limited understanding, this has not been the path for me.
After years of staying home to raise kids and keep house, I've had a few part-time jobs, but none have turned into a mid-life career. I regularly apply for jobs, usually entry-level office positions, but so far nothing has panned out.
In my dreams, I have the makings of an impressive "Girl Friday"-type of administrative assistant. I don't know how build a website or run Outlook, but I'd bring my real-world experience and common sense to thorny inter-office relationships, remember my boss's anniversary several days in advance, and always have my Shout stain-removal pen handy. I think I have much to offer, if you like a slightly younger, slightly thinner Aunt Bea-type of secretary.
In my nightmares, I picture myself as a myopic, incontinent Lucille Ball trying to run new product development at Apple - total overwhelmance. I'd probably be a disaster in any workplace. (Exception: Dairy Queen - I'd give that a try.)
As long as there are 200 applicants to each job for which I apply, it's safe to assume I won't be working full-time in the near future. So I continue to make my halfhearted efforts at "working" part-time,during the few hours that I am not needed for kid transport, meal preparation, dog feeding and coffee drinking with neighbors.
Right now, I have an interesting job taking care of a 5 year-old boy, just a couple of days per week. (Please don't forward this to any of your friends in the IRS, if you get my drift.) Since my youngest is 14, it's been a while since I've been required to conduct discussions with a preschooler for any purposes other than my own entertainment. I've always loved hanging out with kids this age, but all the occasional 30 minute visits over the last 10 years did not prepare me for the hours-long demands of a 5 year-old who wants to know everything about everything.
And I'm not complaining. It's a gas, and I spend most of my time with him either smiling or laughing. But after a few short hours, I'm exhausted!
This should be balm to the souls of you mothers with toddlers. In all honesty, as mothers we get swept so quickly into the next stage of our kids' lives, whatever it is, that we forget to notice that the annoying stuff from the previous stage is no longer annoying us. For example, when you are done changing diapers, you don't get to have a "whew moment" and just enjoy saving diaper money and burning the ugly diaper bag and turning the changing table into a toy shelf. No, you are too busy chasing around after a potty-trainer, which involves lightning-quick reflexes, expanded psychic powers and pockets discreetly stuffed with toilet paper, wet wipes, a change of bottoms and hand sanitizer at all times.
My point being, once you've moved on to the next stage of development, it is possible, in a matter of only weeks, to find yourself thinking back longingly to the previous stage. It's a sophisticated nuance of programming, designed by God for the continuation of the species. Without this special ability embedded in our brain folds, our foremothers would have headed back to the treetops at the first sight of green poop, leaving the scary baby wailing on the forest floor for lesser mammals to take care of.
As the mother of two teenage girls, I know of what I speak. Have faith, mothers of toddlers. Your days with the smug group of carefree moms at the bus stop, in workout clothes and steaming coffee in hand, are closer than you think. The years of preschool drudgery will be a dim, sweet memory long before you have mastered the stage that follows.
But I digress...and don't I always?
My friend, my charge, is a young man who goes to pre-k and will be in kindergarten in the fall. I make his breakfast, get him ready for school, drive him there, have 3 hours on my own, then pick him up, and stay with him until 3:30 or so. In all, we are together for about 5.5 hours. But we cover an huge amount of information in that short time. And we usually construct no less than three original Lego masterpieces each day.
In the interest of protecting his innocence, I will refer to him by the name of his favorite Ninjago (ninja Lego) hero, Kai. Here is a sampling of a few of the questions that Kai posed in a mere 40 minutes yesterday before school:
I'm relieved to report that, on most mornings, I am not required to furnish believable answers, due to time constraints. But by midday, Kai and I are both engaged and at our leisure, so I try to address his questions with the seriousness they deserve. Like this one:
What an opportunity! Time to clear my throat and assume my lecture-hall persona. But wait: this is not Mary, who likes to talk about archetypes in mythology, or Camille, who enjoys analyzing ethical questions; this is Kai, who is 5, and Darth Vader is just a bad guy in movies and on toy shelves. Struggling mightily, I formed the shortest, simplest answer my normally long-winded mouth could construct:
This seemed to be all he needed to know. I was dying to say more, but I just pinched myself and held my breath. Years of putting my kids to sleep with explanations they didn't ask for about things they didn't care about had finally taught me something. Just answer the question, then stop. Wow, that was powerful.
And because Kai is 5, he had another, totally unrelated question, a few seconds later:
Other interesting points of discussion in the last few days:
And this is the most profound question I've been asked by anyone in quite a while:
We talk quite a bit about sports, since he is a seasoned hockey, soccer and t-ball player. He pulls for IU and Notre Dame sports teams equally, and did not want to address the possibility of who to root for when these teams meet. He's just a fan of both, end of discussion. My lesson in sportsmanship. When I told him I graduated from IU, he asked,
So it would seem, my little ninja, so it would seem.
*all one word
After years of staying home to raise kids and keep house, I've had a few part-time jobs, but none have turned into a mid-life career. I regularly apply for jobs, usually entry-level office positions, but so far nothing has panned out.
In my dreams, I have the makings of an impressive "Girl Friday"-type of administrative assistant. I don't know how build a website or run Outlook, but I'd bring my real-world experience and common sense to thorny inter-office relationships, remember my boss's anniversary several days in advance, and always have my Shout stain-removal pen handy. I think I have much to offer, if you like a slightly younger, slightly thinner Aunt Bea-type of secretary.In my nightmares, I picture myself as a myopic, incontinent Lucille Ball trying to run new product development at Apple - total overwhelmance. I'd probably be a disaster in any workplace. (Exception: Dairy Queen - I'd give that a try.)
Right now, I have an interesting job taking care of a 5 year-old boy, just a couple of days per week. (Please don't forward this to any of your friends in the IRS, if you get my drift.) Since my youngest is 14, it's been a while since I've been required to conduct discussions with a preschooler for any purposes other than my own entertainment. I've always loved hanging out with kids this age, but all the occasional 30 minute visits over the last 10 years did not prepare me for the hours-long demands of a 5 year-old who wants to know everything about everything.
And I'm not complaining. It's a gas, and I spend most of my time with him either smiling or laughing. But after a few short hours, I'm exhausted!
This should be balm to the souls of you mothers with toddlers. In all honesty, as mothers we get swept so quickly into the next stage of our kids' lives, whatever it is, that we forget to notice that the annoying stuff from the previous stage is no longer annoying us. For example, when you are done changing diapers, you don't get to have a "whew moment" and just enjoy saving diaper money and burning the ugly diaper bag and turning the changing table into a toy shelf. No, you are too busy chasing around after a potty-trainer, which involves lightning-quick reflexes, expanded psychic powers and pockets discreetly stuffed with toilet paper, wet wipes, a change of bottoms and hand sanitizer at all times.
My point being, once you've moved on to the next stage of development, it is possible, in a matter of only weeks, to find yourself thinking back longingly to the previous stage. It's a sophisticated nuance of programming, designed by God for the continuation of the species. Without this special ability embedded in our brain folds, our foremothers would have headed back to the treetops at the first sight of green poop, leaving the scary baby wailing on the forest floor for lesser mammals to take care of.
As the mother of two teenage girls, I know of what I speak. Have faith, mothers of toddlers. Your days with the smug group of carefree moms at the bus stop, in workout clothes and steaming coffee in hand, are closer than you think. The years of preschool drudgery will be a dim, sweet memory long before you have mastered the stage that follows.But I digress...and don't I always?
My friend, my charge, is a young man who goes to pre-k and will be in kindergarten in the fall. I make his breakfast, get him ready for school, drive him there, have 3 hours on my own, then pick him up, and stay with him until 3:30 or so. In all, we are together for about 5.5 hours. But we cover an huge amount of information in that short time. And we usually construct no less than three original Lego masterpieces each day.
In the interest of protecting his innocence, I will refer to him by the name of his favorite Ninjago (ninja Lego) hero, Kai. Here is a sampling of a few of the questions that Kai posed in a mere 40 minutes yesterday before school:
Why can I only watch that show at 8pm7Central?*
Why doesn't the syrup melt the peanut butter?
Did Mary sit in my booster seat?
Why doesn't everybody live in Florida?
Do you ever let your kids go to bed without brushing their teeth?
I'm relieved to report that, on most mornings, I am not required to furnish believable answers, due to time constraints. But by midday, Kai and I are both engaged and at our leisure, so I try to address his questions with the seriousness they deserve. Like this one:
Did Darth Vader know he was going to turn into a bad guy?
What an opportunity! Time to clear my throat and assume my lecture-hall persona. But wait: this is not Mary, who likes to talk about archetypes in mythology, or Camille, who enjoys analyzing ethical questions; this is Kai, who is 5, and Darth Vader is just a bad guy in movies and on toy shelves. Struggling mightily, I formed the shortest, simplest answer my normally long-winded mouth could construct:
Not at first, but I think he knew later.
This seemed to be all he needed to know. I was dying to say more, but I just pinched myself and held my breath. Years of putting my kids to sleep with explanations they didn't ask for about things they didn't care about had finally taught me something. Just answer the question, then stop. Wow, that was powerful.
And because Kai is 5, he had another, totally unrelated question, a few seconds later:
So when your grampa gets old does that make him the great-grampa?
Other interesting points of discussion in the last few days:
Why do you only have old goldfishes?
Why can't we use a fish net to catch butterflies?
What animal is salami? (If it's warthog it would taste bad.)
Could you really live in a house built of Legos if it had a bathroom?
Do you think it's weird that snakes can wrap around each other and not get hurt?
Why didn't you ever buy your kids Ninjagos?
Do you think a mulch monster could beat up a pine cone monster?
I know I'll always be older than Danielle, but will she ever be older than me?
And this is the most profound question I've been asked by anyone in quite a while:
Why do you need three dogs?
Did you have to go to college to be a babysitter?
So it would seem, my little ninja, so it would seem.
*all one word
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Seventeen Years Ago Today...
(Author's note: Publication of this installment was delayed because of software issues, writer infirmities, multiple birthday celebrations and solar flares. We regret any inconvenience this delay may have caused. MMA)
Seventeen years ago today, I was in labor with my first child. The process of giving birth was spread out over several days, but Mary Kathleen did eventually get born. She spent her alleged "due date" swimming around, eventually turning wrong-side up, and beginning her lifelong commitment to jumping in feet first and approaching life bass-ackwards.
If that comment sounds a little cruel, I promise that my darling daughter knows how lovingly it is intended. Because Mary Kathleen has never been normal. She has certainly never been boring. She has never been predictable. She has always been a girl in possession of her own plan, her own vision, her own way of doing things. As a child, her teacher conferences always seemed to include a reference to "marching to her own drummer," to explain her unique tendencies. I always want to say, "Yeah, but you should have seen her before she was born!"Having decided she wasn't interested in being born on her due date, she changed directions, presumably to take over the fractional remainder of my torso that wasn't already full of baby and baby-nurturing parts. My doctor attempted to invert her by a pushing, twisting process that was fearfully unpleasant, but the kid wouldn't budge, hinting at her future loveable stubbornness.
Since the doctor was a man, and he'd never had a full-term baby stuffed from his ribcage to his bladder, he assumed more force was needed. He enlisted the help of another doctor, and they performed a 4-handed "external version," which was less painful than actual childbirth, but only just.
So I was ready for this kid to get on with it. I had the name, the crib, the diapers, all I needed now was the baby. When I went home that Thursday, (March 16, 1995), with a correctly positioned baby in my belly, I was more than ready to have labor commence. And commence it did. On Friday she used her magic baby powers and broke my water, and we were on our way to the mythical moment of "labor." And what a moment it was! It was the moment that actually lasted 4 full days.
 |
| Naturally friendly, Mary was born waving! |
I could share many more details of baby-birthing, but I'll save the rest of the sordid tale for later. Suffice to say that Mary Kathleen came into the world Tuesday, March 21 at 10:53pm, after a protracted struggle, and she was VERY UPSET when she got here. Like most exhausted young children, she laid in my arms and screamed bloody murder for the first few minutes of her terrestrial existence. At long last, she slept. This was the first of many nights spent thusly. But in spite of her unpleasant behavior, we decided to keep her.
At about 16 months of age, she seemed to jump the gun on the "terrible twos." I was afraid she was heading for one of those unpleasant phases that cause mothers to call their children brats and try to leave them with grandparents for long weekends. But what appeared at first to be meaningless tantrums, soon turned out to be fury at our lack of understanding. She was trying to communicate, but no one could keep up. Once we figured out that she was demanding answers, and lots of them, about her surroundings, we discovered how to head off nasty behavior.
When she acquired a little sister, Mary greatly expanded her skill-set and helped in many ways. Having a baby to boss around was a never-ending novelty for a sister 2.5 years older. Somehow, through all the years and phases of childhood, my two girls have almost always gotten along. Camille has always been willing to offer her sister the admiration and worship older siblings are wont to command (I have personal experience with this role.) And Mary spent hours of effort molding Camille into the playmate and friend she wanted her to be.
Childhood is never easy, and hers was no exception. Mary has weathered all the same growing pains as many other children, and enters these waning days of childhood with her head on straight. She never presented any lasting behavior problems. She's always been kind to a fault and sensitive to the feelings of others. Thankfully, her twin loves of art and animals carried her through many a trying situation. She loves animals and has had so many pets I've lost count. She's volunteered at the pet shelter for nearly 5 years. And she's probably one of the most successful pet-sitters in our neighborhood.
At the age of 3 she began drawing pictures of anything and everything, sometimes 40 or 50 pictures per day. At age 5 she announced she she was going to be an artist, and those who know her today know she held fast to that goal. She doesn't know if she wants to make a career out of her talent, but she is driven to create on a basic level, and couldn't stop telling stories with her pictures if she tried. She has a single-mindedness that adults (read: parents and teachers) mistake for inattentive tunnel-vision; what she ever liked, she still likes, be it a stuffed animal or a cartoon, a color or a friend. Her love knows no timetable, and maturity, instead of making her cast off childish things, has perhaps made her value her childhood loves even more. What she loves, she loves unconditionally. And that's forever.
My eldest daughter has just one more year of high school, then she will move on to another stage of growth. Like every other transition and challenge she's faced, she'll be scared and indecisive, she'll want to chart her own course, but she'll be constantly seeking reassurance. Like the fleeting regret caused by a bad haircut or a course choice that is just too difficult, she'll make a few mistakes along the way. I devoutly hope her mistakes are not as stupid and avoidable as mine were, but I don't get to choose her problems and tell her how to solve them in advance. The best I can wish for is that she graduates from the school of hard knock with fewer bumps than I sustained.
Mary, you have a heart of incomparable tenderness and you are a devoted friend to many. I'm awestruck by your talent, humbled by your devotion and honored that I get to claim you as my daughter. I'm happy to see you growing up, your horizons expanding, but I hope you'll always keep your home and your family in your heart.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Those Who Can't, Blog.
I've decided to participate in National Novel Writing Month this year. Considering my abysmal record of consistency in blog-production, I expect to stink and fail, but I intend to give it a go. After all, stinkage and failure are nothing new for me. Both daughters are taking the challenge, too, so we are approaching it as a lazy yet meaningful family activity.
Older daughter Mary has been involved in this national creative writing effort for the last two years. When she first began telling us about it, I thought it was a ploy her English teacher cooked up to trick the class into experimental writing. Turns out, it really is a growing, coordinated movement intended to connect novice, struggling or insecure novel-writers and create a supportive, encouraging atmosphere that will allow anyone to produce a 50,000 word novel, or fraction of one, in 30 days. (Note how my list-heavy, adjective-laden prose and run-on sentences are just bursting onto the page already!) Check out the detailed NaNoWriMo event webpage at http://www.nanowrimo.org/.
Now, since I never seem to start anything on time, I'm sitting down this morning, November 1, the first day of NaNoWriMo, to begin reading a book that tells how to best succeed at this effort. In typical illogical fashion, I've decided to write a blog about starting to write a novel, right after I read the book about writing a novel in 30 days. To add to the irony, it's been about 30 days since I posted a blog entry. I've almost talked myself out of it already. I'll make this a short post so I can get on with my reading about writing so I can get on with writing. Should I write about reading? Write about writing? Ugh!
Mary's first year's effort was a disappointment to her - she didn't quite make the 50,000 word mark by November 30th. I was impressed by her determination and hours of labor. She says she tried to change her plot in mid-stream and bumped into a dead-end from which she couldn't escape. I think they call this writer's block in the trade.
However, last year, she read the book No Plot? No Problem! by Chris Baty, which is designed to prepare the fledgling NaNoWriMo participant for the experience of grinding out approximately 1,600 words per day.
Mary took the lessons in the book to heart, to the point that she can give official-sounding lectures about the book and its principles of draft writing. She completed the challenge last year and has been editing her novel off and on since then. When she's done, we will order a few bound copies of her story about good and evil in a feline alternative dimension. She hasn't let me read much yet, but the few parts I've read are very promising. She has a wonderful, evocative vocabulary and more imagination than anyone I know. I envy her her early recognition and dedicated use of her creative and artistic gifts.
She convinced Camille and I to pursue the NaNoWriMo challenge this year. Camille actually wrote a few paragraphs before school this morning. She has a plot idea that seems to stem from a combination of teenage angst and a fascination with super-powers. Mary is not working in the cat universe this year, but I still think talking animals figure into her plot idea. Updates to follow.
And me, well, I'm practicing my considerable skill of avoiding starting something. (What a terrible sentence!) So after I dig up some suitable pictures to round out this anemic entry, I'll cuddle up with No Plot? No Problem! (click here for an amazon link) and see if I can read 172 pages and write 1,600 words before the girls get home from school. Because the only thing I like better than impressing my kids is embarrassing them:
Anyway, with kids this cute, do I really need any more accomplishments?
Older daughter Mary has been involved in this national creative writing effort for the last two years. When she first began telling us about it, I thought it was a ploy her English teacher cooked up to trick the class into experimental writing. Turns out, it really is a growing, coordinated movement intended to connect novice, struggling or insecure novel-writers and create a supportive, encouraging atmosphere that will allow anyone to produce a 50,000 word novel, or fraction of one, in 30 days. (Note how my list-heavy, adjective-laden prose and run-on sentences are just bursting onto the page already!) Check out the detailed NaNoWriMo event webpage at http://www.nanowrimo.org/.
Now, since I never seem to start anything on time, I'm sitting down this morning, November 1, the first day of NaNoWriMo, to begin reading a book that tells how to best succeed at this effort. In typical illogical fashion, I've decided to write a blog about starting to write a novel, right after I read the book about writing a novel in 30 days. To add to the irony, it's been about 30 days since I posted a blog entry. I've almost talked myself out of it already. I'll make this a short post so I can get on with my reading about writing so I can get on with writing. Should I write about reading? Write about writing? Ugh!
Mary's first year's effort was a disappointment to her - she didn't quite make the 50,000 word mark by November 30th. I was impressed by her determination and hours of labor. She says she tried to change her plot in mid-stream and bumped into a dead-end from which she couldn't escape. I think they call this writer's block in the trade.
However, last year, she read the book No Plot? No Problem! by Chris Baty, which is designed to prepare the fledgling NaNoWriMo participant for the experience of grinding out approximately 1,600 words per day.
Mary took the lessons in the book to heart, to the point that she can give official-sounding lectures about the book and its principles of draft writing. She completed the challenge last year and has been editing her novel off and on since then. When she's done, we will order a few bound copies of her story about good and evil in a feline alternative dimension. She hasn't let me read much yet, but the few parts I've read are very promising. She has a wonderful, evocative vocabulary and more imagination than anyone I know. I envy her her early recognition and dedicated use of her creative and artistic gifts.
She convinced Camille and I to pursue the NaNoWriMo challenge this year. Camille actually wrote a few paragraphs before school this morning. She has a plot idea that seems to stem from a combination of teenage angst and a fascination with super-powers. Mary is not working in the cat universe this year, but I still think talking animals figure into her plot idea. Updates to follow.
And me, well, I'm practicing my considerable skill of avoiding starting something. (What a terrible sentence!) So after I dig up some suitable pictures to round out this anemic entry, I'll cuddle up with No Plot? No Problem! (click here for an amazon link) and see if I can read 172 pages and write 1,600 words before the girls get home from school. Because the only thing I like better than impressing my kids is embarrassing them:
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Return of the Intermittent Blogger
Back in the spring, I made the rash, definitive statement that I was going to quit goofing off and become a serious, disciplined writer. I even got my husband's blessing to put concerns of earnings aside and just concentrate on learning to write as an earnest, daily habit rather than a hobby.
I put that statement out there in my blog and got many warm, positive comments. I was feeling pretty smug about finally figuring out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I even applied for freelance jobs to help me develop my technical abilities and to benefit from professional editing.
My 50th birthday, complete with the bustle and activity of visitors, travel and parties, occurred in early June. Immediately after my visitors left, Eric, the girls and I went on vacation. While relaxing, I worked on some of my unpublished essays and even got a job with one of the online sites I'd applied to (that's a story for another day). I felt I must be in Harmony with the Universe. Ever since I'd had that burst of inspiration to just pursue writing to the exclusion of my other half-hearted job efforts, things seemed to be falling into place. I was on a roll.
Then my mother died. After a few days of nursing a painful but (we thought) not life-threatening condition, she died very suddenly at the end of June. This news was a terrible shock, made even harder by the fact that my family is 900 miles away. Suddenly, Eric, the girls and I were traveling to Alabama to bury my mother and grieve with my many relatives back home. The other-worldly-ness of that week was like a fog that still hasn't lifted for me. A return trip a few weeks later also took a toll on me mentally, and I've been unable to write very much since then.
Each time I sit down to compose a post for "Polite Ravings," I start with the full intention of finishing and publishing that idea as soon as I can. I've always had a self-defeating hesitation to click on the "publish" button, which I've described in a previous blog, but I don't start writing with that hesitation in mind. It generally develops as I'm trying to neatly summarize my various ideas, points of logic, lesson for the day, or whatever blather I'm trying to recap.
But since my mother's death, and in the confusing aftermath, I've been unable to conclude any of my blogs. Finishing my thoughts, tying them up with a bow and presenting them as complete and coherent ideas eludes me more than ever. And I'm not even struggling with my self-imposed "thesis statement/supporting information/conclusion" format. It's more basic than that.
Writing make me cry. Writing makes me sad. Writing makes me miss my mother. Because if anyone on this planet wanted to see me succeed at my writing efforts, it was Momma. And, unbeknownst to me until recently, I've been writing my blog to her and for her all along.
Now, as I attempt to craft witty sentences, I think how she'll laugh. I wonder if she'll notice a sneaky double entendre, referencing a subject she'd consider indecent. I often grab the phone to call her and ask help remembering forgotten names or details for retelling a story. I utterly failed to realize how much of my life is referential to my mother and her potential reactions. And nowhere do I process my life and experiences more intensely than in writing about them.
But I've discovered that the key to my inability to complete a post is the fact that, in grieving my mother's death, I'm dealing with an unexpected, unplanned ending. Momma's ending was not well thought out; she didn't tie things up neatly with a bow; she didn't get to summarize everything she thought and conclude with a nice clean ending. Her ending was abrupt and hurried, with no chance to make everything tidy and understandable. For some reason, this knowledge has become an obstacle to my writing process.
So I write, then I cry, then I write some more, then I break down again, then I give up and find something productive to do. I have no idea when I'll be able to finish the entries called "Just Crown Me Now," or "The -ogs Have It," or "The Wisdom of the Queens," since they all involve Momma's deep influence on my thinking. Interestingly, I started working on all three of those blogs before she even came to visit in June.
And I can't possibly publish some of the drivel I wrote in the early weeks after she died. I may as well have been composing in Swahili, for all the sense those entries make today. But I have to publish something, just to get back into the swing of things.
So I guess I'll just end abruptly and publish this.
I put that statement out there in my blog and got many warm, positive comments. I was feeling pretty smug about finally figuring out what I wanted to be when I grew up. I even applied for freelance jobs to help me develop my technical abilities and to benefit from professional editing.
My 50th birthday, complete with the bustle and activity of visitors, travel and parties, occurred in early June. Immediately after my visitors left, Eric, the girls and I went on vacation. While relaxing, I worked on some of my unpublished essays and even got a job with one of the online sites I'd applied to (that's a story for another day). I felt I must be in Harmony with the Universe. Ever since I'd had that burst of inspiration to just pursue writing to the exclusion of my other half-hearted job efforts, things seemed to be falling into place. I was on a roll.
Then my mother died. After a few days of nursing a painful but (we thought) not life-threatening condition, she died very suddenly at the end of June. This news was a terrible shock, made even harder by the fact that my family is 900 miles away. Suddenly, Eric, the girls and I were traveling to Alabama to bury my mother and grieve with my many relatives back home. The other-worldly-ness of that week was like a fog that still hasn't lifted for me. A return trip a few weeks later also took a toll on me mentally, and I've been unable to write very much since then.
Each time I sit down to compose a post for "Polite Ravings," I start with the full intention of finishing and publishing that idea as soon as I can. I've always had a self-defeating hesitation to click on the "publish" button, which I've described in a previous blog, but I don't start writing with that hesitation in mind. It generally develops as I'm trying to neatly summarize my various ideas, points of logic, lesson for the day, or whatever blather I'm trying to recap.
But since my mother's death, and in the confusing aftermath, I've been unable to conclude any of my blogs. Finishing my thoughts, tying them up with a bow and presenting them as complete and coherent ideas eludes me more than ever. And I'm not even struggling with my self-imposed "thesis statement/supporting information/conclusion" format. It's more basic than that.
Writing make me cry. Writing makes me sad. Writing makes me miss my mother. Because if anyone on this planet wanted to see me succeed at my writing efforts, it was Momma. And, unbeknownst to me until recently, I've been writing my blog to her and for her all along.
Now, as I attempt to craft witty sentences, I think how she'll laugh. I wonder if she'll notice a sneaky double entendre, referencing a subject she'd consider indecent. I often grab the phone to call her and ask help remembering forgotten names or details for retelling a story. I utterly failed to realize how much of my life is referential to my mother and her potential reactions. And nowhere do I process my life and experiences more intensely than in writing about them.
But I've discovered that the key to my inability to complete a post is the fact that, in grieving my mother's death, I'm dealing with an unexpected, unplanned ending. Momma's ending was not well thought out; she didn't tie things up neatly with a bow; she didn't get to summarize everything she thought and conclude with a nice clean ending. Her ending was abrupt and hurried, with no chance to make everything tidy and understandable. For some reason, this knowledge has become an obstacle to my writing process.
So I write, then I cry, then I write some more, then I break down again, then I give up and find something productive to do. I have no idea when I'll be able to finish the entries called "Just Crown Me Now," or "The -ogs Have It," or "The Wisdom of the Queens," since they all involve Momma's deep influence on my thinking. Interestingly, I started working on all three of those blogs before she even came to visit in June.
And I can't possibly publish some of the drivel I wrote in the early weeks after she died. I may as well have been composing in Swahili, for all the sense those entries make today. But I have to publish something, just to get back into the swing of things.
So I guess I'll just end abruptly and publish this.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Gift that was Mother's Day
I'm a bit of a cynic when it comes to the recent onslaught of made up days for gift-giving. Even when I've been on the receiving end, whether it was Secretary's Day, Sweetest Day, Teacher Appreciation Week, Dumb Blonde Month (Wednesday), I didn't like the contrived nature of forced gratitude. I've always envisioned a dark-paneled, smoke-filled board room, filled with executives from Hallmark, FTD, Russell Stover, Honey-Baked Ham, DeBeers and WalMart, brainstorming about the next invented "special" day to foist on the unsuspecting but ever-willing shopping-obsessed public. With Mother's and Father's Days a cultural standard, and Grandparent's Day the new guilt-inducing day to "oops" about, it can't be long before we begin celebrating Cousin's Day, Brothers-In-Law Day, Pool-Boy Day. (Note to self: find a job designing those cards.)
In keeping with the "attitude of gratitude" that inspired this entry, I should refrain from any more sardonic wit concerning our card-and-gift-giving mentality. Especially since I had an exceptionally lovely Mother's Day.
I love getting gifts, and even I try to think of suggestions for gift-giving occasions like Mother's Day (mostly to steer my children away from the candy aisle). My idea of a good gift is very broad, because I like almost anything, the older and tackier the better, and if I don't like it, I'll regift it. The price of an item is not important, because (for me), a well-chosen cheap gift trumps an expensive ugly sweater or bottle of perfume any day.
Plus I love used stuff, especially if it comes from an antique store, flea market, garage sale, or some other place where you get to look through other people's castoffs and see what they didn't need but you do. My taste, so-called, is pretty simple. Two categories covers it: I like "stuff" and I love "things." If you wrap it in paper or shove it in a gift bag, chances are I'll be charmed. ("Stuff and Things" is also the name of the new cologne created by noted unicorn artist and late-night talk-show host Greg Gutfeld, but keep that on the down low for now.)
In addition to the gifts, Mother's Day is always pleasant, because the girls make breakfast, people are always refilling my coffee unasked, I usually get to talk on the phone to my mother and sisters, and we ordinarily have my mother-in-law over for dinner, with Eric doing the cooking. And it always falls on a Sunday...why can't the Calendar Czars arrange that for Dumb Blonde Month?
But seriously, this Mother's Day was special. I received some very nice gifts, and that was part of what made it so nice. But from the beautiful sunrise to the goodnight kisses, this Mother's Day gave me joy.
Some of my Mother's Day gifts:
A new flower bed for my scarlet peony, excavated by my wonderful husband after our lovely four-mile walk. He always does some kind of outdoor project for me on Mother's Day weekend.
A new hummingbird feeder. Words to live by: "You can never have too many birdfeeders."
The dvd of "The King's Speech ." Colin plays a reluctant king who suffers a terrible stammer whenever he attempts to speak without using profanity. See it if you haven't already - it's a sublime, intelligent film.
A breakfast of scrambled eggs with ham, a side of yogurt with sliced strawberries and a fresh sprig of garden sage, courtesy of Chef Mary Kathleen.
(I was too busy eating to think of taking a picture. It looked much tastier than this dish.)
Kitchen shears to replace the kitchen shears which became garden shears:
Dinner at Bonefish Grill. Bang-Bang Shrimp - need I say more?
fetching a bit too much water:
A Baltimore oriole visited my for the first time that I'm aware of. It was such a brilliant orange, it almost hurt my eyes:
What a treat -- but alas, this is just a google image. Stay tuned - I intend to lure him back with fruit and jelly.
We brought home a gorgeous buffet, which completed my antique furniture wish list for the foreseeable future:
These amazing daughters are irreplaceable gifts:
I have a wonderful mother-in-law who exemplifies generosity and kindness:
And the woman who gave me life, reared me well and is still my biggest cheerleader and fairest critic - my mother:
Sometimes, the question of why I am so blessed when others suffer makes me crazy with wonder.
But this Mother's Day, I just enjoyed my many, many gifts and offered up a silent prayer of thanks for the people, the love and the great good fortune that fills my life.
In keeping with the "attitude of gratitude" that inspired this entry, I should refrain from any more sardonic wit concerning our card-and-gift-giving mentality. Especially since I had an exceptionally lovely Mother's Day.
I love getting gifts, and even I try to think of suggestions for gift-giving occasions like Mother's Day (mostly to steer my children away from the candy aisle). My idea of a good gift is very broad, because I like almost anything, the older and tackier the better, and if I don't like it, I'll regift it. The price of an item is not important, because (for me), a well-chosen cheap gift trumps an expensive ugly sweater or bottle of perfume any day.
Plus I love used stuff, especially if it comes from an antique store, flea market, garage sale, or some other place where you get to look through other people's castoffs and see what they didn't need but you do. My taste, so-called, is pretty simple. Two categories covers it: I like "stuff" and I love "things." If you wrap it in paper or shove it in a gift bag, chances are I'll be charmed. ("Stuff and Things" is also the name of the new cologne created by noted unicorn artist and late-night talk-show host Greg Gutfeld, but keep that on the down low for now.)
In addition to the gifts, Mother's Day is always pleasant, because the girls make breakfast, people are always refilling my coffee unasked, I usually get to talk on the phone to my mother and sisters, and we ordinarily have my mother-in-law over for dinner, with Eric doing the cooking. And it always falls on a Sunday...why can't the Calendar Czars arrange that for Dumb Blonde Month?
But seriously, this Mother's Day was special. I received some very nice gifts, and that was part of what made it so nice. But from the beautiful sunrise to the goodnight kisses, this Mother's Day gave me joy.
Some of my Mother's Day gifts:
A new hummingbird feeder. Words to live by: "You can never have too many birdfeeders."
The dvd of "The King's Speech ." Colin plays a reluctant king who suffers a terrible stammer whenever he attempts to speak without using profanity. See it if you haven't already - it's a sublime, intelligent film.
A breakfast of scrambled eggs with ham, a side of yogurt with sliced strawberries and a fresh sprig of garden sage, courtesy of Chef Mary Kathleen.
Kitchen shears to replace the kitchen shears which became garden shears:
Dinner at Bonefish Grill. Bang-Bang Shrimp - need I say more?
Spring concert by the South Bend Youth Symphony, including a fabulous performance of "The Sorcerer's Apprentice," featuring a certain bassonist carrying the eerie melody of the enchanted brooms
fetching a bit too much water:
A Baltimore oriole visited my for the first time that I'm aware of. It was such a brilliant orange, it almost hurt my eyes:
What a treat -- but alas, this is just a google image. Stay tuned - I intend to lure him back with fruit and jelly.
We brought home a gorgeous buffet, which completed my antique furniture wish list for the foreseeable future:
These amazing daughters are irreplaceable gifts:
 |
Camille and Mary Kathleen |
I have a wonderful mother-in-law who exemplifies generosity and kindness:
 |
Eve Arnett |
And the woman who gave me life, reared me well and is still my biggest cheerleader and fairest critic - my mother:
 |
Carole Jones |
But this Mother's Day, I just enjoyed my many, many gifts and offered up a silent prayer of thanks for the people, the love and the great good fortune that fills my life.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Letting March slip through my fingers
If I died today, the most truthful thing that could be chiseled on my tombstone would be:
I mean, today is the last day of March, and for reasons I can't explain, I still have roughly the same to-do list as I did at the beginning of this month. Where did the time go?
I don't watch much tv, I'm not having an affair, I don't drink (during the day, anyway), I'm not a therapeudic shopper, I don't have a month's worth of dinners in the freezer...what the heck have I been doing this month?
Answer: Internet.
I can lose an entire morning looking at the antiques for sale on craigslist Chicago.
I spend valuable hours chasing down k-cup deals on ebay, effectively canceling my minuscule cost savings in lost time.
And facebook - well, facebook has become a problem for me.
Once I get caught up on everyone else's business, I jump on a word game and blow another hour. It's inexcuseable, and I'm preparing to disentangle myself from all but the most cursory involvement on that site. I'll check in on my kids' activity and a few friends who are far away and not available for regular conversation, but I need to quit posting the status of my laundry on that site. And the local weather. And my complaints about the length of whatever season I happen to find myself in today. I truly don't care about your laundry or your weather - what makes me think you care about mine?
Like many in these parts, the long winter, cold temps and long-lived snow made it very easy to commune via laptop, Ipad, etc., for months on end. I'd go from facebook to craigslist to ebay to Land's End Overstocks to various news and blog sites before the kids were even on the bus. Fire off a few emails, play a few games of Word Drop, glance at the clock and it's noon. Time loses all meaning when you get caught up in surfing, shopping, catching up on stuff. But when I look up and and entire month is gone, it's time to take my time more seriously, while taking a vacation from OPS (other people's stuff) shopping.
So I'm setting this goal for myself - wean self from facebook over spring break (next week). I still want to publish my blog posts there, because frankly, I don't think anyone besides my mother would read Polite Ravings if I didn't smear it all over facebook and Google Buzz. So I'll stay plugged in, but I'm going to attempt to severely limit my visits to the virtual party room and try to see and talk to people the old fashioned way - in person, or on the phone.
That's right, I'm going to waste more time and precious natural resources dropping by your houses, calling you during dinner, sending silly cards with dogs in sunglasses for no reason, and emailing hilarious recycled jokes and videos to you. I know you can't wait until I stop using facebook for my social hub. Now I'm going to be bothering you from multiple communication platforms.
It's going to take some planning, but I'm committed to rediscovering social networking without the aid of a computer. Today I already talked to 3 people on the phone, and visited two at their homes. It felt good, and I even got hugs.
And there is no doubt that hugs beat
Here lies Michele Arnett, who never ran out of excuses.
I mean, today is the last day of March, and for reasons I can't explain, I still have roughly the same to-do list as I did at the beginning of this month. Where did the time go?
I don't watch much tv, I'm not having an affair, I don't drink (during the day, anyway), I'm not a therapeudic shopper, I don't have a month's worth of dinners in the freezer...what the heck have I been doing this month?
Answer: Internet.
I can lose an entire morning looking at the antiques for sale on craigslist Chicago.
I spend valuable hours chasing down k-cup deals on ebay, effectively canceling my minuscule cost savings in lost time.
And facebook - well, facebook has become a problem for me.
Once I get caught up on everyone else's business, I jump on a word game and blow another hour. It's inexcuseable, and I'm preparing to disentangle myself from all but the most cursory involvement on that site. I'll check in on my kids' activity and a few friends who are far away and not available for regular conversation, but I need to quit posting the status of my laundry on that site. And the local weather. And my complaints about the length of whatever season I happen to find myself in today. I truly don't care about your laundry or your weather - what makes me think you care about mine?
Like many in these parts, the long winter, cold temps and long-lived snow made it very easy to commune via laptop, Ipad, etc., for months on end. I'd go from facebook to craigslist to ebay to Land's End Overstocks to various news and blog sites before the kids were even on the bus. Fire off a few emails, play a few games of Word Drop, glance at the clock and it's noon. Time loses all meaning when you get caught up in surfing, shopping, catching up on stuff. But when I look up and and entire month is gone, it's time to take my time more seriously, while taking a vacation from OPS (other people's stuff) shopping.
So I'm setting this goal for myself - wean self from facebook over spring break (next week). I still want to publish my blog posts there, because frankly, I don't think anyone besides my mother would read Polite Ravings if I didn't smear it all over facebook and Google Buzz. So I'll stay plugged in, but I'm going to attempt to severely limit my visits to the virtual party room and try to see and talk to people the old fashioned way - in person, or on the phone.
That's right, I'm going to waste more time and precious natural resources dropping by your houses, calling you during dinner, sending silly cards with dogs in sunglasses for no reason, and emailing hilarious recycled jokes and videos to you. I know you can't wait until I stop using facebook for my social hub. Now I'm going to be bothering you from multiple communication platforms.
It's going to take some planning, but I'm committed to rediscovering social networking without the aid of a computer. Today I already talked to 3 people on the phone, and visited two at their homes. It felt good, and I even got hugs.
And there is no doubt that hugs beat
by a country mile.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
A Birthday, some Moronic Movie references, and Beautiful Music
Eric celebrated his birthday last week. I forgot to ask his permission to write about it, so I'd better not mention his age (32).
I use the term "celebrated" rather loosely, because we were crazy-busy from 7am until after 9pm on his actual birthday, owing to before- and after-school activities for both girls that day.
In my typical sentimental fashion, I was hurriedly signing a sarcastic birthday card when he came downstairs that morning. I've forgotten his birthday too many times to count, so I was actually ahead of the game to even have a card. We decided to save the presents for the one hour break when we'd all be home together, between work and the concert we were scheduled to attend that evening. I prepared a nice supper (I forgot just now what I made, but I'm sure it was excellent) and we all caught our breath for a few minutes around the dinner table.
Now you may be wondering about a birthday cake. I usually do some sort of cake, but since Eric's birthday is so near Thanksgiving, we sometimes substitute his favorite dessert (cheesecake) for a birthday cake. But this year, in the interest of breaking our tradition of gaining 5 pounds per person per day between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I came up with a different treat that I wanted to try in advance of making a batch for Christmas.
On a cookie sheet, I arranged three dozen pretzel rings, and set a piece of candy inside the circle. I used Rolos, his favorite candy, as well as miniature Reese's cups, The One True Food of the Gods. Both candies displayed odd and inconsistent melting tendencies, yielding decidedly unphotogenic treats - plus I just plum forgot to take a picture. So clearly, more experimentation is needed to perfect my culinary creation, which I actually copied from a book club hostess, but intend to make uniquely my own somehow. Regrettably, as ugly as those little treats turned out, they were tasty enough to ensure that we are on still target for packing on the pounds with no difficulty.
So, no cake, but great presents this year. I've already mentioned my fatal flaw - I am horrible at choosing presents. I'm proud of 2 or 3 unique gifts I've come up with in our marriage, which means I'm heartily ashamed of several others; I usually stick to clothes, and keep the awkward reactions to a minimum. But the girls both hit home runs this year in their gift choices.
A little background: Eric and the girls have become devoted fans of a cartoon series called "Avatar - The Last Airbender" (Nickelodeon - consult your local listings). They seem to watch it all the time since they DVR about 50 episodes per week. It's a good show, but I'm definitely not in the fan club with these three. They have major intellectual discussions about character development, moral conflicts, adolescent angst, family loyalty versus tribal loyalty, and how far an earthbender can throw a 500 pound chunk of granite; you know, important stuff. So our elder daughter, Mary Kathleen, gave him the four-dvd set of the first season:
Yes, my husband got cartoons for his 64th birthday. And he was thrilled! Go to Amazon.com for the best price on the set, unless you are buying the theatrical live-action movie version, in which case Target has a $10 gift cards if you buy the cartoons as well.
Did anyone notice that I added some links? Do you think those multi-national corporations might want to advertise on my blog now?
Anyway.
Daughter number two shares an affinity with her father for totally absurd movies. Recently, against my protestations, Eric convinced my baby girlchild to watch "Dragnet." Not only not great cinema, but truly lame crap. These two have watched "The Blues Brothers" at least 10 times that I know of, and who knows how many more times when I wasn't around? It wouldn't be so bad if they just skip to the scenes with Aretha or Ray, but they watch every minute! And I'm not proud of this fact, but both daughters can quote almost the entire movie verbatim. In fact, often we'll be sitting at the dinner table, and for no apparent reason the three of them will launch into the speech that precedes the big car chase scene (Elwood: "It's 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses." Jake: "Hit it.") Cue hysterical laughter - buzzkill mother shrugs, rolls her eyes in disbelief - how can her family be so smart, yet so silly?
And while I'm on a politely raving roll: God help Eric if he ever tries to introduce the girls to the cinematic works of Pauly Shore or Chris Farley - he'd go straight from the La-Z-Boy to divorce court, begging for visiting rights to see the dogs! I'm reasonable. I like funny movies, I like slapstick and silly and naughty and offbeat and profane and subversive - but I really hate DUMB STUPID movies. Fortunately Eric likes FUNNY STUPID movies. Let's hope he keeps it that way.
I don't want to make it sound as if only Camille shares his passion for these dopey films. Mary Kathleen joins them in repeat viewing of "Blazing Saddles," "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," "Young Frankenstein," "Groundhog Day," "The Simpsons Movie," and many other silly titles that most sane people can watch once or twice in a lifetime and meet their quota. But I think their all-time favorite stupid movie, based on the sheer number of pointless references they drop, is "Airplane!"
So back to the original subject: Camille found this birthday gift and looked no further:
For my money, no one compares to Wireless for funny t-shirts.
And considering the recent passing of that great thespian, Leslie Nielsen, aka Dr. Rumack, I think it was a very timely choice.
It appears Eric liked the safe and boring plaid flannel shirt and cargo pants I chose, since he wore them the whole darn weekend. But the real hit, as usual, were the homemade cards from the girls:
On your left, Jake and Elwood share birthday wishes on Camille's card. On your right is Mary Kathleen's artistic rendition of how Eric would look if he was an earthbending cat (for those of us who have always wondered about that). I think these were his favorite presents of all, if you want to know the truth.
After dinner and presents were done, we went to hear Penn High School's winter orchestra concert. Mary Kathleen plays cello in the Pre-Advanced orchestra, which performed beautifully. The Intermediate orchestra and the Advanced symphonic orchestra were very good as well, but Mary's group played the most interesting selection of pieces. It was a wonderful way to end the day, particularly since they always close the winter concert with "Sleigh Ride," which kicks off the Eating Season with a brisk, calorie-burning toe workout.
Here's MK and her fellow celloist (and Blue Lake Fine Arts camper) Anna, after the concert:
Did I mention? - I love to hear my daughter play her cello. Although she didn't like the cello very well when she started, the instrument has grown on her over the years, and to me, it seems to fit her. But her first love is art. Another day I'll feature some pictures of Mary Kathleen's drawings. She is quite the gifted artist - very creative and bubbling over with ideas and initiative.
Kind of like me, except for the initiative.
But I'm so creative I've actually written a blog containing pictures and hyperlinks! I had really better get busy looking for an agent, before Amazon and Target come calling.
I use the term "celebrated" rather loosely, because we were crazy-busy from 7am until after 9pm on his actual birthday, owing to before- and after-school activities for both girls that day.
In my typical sentimental fashion, I was hurriedly signing a sarcastic birthday card when he came downstairs that morning. I've forgotten his birthday too many times to count, so I was actually ahead of the game to even have a card. We decided to save the presents for the one hour break when we'd all be home together, between work and the concert we were scheduled to attend that evening. I prepared a nice supper (I forgot just now what I made, but I'm sure it was excellent) and we all caught our breath for a few minutes around the dinner table.
Now you may be wondering about a birthday cake. I usually do some sort of cake, but since Eric's birthday is so near Thanksgiving, we sometimes substitute his favorite dessert (cheesecake) for a birthday cake. But this year, in the interest of breaking our tradition of gaining 5 pounds per person per day between Thanksgiving and Christmas, I came up with a different treat that I wanted to try in advance of making a batch for Christmas.
On a cookie sheet, I arranged three dozen pretzel rings, and set a piece of candy inside the circle. I used Rolos, his favorite candy, as well as miniature Reese's cups, The One True Food of the Gods. Both candies displayed odd and inconsistent melting tendencies, yielding decidedly unphotogenic treats - plus I just plum forgot to take a picture. So clearly, more experimentation is needed to perfect my culinary creation, which I actually copied from a book club hostess, but intend to make uniquely my own somehow. Regrettably, as ugly as those little treats turned out, they were tasty enough to ensure that we are on still target for packing on the pounds with no difficulty.
So, no cake, but great presents this year. I've already mentioned my fatal flaw - I am horrible at choosing presents. I'm proud of 2 or 3 unique gifts I've come up with in our marriage, which means I'm heartily ashamed of several others; I usually stick to clothes, and keep the awkward reactions to a minimum. But the girls both hit home runs this year in their gift choices.
A little background: Eric and the girls have become devoted fans of a cartoon series called "Avatar - The Last Airbender" (Nickelodeon - consult your local listings). They seem to watch it all the time since they DVR about 50 episodes per week. It's a good show, but I'm definitely not in the fan club with these three. They have major intellectual discussions about character development, moral conflicts, adolescent angst, family loyalty versus tribal loyalty, and how far an earthbender can throw a 500 pound chunk of granite; you know, important stuff. So our elder daughter, Mary Kathleen, gave him the four-dvd set of the first season:
Yes, my husband got cartoons for his 64th birthday. And he was thrilled! Go to Amazon.com for the best price on the set, unless you are buying the theatrical live-action movie version, in which case Target has a $10 gift cards if you buy the cartoons as well.
Did anyone notice that I added some links? Do you think those multi-national corporations might want to advertise on my blog now?
Anyway.
Daughter number two shares an affinity with her father for totally absurd movies. Recently, against my protestations, Eric convinced my baby girlchild to watch "Dragnet." Not only not great cinema, but truly lame crap. These two have watched "The Blues Brothers" at least 10 times that I know of, and who knows how many more times when I wasn't around? It wouldn't be so bad if they just skip to the scenes with Aretha or Ray, but they watch every minute! And I'm not proud of this fact, but both daughters can quote almost the entire movie verbatim. In fact, often we'll be sitting at the dinner table, and for no apparent reason the three of them will launch into the speech that precedes the big car chase scene (Elwood: "It's 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it's dark, and we're wearing sunglasses." Jake: "Hit it.") Cue hysterical laughter - buzzkill mother shrugs, rolls her eyes in disbelief - how can her family be so smart, yet so silly?
And while I'm on a politely raving roll: God help Eric if he ever tries to introduce the girls to the cinematic works of Pauly Shore or Chris Farley - he'd go straight from the La-Z-Boy to divorce court, begging for visiting rights to see the dogs! I'm reasonable. I like funny movies, I like slapstick and silly and naughty and offbeat and profane and subversive - but I really hate DUMB STUPID movies. Fortunately Eric likes FUNNY STUPID movies. Let's hope he keeps it that way.
I don't want to make it sound as if only Camille shares his passion for these dopey films. Mary Kathleen joins them in repeat viewing of "Blazing Saddles," "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," "Young Frankenstein," "Groundhog Day," "The Simpsons Movie," and many other silly titles that most sane people can watch once or twice in a lifetime and meet their quota. But I think their all-time favorite stupid movie, based on the sheer number of pointless references they drop, is "Airplane!"
So back to the original subject: Camille found this birthday gift and looked no further:
For my money, no one compares to Wireless for funny t-shirts.
And considering the recent passing of that great thespian, Leslie Nielsen, aka Dr. Rumack, I think it was a very timely choice.
It appears Eric liked the safe and boring plaid flannel shirt and cargo pants I chose, since he wore them the whole darn weekend. But the real hit, as usual, were the homemade cards from the girls:
On your left, Jake and Elwood share birthday wishes on Camille's card. On your right is Mary Kathleen's artistic rendition of how Eric would look if he was an earthbending cat (for those of us who have always wondered about that). I think these were his favorite presents of all, if you want to know the truth.
After dinner and presents were done, we went to hear Penn High School's winter orchestra concert. Mary Kathleen plays cello in the Pre-Advanced orchestra, which performed beautifully. The Intermediate orchestra and the Advanced symphonic orchestra were very good as well, but Mary's group played the most interesting selection of pieces. It was a wonderful way to end the day, particularly since they always close the winter concert with "Sleigh Ride," which kicks off the Eating Season with a brisk, calorie-burning toe workout.
Here's MK and her fellow celloist (and Blue Lake Fine Arts camper) Anna, after the concert:
Did I mention? - I love to hear my daughter play her cello. Although she didn't like the cello very well when she started, the instrument has grown on her over the years, and to me, it seems to fit her. But her first love is art. Another day I'll feature some pictures of Mary Kathleen's drawings. She is quite the gifted artist - very creative and bubbling over with ideas and initiative.
Kind of like me, except for the initiative.
But I'm so creative I've actually written a blog containing pictures and hyperlinks! I had really better get busy looking for an agent, before Amazon and Target come calling.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Happy Monday to all, and to all a good week
Let me just begin by saying that I have two equally wonderful daughters. If anyone had ever told me that I'd like my own children so well, I wouldn't have believed them. Your children are supposed to be a constant trial of your patience, and your most cherished dream is alleged to be attaining the empty nest years - right?
Well, I don't feel that way. At least not yet. And realizing I'm lucky, and realizing it could change any day, and realizing I'm probably jinxing myself by even saying this, I'll still say right here in front of God and everybody that I like my girls almost as much as I love them. And I'm not playing favorites, but today I'm only writing about one of them.
That said, my younger daughter, Camille, gave me a lovely start to my day. She didn't know it, but that doesn't matter, because it's Monday and that usually means headless chickens tripping over each other in the kitchen from 6:00 - 8:30am. But not today.
I should back up a bit and explain that Camille is a musician. She plays piano and bassoon, and is quite accomplished at both. I was what you would call musical as a young person - I played in the band, sang in the church choir, dabbled at piano - but in spite of the fact that I had a little talent, I didn't work at it or value it like I should have. I don't refer to Camille as "musical," I call her a musician because she takes her instruments seriously. Whether in a group or as a soloist, she owns her effort, her talent, and her accolades. When she isn't pleased with her results, she doesn't blame anyone else. I think that's impressive for a girl of thirteen.
Well, I don't feel that way. At least not yet. And realizing I'm lucky, and realizing it could change any day, and realizing I'm probably jinxing myself by even saying this, I'll still say right here in front of God and everybody that I like my girls almost as much as I love them. And I'm not playing favorites, but today I'm only writing about one of them.
That said, my younger daughter, Camille, gave me a lovely start to my day. She didn't know it, but that doesn't matter, because it's Monday and that usually means headless chickens tripping over each other in the kitchen from 6:00 - 8:30am. But not today.
I should back up a bit and explain that Camille is a musician. She plays piano and bassoon, and is quite accomplished at both. I was what you would call musical as a young person - I played in the band, sang in the church choir, dabbled at piano - but in spite of the fact that I had a little talent, I didn't work at it or value it like I should have. I don't refer to Camille as "musical," I call her a musician because she takes her instruments seriously. Whether in a group or as a soloist, she owns her effort, her talent, and her accolades. When she isn't pleased with her results, she doesn't blame anyone else. I think that's impressive for a girl of thirteen.
Most mornings, Camille only has a few minutes to spare (she is a slow mover upon waking, but that's fun dirt for another blog when I'm annoyed at her). If she has a few minutes to spare, she usually turns on the TV to watch one of her archived episodes of "Dancing with the Stars." I despise television in the morning, but I can usually ignore ten or fifteen minutes of Tom Bergeron and the most dramatic panel of dance judges in world history if the volume is turned low enough. But today, she decided instead to practice her new piano piece:
and it was so lovely. I'm amazed that a child raised by me could attempt something so delicate and emotive. I don't know how she broke the genetic bonds of uncoordination to play so well.
I began my Monday to the soothing sounds of my daughter tinkling the ivories with her usual care and seriousness. Add a cup of coffee and a furball warming my feet, and I was in heaven. So here I sit, writing about my lovely morning, and there goes Camille:
waiting for the bus in the rain, with a fifteen pound backpack strapped on, and a bassoon to wrestle onto the bus and under the seat for the half-hour ride to school.
So the next time I start to wallow in the attitude of the unappreciated mother who does everything so my kids can have it easy, someone please remind me to look back at this entry. My kids have it good, there's no denying that, but they don't have it easy. And Camille demands more of herself than we demand of her. So I should just thank God that I have her in my life, and that she'll be living with us for at least a few more years.
Thank you, Camille, for a lovely start to Thanksgiving week.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)