susan hayward photography

Pet Peeves

Sometimes household drudgery can drive me insane, especially when the mess isn't mine. My mess is cleaner than everyone else's right?

So I walk into the boys' bathroom and this is what I see:

Am I the only one who knows how to take out the trash?

And then I open the refrigerator and find this:

Do you see what I'm talking about? Do you see the empty plate on the second shelf, placed there because Someone didn't want to at least put it in the sink?  

I have heard that if you aren't home as much, your kids have to learn to fend for themselves more. I wonder about this all the time. If I were to work full time, would the children pony up and pick up after themselves a bit more? Or would they just leave it for me to deal with when I got home from the office? 

Or maybe it's just bad karma, and all those times I left a trail of clutter through my childhood home are coming back to bite me in the bum. This makes sense. And it gives me hope, too. I will encourage my children to have lots of their own children who will make lots of messes that my kids will have to pick up. Is this what they mean when they talk about the circle of life? Anyway, it's the theory I'm clinging to. Otherwise, I'd eat a pound of licorice to cope. I've found that revenge and spite, though bad for the complexion, are easier on the figure.

A Monday Morning Run

 

When I wake up in the morning, it usually feels like a truck has spent the night testing its brakes on my back. This morning my body was so creaky and worn that it felt like an entire fleet of trucks had run over me repeatedly. All night. This, I'm told, is one of the perks of being in your late thirties. Your body starts to break down incrementally. And then your mind goes. And then before you know it, you're wearing a hat that says, "I want my senior discount" printed on the front. 

But I'm not that old, I keep on telling myself. And my body keeps on telling me that I'm wrong, so very wrong. I had meant to wake up at 5:30 or so, but this morning when my cat pawed at my cheek to ask me for breakfast, I tossed her across the room and went back to sleep. 

Then a couple hours later my middle child poked at my arm. "Mom, Mom," he said. 

"Umph," I replied. The poking continued. My eyes flickered open of their own will, not mine. 

"Look at this," my son said, shoving his ipod in my face. "I got this funny email." He showed me a picture of a cat at a bathroom sink, shrieking at its reflection in the mirror. Just when my eyes fluttered back to their desired position, that is to say, shut tightly, he poked me again. 

"Look at this one too." He brushed his finger across the screen to reveal the next picture. This time the cat sat in a car, its paws on the steering wheel poised to drive. For this, my son woke me up. It was like the time I took our cell phone to the movies and left the kids home to fend for themselves. I told the kids not to call me for just any old thing. "Only an emergency," I said in my most serious tone of voice. I guess I should have specified that an emergency would involve blood, because halfway through the movie I got a call. After climbing over a dozen knees to get to the theater lobby, I whipped open my phone with shaking fingers. I expected my oldest to be on the line to tell me that someone had severed a finger or broken a limb. But no. It was my middle child. "Can I have a burrito from the freezer?" he asked. I can't remember my exact response, but it went something like this: "Arrgghhh."

This morning it was the same child demanding interaction. I'm sure he thought the cat would make me laugh. But I was not in a humorous mood. "You, know," I said to him while still supine, my eyes closed, my arms crossed on my chest, "When a person is laying on a bed with her eyes closed and the room is dark, that means she is SLEEPING." 

He left, and I felt vaguely guilty at how peevish I had been. But then, his departure did give me a few more minutes to re-engage in a weird dream I was having in which I was dressing an owl in baby clothes and trying to rock it to sleep. The owl's solid form felt good in my arms, and when he looked at me, his eyes were gentle and penetrating. I sensed the owl had something to say to me, and I was eager to hear his message. 

But I would never hear the owl speak. After a few minutes, my youngest padded into the room. Even with my eyes closed I knew why he was there. I could hear the crinkle of paper, the tapping of a pen against a notebook. "Will you sign my planner?" he asked. I opened one eye. My son handed me a pen and pointed to a box at the top of his paper. I scribbled my initials in the designated spot and snapped my eye shut. 

Then someone else came in the room. I could tell from the sound of his footsteps that it was my middle son again. He is more nimble than his brothers. Also, he has no sense of personal space, so when he sidles up to you he practically glues his skin to yours. My middle dude leaned over me and shook a plastic bag in my face. At that point, I was squeezing my eyes closed, which wasn't really sleeping but an attempt to communicate to my little turkeys that I would absolutely not get out of bed before I was ready. And I was nowhere near ready. 

"Mom, Mom," he said. "You gotta make me a lunch for my field trip today." He handed me the bag. Inside were two slices of white bread that he had hidden from his brothers for this specific purpose. I slapped my forehead and shot out of bed. "Oh my gosh!" I said. "I forgot!" 

I popped out of bed so quickly that I got dizzy from the effort and had to lean against the wall for a moment while holding my head. I glanced at the clock. I had about five minutes. That was enough time to slather the bread with peanut butter and Nutella, extract a Gatorade from the fridge, fish out the skittles and potato chips I had hidden in the pantry and stuff the whole lot in a paper sack. With one minute to spare I even had time to write "Paul" on the side of the bag in purple pen. Then I kissed the kids goodbye and made my way back to the bedroom. I had hoped to get more sleep, but by that time I was too awake. So I went for a jog (really a slog) instead. 

As I shuffled my way past the elementary school, I saw two women running. I thought they were together, but suddenly one dashed out in front of the other. She had something clutched in one hand and as I got closer, I realized it was a paper sack, the top folded down, a name scribbled on the side. I turned my head to the left and there, pulling out of the school parking lot, was a giant yellow school bus full of children. The woman waved at the bus, wildly pointing toward the sack lunch that she held high for the driver to see. She increased her stride, her arms pumping with determination. I could envision what had happened that morning. Her son went to school thinking it was going to be like any other Monday. Only this day everyone had a sack lunch full of Twinkies and soda. That's when he remembered about the field trip. He would have called his mom in a panic. "We're leaving in twenty minutes," he would have shrieked into the phone. So his mom, who was just sitting down to a nice hot cup of tea and a plate of buttered toast would have jumped up from the table and scoured the kitchen for sack lunch fare. When she had the lunch packed, she would throw herself and the lunch into the car. That's when she would discover that the car wouldn't start, and so she would have to run six blocks to the elementary school in the next five minutes. 

There was a time in my mothering life when I would have called this mom a slacker. Had this happened during the two weeks in 2004 when my household ran smoothly I would have been smug at the sight of a harried mother running towards a school bus with a sack lunch in hand, because I would have been more on top of things. But not now. Now I am so buried under things that I don't even want to get out of bed for fear of what I've forgotten to do, or say, or make. I understand, I wanted to tell this mother. But she was running too fast. And as for me, I'm not even sure I was really awake.  

On the Acquisition of Things

I've been helping a friend clean out her parents' house this week. It hasn't exactly been fun. More like educational. Enlightening, even. I've discovered something I already knew (which would make it a re-discovery, but as it's late and I'm tired, just work with me on this, okay?). All this stuff we think we need to have turns out to be the least important thing when it comes to dying. You know those Christmas ornaments you thought would make such a difference to your holiday celebration? Total nonsense when your progeny opens the unmarked box and finds them rolling around in strands of curly garland and sticky candles shaped like snowmen. And those books that promised to make you smarter, happier, healthier, and more successful? Fodder for the fire, my friends.  

So I've been trying to wrap my brain around the idea of stuff and where it fits in my happiness plan. All these years I've thought that I want stuff, so I need a job to buy stuff, preferably a good one that pays a lot so I can buy good stuff. If I buy good stuff, I will be happier. Or so I thought until this week. Now that I see how useless stuff can be once you're gone from this world and living in a better place where hot chocolate flows freely and every day feels like Christmas because Jesus is right there, sitting in the booth next to you, I wonder if my priorities are out of whack. 

I borrowed Anne Morrow Lindburgh's book Gift from the Sea and read a bit about how this kind of shell I took a picture of, (I forget what it's called--argonaut?), once housed a small sea creature. When it was no longer suitable, he (or she, or it?) simply vacated the home and found another, taking nothing with him. I can picture this, especially when I imagine a female critter. She would leave at night so no one would see her as she fled, naked and nervous, through the dark alleys of the deep sea. She'd see the "for rent" sign on a white shell that had only one room, but this great pointy thing at the top that she could hang a metal star from, or a potted plant. So she signs the lease and moves in the next day. Then she commences to fill up the place with all sorts of knickknacks. There's the bit of red paper she found on the beach and used for a tablecloth, the handful of sand she brought back from a trip to Mexico, the t-shirt she bought at the Krusty Krab restaurant, and a self-help book entitled Going with the Flow When You're Swimming Against the Tide. She continues to acquire more and more things, all the while thinking that the more stuff she has, the more complete her life will feel to her. Then one day she discovers that her shell feels a little tight around the waist. She wonders if she's gained weight. But after spending an entire day moping around and feeling fat, she'll conclude that the shell has somehow shrunk. And then she'll move to a bigger place. 

So what does this mean? It means that I'm in the mood to get rid of everything that does not represent my life as it is right now, or the life that I would like to have. I want to get rid of all the things that no longer serve a purpose in my house. All the good intention purchases. All the thrift store finds that sit in my cupboards unused year after year. The clothes that no longer fit. The clothes that never fit in the first place. The decorations I want to throw in the fireplace because I'm so sick of hauling them out every year. The leftovers in the freezer that no one, not even the cat, will eat.  I'm talking about a whole-house purge here, and a ruthless one. Because one day I will die, and I from what I hear, you can't take a suitcase or even a carry-on with you on the journey.    

Early Morning Freak-Out

This morning the garage door started to open. As we were in bed at the time, you can imagine that it slightly freaked us out. Or, rather, it freaked me out because I was the only one who heard it. 

"Rick!" I said in a scream-whisper, "Someone's opening the garage door!" We both sprang out of bed to investigate. Rick grabbed a billy-club flashlight that is about a foot long, made of hard metal, and which requires something like six batteries. As we've never had that many fresh batteries at one time, we've never used it for light. But it makes a great weapon even without all the batteries. When I'm holding that thing, I imagine myself as a British police officer on patrol. I clutch my "billy club" (aka flashlight) in one hand while hitting it against the palm of my other hand. It makes a satisfying smack and inspires me to say things like, "Well, well, well. What have we here?"     

But this morning Rick had the flashlight, not me. Which was fine, because I wanted to be the one to call the police if he really did find someone and knocked them senseless. If I were to call the police, it would be my third attempt in my lifetime. I made the first call when we lived in student housing and heard a scratching at the door. When we looked through the peephole, no one was there. My fingers shook as I dialed the magic numbers. "Someone's trying to get into our apartment," I whispered into the phone. 

"Tell me what's happening," the voice on the line said. So I described the scratching noise, how it had continued despite my husband banging on the door with his fist and yelling in his mean-man voice, "Get the hell away from my house!" which struck me as funny, because we didn't live in a house. But I chose not to laugh, and I chose not to correct my husband, because I could see the veins bulging in his arm as he attacked the door, and his eyes had taken on a crazy red glow. Plus, the sinister scratching had briefly stopped. But then it started up again. 

"I want to keep you on the line," the police dispatcher said quietly, "keep talking." So I did. And that's when my husband got so frustrated that he finally opened the door. This was before the big flashlight, so he had no really good weapon, aside from his rage. But it turned out that he didn't need one. There, on the doormat, sat a mouse. Although it did have beady little eyes, they were not full of malice or even mischief. The mouse looked up at Rick, its whiskers twitching, the brown fur covering its body quivering. And then there were the eyes, unblinking and blank. I saw no intelligence there, no evil plot to enter our home and kidnap the baby. It occurred to me that if the mouse were in a comic strip, there would be an empty bubble above its head where words should have been.  

"Are you all right?" the dispatcher asked with worry. "What's happening now?" 

I realized that I had gone silent. Suppressing the urge to giggle, I said, "Uh, never mind." And then I hung up. I won't tell you how Rick killed the mouse. Or how he cleaned up the guts smashed into the doormat. Or that he later suspected it wasn't a mouse at all, but the neighbor's pet hamster. I won't describe these things because today's post was supposed to be about this morning. So let's get back to that.  

When Rick flung open the door from the house to the garage, no one was there. However, the outside door was about a quarter of the way up. Just enough for someone who had been hiding in the garage to make a quick getaway, I thought aloud. My husband pointed out that no one would take the risk of pressing the button to open the door a little, then pressing the button again to make it stop, counting on there being enough time to actually leave before someone discovered their presence. I had to admit he was right, which I hate doing. But it was early and my brain was still foggy, so the admission didn't bother me as much as it would have when I was fully awake.

I briefly considered the possibility that our cat had pressed the button. Yes, you heard me right. Our cat. But that would be silly, right? Because for one thing her arm isn't long enough to reach the door opener. And I don't think her aim is good enough to have made a series of leaps at the thing in hopes of flinging her body at it with enough force to depress the button. And surely she would have made some noise, at the very least a frustrated "me-ow" as she hit the wall. Also, I remembered that when I heard the door open, she was stretched out on my neck sleeping deeply and I had to shove her aside to get up. But it would have been fun to tell people we caught a cat burglar--literally.

So, with no explanation for what or who could have opened our garage door, we trudged upstairs back to bed. Or at least Rick did. I couldn't sleep, so I made my way back to the office to write about the incident. On the way, I found a plastic light saber on the floor. I should have picked that up as a weapon on the way to the garage, I thought to myself. But then I realized that a plastic light saber would have done nothing to protect my family against a thief or murderer. I mean, our light saber doesn't even light up or make a noise. And even though my boys have taught me some impressive moves that involve spinning and using a slicing action against your opponent, in the face of real danger it would have inspired nothing more than laughter. Unless, of course, you're a mouse.

 

My New Best Friend

I was in the mood for something salty and crunchy the other day and happened upon these chips at Whole Foods. I like beets, and I like sweet potatoes, and I like chips, so it was a no brainer that I would like these. Best of all, they're sort of good for you. Of course, if you eat the whole bag, you might not feel great. And you're potty will turn a pretty shade of red, which might cause you to think you've got some internal bleeding going on. But then you'll remember all those beets you just snarfed in the form of chips, and you will calm down and take note that perhaps next time you shouldn't eat ALL of the chips, just MOST of them.

Also, they're a bit pricey, so you probably won't be buying them every day. But I hear you can make them at home, which makes me want to buy a mandoline, one of those kitchen gadgets that slices stuff super thin. You need some time too, for all that slicing and then the baking. But I wonder. If you make these yourself, are you less inclined to eat too many of them, seeing as it took you so long to make them? That's what I call food for thought. 

Ukraine: Words and Pictures Part 5

This is the final installment of the Ukraine project. Thanks for reading!

Elections in Odessa, Ukraine, July 1994. These workers are sprucing up a building where voting would take place the next day. During the preceding weeks, candidates appealed to the new sense of Ukrainian independence by promising an improved, Communist-free life. There were expensive television campaign commercials--only flyers. 

 

I'm told that the Ukraine is different now, sixteen years later. Some people wondered who ordered Communism removed, who thought it was so bad that they had to do away with it completely. And that's understandable. It's like your parents kicking you out and leaving you to figure out how to pay your bills, find a job and an apartment, and where to find food, let alone cook it. That's what it felt like to me, anyway. An entire country in limbo, everyone shrugging and asking, "What do we do now?" 

Yet some were hopeful, like the person quoted in the last paragraph above. "It will get better," the positive thinkers said. And reportedly it is better. I hear there's more food in the stores and money in the banks. And the line between Eastern and Western fashion is more blurry now, as women wear Gucci and smell of expensive perfume as they shop in modern stores. As for the babooshki, I'm sure there are plenty of die-hard scarf-heads left. At least I hope so.  
   

Ukraine: Words and Pictures Part 4

 

Ukraine: Words and Pictures Part 3

More from the Ukraine project. 

  

Come back for more this weekend. I'll post the final two installments on Saturday and Sunday, so come back for more. Thanks for reading!

Ukraine: Words and Pictures Part 2

Note: the plural for old men is dedooshki, not dedooshkas. Oops.

 

 

Ukraine: Words and Pictures

I'm feeling nostalgic this week. And a little tired since my body doesn't know what time it is and why I'm waking up when it's dark outside and eating dinner when it looks too bright and inviting outside. Whose idea was daylight savings time anyway? (Benjamin Franklin? At least I think that's what they said on National Treasure.)

Anyho, so I've been thinking of traveling lately. But since I am stuck blessed to be home today, I am resorting to sifting through my files of days gone by living in Europe. (I still haven't had an English scone yet. Perhaps this would help my mood?) Instead of daydreaming I should be reading a novel for the parent/child book group my oldest and I joined, but I've always been the Push the Panic Button kind of student, so I'm taking a break…before I get started.

So here's a blast from the past, 1994 to be exact. Those of you who know me might remember that I served an LDS (aka Mormon, aka those two guys in suits wearing name tags and knocking on doors, only I'm a girl) mission to Kiev, Ukraine. At that time, the Ukraine was trying to figure out how to be Capitalist instead of Communist. It was a bumpy ride, especially if you were an American fond of hot showers, reliable electricity, grocery stores that stocked more than pickled beets, and public transportation that didn't involve smashing your body against strangers. Don't even get me started about standing in lines. Or the post office, where instead of the workers going "postal" the patrons could easily snap after waiting an hour only to be told that there were no more stamps to be had.  

But of course, there were good things, like borscht and black bread. And a nine-layer torte that a sweet old woman made for her own birthday celebration. And the chestnut trees lining the boulevard, blooming in great white flower cones that swayed in the breeze. And the lilacs with their intoxicating scent, perfuming the path to our apartment. And the open markets in the summer, women wrapped in scarves dropping a dollop of honey on the back of your hand, urging you to Eat, Eat! And of course there were the people, who could still laugh in spite of all the frustrations and uncertainties. These are some of the things that made all the cold showers worth it. And they are what prompted me to put some words and pictures of my experiences in the Ukraine together. So I could remember why I went there in the first place. And why I would gladly go back. 

So I'm inviting you to my memory party this week. Hope you enjoy yourselves. I know I will.

PS

If you can't read a picture, click on it to enlarge.

This is an excerpt from an inscription written in a book of poetry, given to me by my dear friend Maria. 

 She was right. My heart still feels hers, even though we are thousands of miles apart. 

 

Mouse Potato

I finally figured out why my jeans are getting tight. Too much time sitting at the computer. I suffer from an affliction Nora Ephron calls mouse potato in her book I Hate My Neck. I've become someone who spends way too much time on her tushie at the computer. I would like to go outside and run a marathon right now. But I'll probably end up surfing instead…on the net, that is. It's easier on my joints anyway. (Although it doesn't help in the jeans department.)

On Holey Pajamas

Today's Deep Thought:

Why is it just when I get something broken in, it breaks and then I have to get another one and start all over again? This happened with my pajamas just last week. The material was soft, the waistband nice and stretched out, the material thin enough to wear in the summer. But I must have taken too many pictures crouched on my knees while wearing them, because there's a big rip in one knee now. I could try to repair it, but that would require sewing. 

This applies to having babies too. I was talking to a friend whose daughter just started walking and asked if she was ready for another. Turns out, she is ready for more kids. "No you're not," I wanted to tell her. "You just think you are." Lack of sleep messes with your mind. It's like torture--you lose all sense of reality and start to imagine it would be possible to breastfeed a newborn and diaper a toddler simultaneously. 

But I couldn't say this to her because I'm guilty of wanting another baby when our first was a mere nine months old. I'm pretty sure I was delirious when I decided that would be a good idea. And so, just when I had a routine and a rhythm to all the baby stuff and had figured out how to work a car seat, I turned on the vacant sign in my uterus and got to work. You see? I had my life all broken in and then I had to go and have another baby and start the whole process over again. And, three years later, just when I had my sanity back and could stuff my body back into my pre-pregnancy clothes and could almost complete a thought without dropping off to sleep in the middle of it, I had our third baby. And, you guessed it, had to begin again, right where I started with the first kid. 

Yet now, thirteen years later, here I am without any babies or little kids. It's just me and the cat all day. We have a routine, she and I. I putter around the house while she sleeps. And while this kind of life has been fun, I think there are some holes in it. It's time to shake things up, rip a few routines, try something new, or do something different. Maybe when something you've broken in finally breaks, it's not supposed to be mended. Maybe my holey pajamas are a kick in the pants from the Universe, or God, or the Man Upstairs, or whatever you want to call it. It's a cosmic message to throw out the old and bring in the new, whatever that new thing may be. 

Or it could just mean that I need to buy new pajamas.

I wasn't going to share anything today. Feeling out of sorts and having quite the fat day. I'm wearing my skinny jeans, but just barely. They must have shrunk, right? Or maybe I've eaten too many desserts again. At any rate, I've been trying to think of ways to stretch them out, aside from doing deep knee bends, which are making my knees ache.

Anyway, it's not a day to ponder. It's a day to be out of the house, keeping my mind off the boredom and sadness I'm feeling. So I'm off to thrift stores and the library. But I won't be indulging my craving for English scones. Unless, of course, I happen to go to England today.

Quality Time

Dear Jake, 

As the youngest, you got stuck with me again--for the entire day. Your dad and brothers went skiing, leaving you at my mercy. So I thought we'd go snowshoeing because you and I don't move our bodies enough. (I spend too much time on the computer; you waste your youth on the Wii.) Plus I really didn't want to go to Toys-r-Us as you suggested. And snowshoeing is cheaper than skiing. 

So we packed a lunch and drove up the canyon to a place we've never tried before. As we drove through the sunny valley where we live, you thought we wouldn't be able to snowshoe. "Let's turn back and go where we always go," you said--more than once, too, I might add. But I told you we should just take a look and then decide.

Aren't you glad we didn't turn around? Because when we finally got to the trail, it looked like this:

And it was packed with people and their dogs. There were lots of little kids, and teenagers, babies strapped to their mothers in fabric slings, daddies pulling their toddlers on plastic sleds, and even some people cross-country skiing through the crowds. The air smelled clean and cold, and the sun shone down on us like a smile from God. 

I put your snowshoes on first, then mine. Judging from the look on your face, you thought we were going to have fun:

"Okay, Mother," you said to me. "Let's get going." So we did. We hit the road--literally. As I told you when we started out, this snowshoeing area was actually an unplowed road. I liked the road: it was flat and well-trod. But you wanted to explore, so we stomped through the deep snow bordering the road. But that was too close to the river's edge, which was not too deep, but full of freezing water that gurgled at us when we looked down at it. 

"You're too close!" I warned you when you shuffled over to the edge to investigate some icicles frozen to the rocks. I was remembering the time you fell into a fountain in San Francisco. I watched you chase your brothers on big slabs of cement sitting atop the water. 

And then you must have slipped, because you fell into the murky depths right after I took this picture. 

I screamed, Dad asked what was wrong, and then you popped right back up, scraping your leg as you pulled yourself back onto the stepping stone. You cried and cried, and when I tried to console you, you pulled away from me and cried and cried some more. We laid your clothes and shoes in the sun and wrapped you in Dad's sweatshirt. While Dad went to search for some band-aids, you sobbed. And still, you wouldn't let me so much as touch your cheek. So I took some pictures to pass the time. 

 

You sure didn't like that. But what could I do? You wouldn't let me do my job as your mother, and it was getting boring just watching you moan and shriek. 

So when I told you to get away from the water, I had to remind you of the fountain. Otherwise, you weren't going to listen. You gave me a look that said, "Oh, Mother, you're such a worry wart." But still, you obeyed. 

About five minutes later, you slumped your shoulders and declared that you had had enough of snowshoeing.

I checked my watch. "But we've only been here for twenty minutes," I said. But you said you were hungry. So even though it was only 10:30, we sat in the snow and ate our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. This made you happy enough. And it was a good photo opportunity. I want you to remember me when I'm relatively young and mobile, so I got in the picture too. 

After lunch, I convinced you that we needed to explore a little more. And so, we started out again. 

Five minutes after that, you collapsed and did this thing:

It was clear to me that I was not going to get a good cardio workout that morning. But this was supposed to be bonding time, too, right? So I took your picture instead of yelling at you. Which probably was better for both of us. Because let's face it, I really wanted to burn some calories so we could go the French pastry shop after we were done. 

I convinced you to go a little further. And then you convinced me that we had been out long enough and it was time to turn around. I said something like, "Humph," and you said something like, "Waaahhhhh, I wanna go home," so we called it a day, even though it was still technically morning.

It didn't take long to get to the car. But when I mentioned the French pastries, you gave me this look:

"Can't we go to Toys-r-Us instead?"

I said no. You cried. But it wasn't a real cry. There were no tears, only the forced sobs of a kid wanting his own way. I know fake-crying well, as I was the master of it when I was your age. (I studied method acting as a toddler.) I waited for you to finish your scene. It didn't take long. After all, you were worn out from all that exercise and had no energy left for drama. So after a few minutes we got in the car and drove home.

I've thought about it, and I've decided that the next time I want to go snowshoeing, I'm taking my sister. 

Love,

Mom 

Romeo

Earlier in the week, my oldest son came home with body graffiti, penned by a girl in one of his classes. She had written "I love your face" on his left hand. I almost didn't notice it. But it was almost like he wanted me to see it, gesturing with his hand while he talked, lifting it to take off his glasses, all within inches of my face. 

When I saw the blur of letters on his skin, I grabbed his hand to look closer. There was an outline of a heart where the word "love" should have been. And the exclamation point had been dotted with another, smaller heart, this one colored in with blue ink. The letters were written with the same plump handwriting that I used to have in junior high. "What's this?" I asked. 

"What's what?" my son said innocently. I noticed that the first "what" sounded like a man's voice, but the second "what" sounded like a kid's. Clearly, I was making him nervous. And it made me glad for some reason, as if my mom power could stop this tide of testosterone.   

As I sat there examining my son's hand, I traveled back in time to when he was little and I used to draw smiley faces on his thumb. He would giggle at the tickle of the pen against his skin, wiggle his nose at the smell of ink on his fingers. This is something handed down to me from my mother, who would draw smiles on my big toe as I lay on the floor reading. Even now in her letters she'll often pause in a sentence to draw a smile, and often she'll sign her name with a smiley face too. Those tiny smiles from my mother make me feel she is near somehow, and that I am still her little girl. 

My son took his hand away from mine. But I wasn't done with the inquisition. "So who wrote this?" I asked. 

"No one," he answered. He turned away to look out the window. "A girl." 

"Which girl?" 

He said a name I've heard him mention before, a girl I do not know. Then I realized that to write on someone's hand, you needed to hold it. And if you're going to draw hearts, you might just hold on to that hand for awhile so you can do a really good job of it. When I pointed this out to him, asking if that was his experience, he just laughed. 

I laughed too. But not as much. It's harmless enough to write on someone's hand. She had, after all written I love your face, which is not quite the same as I love you. Yet I do sometimes worry that teenagers--especially girls--get carried away with the idea of love. I've read the Twilight series and I've seen the movies. I get how tenuous the line between love and infatuation can be, especially when you're young. But real boys are just that--boys. They are not one hundred year-old vampires wearing pasty-face makeup and amber colored contacts, driving sports cars, and feigning American accents. Girls are bound to be disappointed when they declare their attraction to the normal, non-vampire boys inhabiting their real world. "I love your face!" would most likely not be met with, "You are my Bella, my reason for breathing." Rather, I think my son would snatch his hand back (although the evidence indicates that the girl wrote a complete sentence without resistance--no smears, no wavy letters) as if bothered, but then read her words for the rest of the day, all the while marveling, "She likes me." 

That night, he washed away the love note without any remorse. And by morning, we had all forgotten about it. Then I picked him up from school. And this is what I found when he got in the car:

"She's persistent," I told my kid. "Apparently she still loves your face."  

He smiled. "Yeah," he said out loud. And by the way his eyes danced as he said it, there's a good chance he was also thinking, "Isn't it great?" 

And that's when I remembered that he had dressed up as Edward Cullen for his sixth grade dance less than a year before. A few of the girls had shrieked with delight when they saw him. He had danced with some girls that afternoon while all of us mothers watched from the sidelines, the smell of popcorn and hot dogs mingling with the scent of perfume and sweat as the kids gathered in the middle of the room. He had not made eye contact with the girls as they shuffled in circles on the dusty linoleum floor. He had looked off in the distance as if considering something deeply meaningful to him. And when the music sped up, he closed his eyes and danced by himself, his long limbs swinging to the beat, his lips moving with the words. It was as if I was watching a stranger. 

Back in the car, I pulled into traffic and headed home. My son was silent, perhaps contemplating the significance of the words on his hand. "So what are you going to do now?" I asked, referring to the face-love thing going on between him and this girl. 

But he didn't get my meaning. "Probably go home and make a sandwich," he said. "I'm starving." 

That's my boy. 

  

OK Go Already, Why Don't You?

Here's another link to Ok Go's song, which I found on dooce.com. My kids tell me they like this one the best. Probably because they like how much gets destroyed in the course of the video. I'm a little worried that they'll want to try some of the ideas in our garage this weekend. Have fun listening. You just might want to dance, too. Or take a hammer to your television. (At least this is what it inspired in me.) 

 
 

Ok Go

My hubby just sent me this link to a clever music video. Sure beats the days of early MTV, when my mother always seemed to come into the room when Duran Duran's Hungry Like a Wolf was on, right at the point when a woman's voice moaned something like "Ahhh, ahhh." I was clueless why Duran Duran was singing about being hungry. Why not just eat a sandwich instead of writing a song about it? But my mother knew what they were singing about, and she didn't like it one bit.  

"What are you watching!" she'd cry in alarm. We'd just look at her blankly, then turn back to the tv like the MTV zombies we were. 

The next time she came into the room we were watching Mommy Dearest for the tenth time that month. Shortly after, she cancelled our cable subscription. 

Mom wouldn't object to this music video though. It's nifty. It's far out. As my mom would say, it's the bee's knees. And you don't even need MTV to watch it. 

 

Here's the link: OK Go Video

If I could be in a marching band like this, I'd sign up today. But the ewok brass ensemble hiding in the grass is a little freaky.  

 So the other day my youngest and I were stuck home alone. I can't remember where everyone else was, but I'm sure they were having more fun than we were. "What should we do?" my kid asked. I had been wondering the same since the day I realized it would be just me and him for an entire Saturday. It's been a long time since I've had only one kid to entertain, but these days it's happening more often. And while in my younger years I often thought that I would lose my mind if another baby took up residence in my womb, it's been quite handy to have given my little critters playmates in the form of siblings. Instead of me having to play Hot Wheels with my son for hours on end, he could coerce his little brother to play with him instead. 

But here's the problem. When you have your first couple of babies less than two years apart and then take a breather for three years, the caboose kid gets left out of quite a few things. Plus, when you have all boys, they are not interested in mothering the baby as I'm told girls are, so you get no help, only thinly veiled resentment. Through the years I've impressed many people with my excellent reflexes, but I have to be honest. The only reason I can catch things whizzing by or at me is because of how often I had to dodge toys my toddlers launched at my head while I was breastfeeding their baby brother. 

The caboose kid doesn't always realize he's getting the shaft, though. And maybe that's because he doesn't see it that way. With his brothers out of the picture, he gets time alone with me, and sometimes with his dad, too. Sure, he may not be invited to go see Avatar, but at least he gets my full attention for three hours. And for now, that seems to be working for him. And for me too. While the older kids ease into the cynicism that comes with old age, the youngest still enjoys going for nature walks, telling knock-knock jokes, and sleeping with stuffed animals.

So what to do on a Saturday with an eight-year-old? Why, build a tent, of course. In your front room. 

As a kid, I would spend many happy hours making forts by draping blankets over the pool table. That stopped when we moved to an apartment and didn't have room for a pool table anymore. But I never quite got over the delicious feeling of mystery as I crept into my blanket cave and disappeared into the darkness, the muffled sound of the television filling the silence with a warm familiarity. In later years, I would hide out in my closet, which was not as good as a fort, but still served its purpose. I could read without disruption, escape my family without being too far from them, and sometimes pretend that I was camping without having to deal with bugs. 

But we don't have a pool table, and our closets are full with other things. We do, however, have thin rope and an old duvet cover, all of the necessary items for tent-making. 

With Jake supervising, I strung the rope between a window frame and a doorway. Then I ripped the duvet cover in strategic places, threw it over the rope and voila! Jake had himself a tent. He dragged the couch pillows inside, rigged up a front and back door with old sheets and clothespins, found himself a good book, and disappeared. 

"Can I sleep in here?" he asked me that night. I said sure, it'd be like camping. Only warmer, and with less bugs. And so, for the next week, this is where my son lived. He dragged all of his stuffed animals inside. He asked for a small lamp and his alarm clock, too. Many nights I would pass the tent on my way downstairs and see the shadow of his little body crouched over a book. In the morning, he'd stagger out with wild hair and sleepy eyes, smiling to himself for no particular reason. He was one happy camper, much happier than the time we all crammed into a four man tent and spent seven miserable hours laying in the dirt on sloped ground. But that's another story best left untold.  

After awhile, I forgot the tent was there. It had become so much a part of the room that my eyes failed to see it as an imposition. But then, we had some visitors, and when I led them upstairs I realized there was nowhere for them to sit. Two chairs anchored the tent and the couch cushions had become Jake's bed. Clearly, the tent was in the way. And so I finally took it down. 

Yet although it's tucked away for now, the tent is not forgotten. Or at least its purpose is not forgotten. As I sit here writing, I've thought about Jake's closet. There just might be a spot big enough for a pillow, a small lamp and an eight-year-old. And if I move a couple boxes, there might be enough room for me, too. 

A Safe Place

  

You've probably heard about Chelsea King, the 17 year-old who went jogging by herself around Lake Hodges in Rancho Bernardo, California, and never came back. A convicted rapist was arrested in connection with her disappearance on Sunday, and Tuesday police found what they think is Chelsea's body. This story hits close to home for me. My family lives in the area, my niece and nephew went to Chelsea's high school, and if I'm not mistaken, my niece has jogged the trails at Lake Hodges a few times herself. When I spoke with my mother on the phone yesterday, she told me that the entire community is in shock. And now, they are in mourning. 

Thousands of people grieve not only for the loss of a girl with a bright future, but for the loss of a safe community. Rancho Bernardo is not a scary place. It's a suburb of San Diego, a tidy California village where people retire and families raise their kids. The schools are top notch. The roads are well paved,the lawns neatly groomed. It's where you can go to Denny's at midnight, confident that no one is going to mug you in the parking lot. And it's where you'd assume that your daughter would be safe going for a run after school. 

But looks can be deceiving. According to feminist.com, "One out of every six American women have been the victims of an attempted or completed rape in their lifetime." What's more disturbing is that over half of those assaults happen before a girl turns eighteen. Though some claim that a woman who ventures down a dark alley in a sketchy part of town is "just asking for it," turns out it's getting just as dangerous to talk a walk in a park. In the afternoon. Smack in the middle of Suburbia. 

Yesterday on the phone, my mother asked, "You don't still run by yourself, do you?" She sounded worried. I assured her that physically, I can't run very far anymore, if at all. But when I thought about it, I realized that I used to go on solo runs nearly every day, starting in college, when I'd head outside before the sun came up to get my three miles. And in more recent years, I've run from my house to the mouth of a canyon five miles away on a road that is not exactly deserted, but not exactly busy either. As we talked, I could hear my kids playing in the driveway, the steady rhythm of the basketball, the yelps of laughter. A car passed by, and I wondered who was driving, a stranger or a friend. I thought of the children who have gone missing, their stories appearing on the nightly news for weeks until the search is called off, or the bodies are found. I see pictures of missing children on the back page of advertisements that come in my mail box. They always smile in the photographs, looking so little and happy, completely unaware of how one day they will become a statistic. I thought of the few missing children who had, miraculously, been found alive, but broken in ways I do not want to imagine. I have always felt that this kind of thing could never happen to my children or to me, because we are protected from such horrors if only by virtue of where we live. But then again, that's what Chelsea King thought, too.

So I'm wondering what we can do about this alarming trend of violence towards children and teenagers, girls especially. My niece's friend Kendall Pearson Sallay, a San Jose State University student, has an answer. Sallay hopes to add girls-only self defense classes to the California physical education requirements for high school students. If you agree, you can sign her petition here. Personally, I think such skills should be taught in elementary all the way through to college. And if our schools do not teach it, as parents we should. Advising girls to protect themselves by staying in the neighborhood and avoiding the bad parts of town is not enough anymore. Because sometimes you just can't tell what will happen. Or where.

If you would like to learn more about how to protect your family from sexual assault, here's a link to the RAINN.ORG website. 

If you would like self-defense classes to be part of your school's curriculum, contact your state office of education. 

Junior High Spy: The Last Installment

A few more words about junior high, and then I'm done. Really. 

Beginning Band Class

In band, they play a death march, apparently of Asian origin. It reminds me of a Samurai walking slowly towards a big tree stump, where a tall figure wearing a black shroud waits to slice off his head. Or maybe it's the tune played during an old James Bond movie when James is slinking through the bad guy's house looking for clues. At any rate, this is what I want played at my funeral, or rather the funeral procession. It would be good if there'd be weeping, renting of clothing and general hysteria as everyone slogs behind my casket. Even though I believe everyone will see me again some day (sans cellulite), my absence will be quite a blow to my children and husband come dinner time. 

Career and Technical Education

My son takes a career test on the state education website. What a crock. I took this type of quiz in high school and the results showed that I should be a dancer. I was taking ballet lessons at the time and had answered the questions accordingly. I lied about everything. Do you like to perform? the test asked. Oh yes, I replied, even though I got all sweaty and vomitous at every single piano recital. Do you like to dance? was another question. Heck yea, I answered. I danced to the radio in my room all the time.  

What I should have answered when asked what I liked was this: a big paycheck. 

There's a notice on the board asking parents to come talk about their occupation. That gets me to thinking. What am I occupied with? Is that different from what I'm preoccupied with? 

Student Senate

Discussion about Cum Laude, Magna Cum Laude and Summa Cum Laude. Really useful stuff. I got one of these fancy Latin terms on my diploma and wasn't sure what it meant. I had hoped it meant I was the Grand Poo Bah of my graduating class. At least that's what I told my kids it meant when they asked why they have to address me as "Your Majesty." 

We watch a video about recycling. One girl says she's going to save resources by using less water when she brushes her teeth. I decide that I will contribute by recycling last night's dinner. 

Gym

My son plays basketball in the far corner of the gymnasium while I watch from the bleachers. I have to lean to the side to see him through the clusters of sweaty little boys. What strikes me as odd, unfamiliar and unfathomable, is how much fun the kids seem to be having. They're smiling and laughing, joking with each other. This is nothing like my junior high gym experience. There were times when I was so open, had anyone thought to throw me the ball, I could have made a basket or a goal or a downtouch or whatever you call it. Well, okay, I maybe might have perhaps done those things. Or not. But I never had the chance to find out. After years of being passed over, I finally decided to bring some knitting to P.E. to pass the time. (Not really. My Nazi gym teachers would have gone ballistic. I had to at least pretend to be interested in what everyone else was doing.) Gym class involved balls when I was a thirteen-year-old. But usually it involved throwing balls at me, not to me. 

The teacher calls the class to attention with a blow of his whistle. Overhead the fluorescent lights buzz loudly while he tells them to clean up and go shower. The boys stampede to the locker room as a single unit. As the herd passes me by, I'm struck by a gust of wind that stinks of sweat, school lunch, crusty socks, and stale deodorant. It smells like little boy meets man. 

And just like that, the day is over. I've graduated from seventh grade and can go back to being a stay-at-home mom. It feels like I've been gone for months. Yet when I look at my watch, it's only been seven hours and thirty-five minutes. But who's counting, right?  

Why I Can't Write When the Kids Are Home

Last week as I was composing my life story in five paragraphs, my youngest threw open the office door and asked, "So what are we doing today?" like I would have something fabulous in mind, say a trip to Disneyland. In fact, I had not realized the kids would be out of school until the night before. Even though I knew it would be nearly impossible to keep my personal schedule with the little hooligans home for the entire day, I put on my stubborn face that holiday morning and plowed forward. The older kids could sense my determination to get my writing done, but my youngest does not pick up on subtleties such as: "Don't you think Mommy should get a turn on the computer?" or "Why don't you ask someone to play?" or "I think the cat wants you to read to her." I was talking in Womanese, you see, the language of subtle hints that all of my sisters speak fluently. Unfortunately, my men, both little and big, are not bilingual. Jakey is the most flummoxed by my Womanese, probably because he has the least experience with mis-translations. That's why, instead of leaving me to my work, he stepped closer to my chair. 

"You told me you'd take me to the store at 10:30 today," he said. In his hand he held a small plastic ball that he carefully opened to reveal a weird little character called a Bakugan. He began to make shooting sounds, then explosions, waving his Bakugan in my face. "Take me to the store, take me to the store, take me to the store," he chanted in a robot voice. You can see how it would be difficult to keep track of your thoughts in conditions like these. 

It brought this commercial to mind:

So I had to put him off with a bribe. "If you let me work for a little while longer," I said, "I'll take you to get a cupcake and a hot chocolate." I actually wanted the cupcake and hot chocolate, but one of the perks of being a mom is being able to convince yourself that you do these things for your children-- that it is in fact their fault that you eat too much sugar. 

The Bakugan and Jake's mouth closed. He thought for a minute, then said, "To the store first, though."

"Fine." I set a timer for thirty minutes and handed it to him. "Do not bother me until this thing goes off," I said.

Exactly five minutes later he was back. 

And so I sighed, turned off the computer and grabbed my purse. I took my kid to the store and I bought everyone a cupcake and cocoa. But when I came home, my thoughts were nowhere to be found. 

If you've seen them, please let me know. I suspect they're either under the bed or crammed between the couch cushions. Or maybe they weren't ever there in the first place.