I am a Mother

I have been sick to my stomach for 5 days now.  On Friday I opened up my yahoo see what random news there was to read during lunch and was slammed in the face with the words that changed us all.  Images that we cannot erase from our minds no matter how hard we might scrub.  Cries and screams that we didn’t hear out loud, but sound repeatedly in our ears clearly. 

I close my eyes and pray to rewind time.  I wish I could have foresight to go back to 8am on Friday morning and stop it somehow.  Send a snowstorm to keep school closed, learn how to remove a battery to disable a car, will a police officer to have a random traffic stop so as to detain an evil doer from completing his journey. 

But I am not magic.  I don’t have those powers.  I am unable to rewrite history.  I am as human as we all are and I am grieving.  I am grieving for those that I have never met in life but look forward to having welcome me one day to a paradise they will be getting ready for me to join. 

To know me socially, you would probably not see me as a deeply spiritual person.  I am private about my faith; I don’t choose to define my heart publicly.  To know me personally, you’d understand that it is there, hidden and private, but strong and honest.   My convictions are sometimes muddled, confused and angry.  I do not profess to the notion of “God’s Will” when things that are so atrocious, so vile and so inhumane occur.  The God I pray to does not sacrifice to prove a point.  Some events defy reason, explanation. 

There is a blog going around from a woman who has a child that frightens her to her very core. She writes that she is the Mother of XXX.   She writes that she could be any of the sociopath’s mothers as her child could be capable of that same thing.  I can empathize with this woman’s struggle as she didn’t “ask” for this to be her life.  She fights to protect her other children from the emotional pendulum of her troubled child, while being torn as to how to care and nurture the all.  But as real as this problem is for her, it isn’t my focus right now.

My focus is that of a Mother of a 5 year boy.  A boy who still has his milk teeth, some loose, some firmly still rooted for months to come.  A boy who still sleeps with his stuffed animals and smells sweetly after getting out of his bubble bath.  A boy who is only about 3 years or so out of diapers.  A boy whose pants still carry the “T” label attached to the numerical size and still have adjustable waists. 

My boy, who grew up to be a big Kindergartener this year.  Who takes a big huge school bus each afternoon to his afterschool program and who comes home each day with his little tiny backpack stuffed with paper airplanes, homemade books and weird magic marker colored creations.

My child.  My little boy.  Who believes in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy.  My child who has learned all of the words to “Grand Old Flag” and somehow knows the “Jingle Bells, Batman Smells” song (how does this get passed down year to year I wonder?).  My son, who already knows how to read and could probably take apart a computer and troubleshoot why it wasn’t working.  My brilliant, sunny, happy and sweet 5 year old child. 

I watched him walk away from me this morning when I dropped him off at school.  My faith assures me that he will come home to me tonight, full of stories of what he did during his day and what new thing he wants for Christmas.  My world will be complete, it will continue, it will go on unscathed (at least on the surface)

I say this because underneath it all, I will find myself driven to my knees in gratitude that my child is coming home to me.  That I have more time to watch him grow. I have more time to put those teeth under his pillow as he loses them.  I get to watch him blow out that big number 6 on his cake in two weeks.  I get another Christmas, another birthday, Easter and beyond.  I am fortunate.

And as a Mother, my heart aches and yearns for those who were robbed of this future I can look forward to with my child.  I grieve for all that they have lost.  I cry, I scream, I want to understand why.  I don’t accept the answers given to me.  I become a 5 year old myself; “It’s NOT fair”.

It’s not fair.  It is NOT ok. It is not ok to feel that emptiness where once it was filled with laughter, trio blocks, leap frogs and kraft mac and cheese.  It is not fair to have to say goodbye yet.  It is not ok to go through this world missing a huge part of yourself for a reason such as this.

I am the Mother of a 5 year old boy, and it is in my child that 20 beautiful lights will continue to shine. 

Flunking Motherhood

I had written this last year and posted as a note on Facebook.. I was reminded of it today from a blog that was going around that a friend shared on her own timeline..  It is actually quite pertinent as last night I stood in my kitchen amidst the dishes in my sink and the random crayon parts all over my floor and said to myself that I can't do this..  I tried hard to click my heels to whisk myself away to my real home, but I didn't go anywhere.  Reading this today makes me smile as I have the wisdom of a new day and the memory of that this too shall pass (and come back and pass again and come back again and then pass yet one more time!)

Flunking Motherhood??
Let’s go over your grades, Ms. Hinkel…  I see from your profile that you did quite well in school, you seemed to excel academically throughout your early educational career in High School and College.  A few low marks in athletic ability, but we won’t hold that against you.

 Moving on, you’ve had a few bumps in the road (we question a few choices: How to Avoid a Cover Charge at Bananas, You Too Can Look Good in Baggy Clothing, and Gilley’s IS Health Food) , but it appears that you’ve brought up your grades quite a bit in Cooking 101, Advanced Job Longevity and How to Achieve Good Personal Hygiene.  We’d love to see a bit more effort in your electives;  Sewing III, The Basics of Sticking to your Diet, Exercise: It’s a Lifestyle, not a Choice, and Time Management for Dummies.

Now, our biggest area of concern seems to be your seminar: Motherhood.  Sadly, we’ve been worried about a few low test scores and fear that unless you work a little harder, you may be in danger of failing this course.   While we understand that you are trying hard, we know that you can always study harder and improve your performance…


…as I sit here and listen to alternating wailing coming from 2 different bedrooms, I feel that sometimes I AM in danger of failing my most important course of life: Motherhood.  Even the most seasoned mother would feel a bit inadequate (if not for a moment before they get real and wise up) when they listen to the cries of “no mommy  no” at bedtime.  I know that they will eventually fall asleep, that they are not injured, hungry, sick or being taped to wall by a closet monster, but it always makes me wonder if I could have done something just a bit better in order to keep this from being the outcome.    I watch these movies with angelic children who seem to be only able to listen and obey their parents’ wishes.   They eat the food that is prepared for them without whining, they go quietly to the bathroom to prepare for their nightly bath/shower without screaming or running around the kitchen cackling wildly, and the best of the best, they actually scamper off to bed without a word or want (I want a snack, I want something to drink, my belly is squishy and is still hungry, the room scares me, I need more time awake).  Who are those parents who lean into the room lovingly as they turn out the light saying “good night,  sleep tight, da da da…”, closing the door all the way and then slinking off to the living room for grownup time?  Who are they??   And if any of you are actually them, could I please come to your house and learn from you?

Deep down, of course, I know that I am a good mother.  I know that I am doing a good job, I am the best mother for my children, I know that.  It just takes that little extra effort sometimes to remember that when I am at the end of my rope, saying phrases my own mother has said to me her whole life (if I had a nickel, I am in here if you want me, I am not made of money and my most commonly used one, do I look like a short order cook/waitress/maid –you insert your proper noun as needed).  Not a dig on my mother as she will always be the best mother in the world, followed closely by my grandmothers, Grace and Ellie.  I just find myself uttering familiar things and I can truly recognize how she felt when we were at our worst.  As it is now 8:30pm, I am still fighting the fight with Gabe to get him down to sleep.  I’ve heard every excuse in the book why he cannot sleep in his room tonight, yet I am working hard toward that “good grade” in my mind, and am holding firm to not give in.

And once he’s finally out, I’ll sit back and relax like one of those movie parents.  I won’t have a glass of wine as it will be too late and I’ll essentially just be too tired to want one!  They can keep their wine and their movie, I will be just fine with my diet coke and Food TV.  And then I’ll review my night and put it into proper perspective.  Just like we got progress reports at school, I think sometimes you need to take a moment to take inventory of your pros and cons of your motherhood performance.  Award yourself for the “A” moments and work harder to bring up those “D-‘s”.   And remember in your children’s eyes, chances are you are already on the honor roll, you just need to maintain your GPA.

Tornado Ellie

My father used to have this alarm clock that chirped.  It didn’t buzz when it went off, just chirp chirp chirp.  I used to love that sound, I could hear it down the hall to my room and I just thought it was so cool.  I imagine my mother and father felt less excited about the alarm clock as it was pushing them awake at an hour they didn’t wish to be.  Now that I am an adult and a forced reason to get up in the morning, I have my own alarm clock.  It doesn’t buzz, it doesn’t chirp, it chants. 

It goes off every morning at about 5:30 am on its own.  It starts off as a low whine and pretty incoherent, but as it gets louder and the chanting begins in earnest, the words are clear.  As I try desperately to silence it, the sound takes on what can only be described as incessant and shrill.  It doesn’t run on batteries or electricity, so I can’t power it down.  The only way to get this thing to be quiet is to bring it milk, a yogurt stick or pouch and then free it from its slumber chamber. 

Life before Ellie was pretty quiet.  Gabe was definitely loud, absolutely, but in his own way.  Gabe thankfully always loved his sleep and I could normally get him to stay down until the sun had fully woken itself up, but his sister is another story all together.  She pops awake with full evil intent on hounding not only me and our household, but sadly, our entire building as well.  I am thankful for loud air conditioners as they are invaluable in drowning out the sound.  Run the dishwasher in the morning and I’ve got a buffer to make even the crabbiest neighbor unable to hear anything coming from my apartment. My only other worry is her thunderous footsteps, but thankfully the dear old lady downstairs is essentially deaf (and she started out that way, Ellie had nothing to do with it)

I used to be a morning person.. Before Children, or BC for short, I would bound out of bed, walk downtown Portsmouth to Me & Ollie’s for a treat and back home again before showering and beautifying myself for work (ok, fine.. I showered and threw on fairly unwrinkled clothing).. It was like the opening credits from Grease, I had birds all around, handing me things.. I was relaxed, my hair normally got brushed while I was still in my house and I left with more than enough time to get where I was going without panic.  I was always early (annoying, huh?) and even had time to take the long way to work so I could listen just a few more minutes to the Morning Buzz.

Even with Gabe, things were still slightly on track.. It wasn’t hard to get him and myself out the door.. I sacrificed my morning walks, although there were days that I had time to take him with me for a stroll.  I showered more at night so I could still beautify myself for work (leave me alone, I am not letting this go) and my "long way to work" was via Kindercare rather than casing the streets of Portsmouth.  But it was still pretty laid back. 

With Ellie, everything changed.  She makes herself known.  There is a Facebook cartoon thing going around that makes mention of a toddler being a little cute tornado.  It is almost like someone sat in my house on any given morning and designed this with Ellie in mind. A loud, chanting, incessant tornado. She is an adorable little thing, but holy cow, she is a terror.  My mother and father take great delight in letting me know that she is just like I was with a bit of my sister Gillian thrown in for good measure.. Apparently I was the tornado part of it and Gillian covered the chanting, loud and incessant part. 

 

My mornings now resemble this—

Chanted awake at 5:30; I try in vain to stretch it out to a more reasonable hour of 6am.  I fail as it just makes her louder, more adamant and normally this is the part where she rips off her diaper and informs me that she Pee Pee Pee Pee Peeeeee

I drag myself awake, haul her out of bed and give her something, anything to eat to make it stop.  I close Gabe’s bedroom door in the hopes that he is lucky enough to get just a little more sleep while I handle the beast pacing at my feet. 

I manage to get to the bathroom and almost out before she discovers I am gone and come looking for me (thud thud thud)

Around this time I attempt to make lunches for both children while throwing a few leftovers into a bag for myself. I have no clue what I am packing, but I hope that it’s at least fairly nutritious and somewhat goes with the other items.

Gabe normally comes out around this time and immediately is seen as easy prey by his sister.  She lunged towards him to get his attention as if she has been thoroughly and utterly ignored by me (yah, right)-  Gabe’s not having it and informs me quite emphatically that she is bothering him. 

We have a period of dialogue between the two of them.. It starts out nice and I am happy and smiling and then it turns ugly in an instant.  A toy is touched, food is taken, someone is looking at the other one.. My eye starts to twitch and I can feel the wrinkles creasing themselves into my forehead.  I deliberate how much to ignore and what to kibash.  I look at the clock and depending on how much time we have, I make my decision. 

At this point, I normally herd Gabe into his room to get dressed while having to proctor him the entire time to ensure he is truly understanding what that means.  This is the child that I have watched dress faster than a costume change backstage during a 1 minute set change, yet he is physically unable to do so at home.  While I am staring him down, I have the tornado, or better yet, the Tasmanian Devil (remember how he’d just twirl and spin and wrack havoc? I can still remember that sound effect), creating a wake of toys, babies, food and you name it in my bedroom. 

With Gabe safely dressed, I capture Ellie and try to get her ready.  The best part about this is that she is still little, I can pick her up easily and with the help of my forearm keeping her from springing back up at me like a little jumping spider I get her dressed.  I get them to brush their teeth.. They like this part.. They do fight over who gets to stand on the stool and who gets to stand on the toilet with the seat down.  They switch positions everyday so I let them hash it out until I hear it getting physical. 

In the attempts to just get out the door, I throw on whatever clothing item is closest to me, drag my own toothbrush across my teeth and we hit the door going full speed. 

I get us to the car in one piece.  None of us have our hair brushed and so I try my best to beautify all of us before driving away.. I rake the brush through their hair and scrub their darling faces with a baby wipe and off we go.  I attempt to listen to the Morning Buzz and am quickly shot down because they want to listen to their songs.  And I am not allowed to sing to them either, Momma, shush.. Momma, no..

I drive the shortest, most direct route I can to get them to their respected sitters and daycamps and then tear arse to work.. I make it on time with about 10 seconds to spare. I’m proud of myself that I made it on time until I realize that I left my lunch on the counter at home.  Staying positive, I decide that this is a good thing and one less thing that I need to do tomorrow morning.  I dash into my office and sink into my chair, knowing full well that anything I am faced with today at work is NOTHING compared to what I just went through--

And as I sit, I now understand why mothers of 2 more children have this glazed look on their faces every morning.  Their hair is in a rats nest and they have toothpaste on the front of their shirts.  They are lucky if they have two matching shoes on and have learned quickly to make sure their work fridge is always stocked with back up foods in case they forget theirs from home.  They profess to love their jobs and I understand why; it is the only place where they can enjoy a modicum of quiet and control. 

So until tomorrow morning when it starts all over again, I'm going to talk on my phone without being interrupted and I am going to listen to the music I want to listen to.

 I might even sing along with it.

Crazy

It’s official… 

I am crazy and I no longer speak the same language as the younger members of society.  When I talk I sound just like the grown ups on Charlie Brown do.  I have become 100% unintelligible with the exception of a few (very few) choice words.  Wah waaah wah wah wah wah ice cream wah waaah computer wah wha wah candy wah waaah swimming…..  To top that off, I am finding that I am also becoming a cross between Mammy from Gone with the Wind (He'll be comin' to Atlanta when he gets his leave, and you sittin' there waitin' for him, just like a spider), muttering under my breath after the fact and a carnival barker and/or auctioneer; standing high on my soap box trying to get as many words in as quickly as possible before I lose my audience (who, let’s face it, I never actually had grasp of to begin with)

 

I came to this conclusion just recently.  It hit me like a freight train when I realized it.   I have become the clique mother that comedian’s base entire sketches on (think Bill Engvall, he’s a good one for painting this oh so scary and accurate picture).  I have become a crazy person.

The other day I was sitting on the couch enjoying a few moments of peace and quiet. Gabe and Ellie were in Gabe’s room playing “Guys” and actually getting along.  For about 5 whole minutes it was an absolute utopia, I almost had to pinch myself from believing it.   

But then…oh, but then the shrieking and the yelling and the Mom she hit me and stole my guy and the Mumma, him hit Ewwie, him hit Ewwie started and I sprang to action. 

I raced (ok, I took a few steps) into Gabe's bedroom, and there on the battlefield of the rug lay carnage of the bodies.  Yoda, Chewbacca, Batman, Woody, Nameless figure from McDonalds--  All helter skelter in sad sorrowful heaps.   The two adversaries staring one another down.  Ellie holds the item of great angst high up in her little fist (big stone creature that can eat Batman) and Gabe is dancing around her like a prize fighter ready to strike on the big night.  I assert myself in between the two of them (truly not too hard to do seeing that I am actually bigger and somewhat stronger than they are) and proceed to try to get their attention. 

And here is where it dawns on me that they cannot actually understand a word that I am saying.  I might as well be speaking Martian (although with my luck they might actually understand Martian just to spite me). 

They are now staring at me like I have 5 heads and just sprouted a flower from each (think a really scary Daisy Head Mayzie). So, in exasperation,  I launch in to my auctioneer role: I said stop it right now, give your brother back his person and go in the other room and play with babies, no Gabe you stay here you wanted this toy so badly, no you cannot have the computer, clean this mess up this room is a disgrace, Ellie you need a new diaper, come lie down and I will change you….  All of which was lost on them as well (Now think the Charlie Brown grown ups but on speed).  In my final effort, I scoop up Ellie and haul her screaming and kicking into the living room to change her diaper (now comes the Mammy part) mutter mutter mutter: all I wanted was some peace and quiet, is that too much to ask,  mutter mutter mutter..

I release Ellie back to the wild and after the requisite snacks, drinks, naps, etc..this scene may or may not repeat a few more times before Monday morning arrives.  Maybe a different scenario: different toy, room, etc; but the outcome is always predictable.  

And, the best thing about it, besides the fact that I am probably certifiable, is that this is most likely hereditary (I know for a fact that my mother is crazy too, and her mother before her (although we never saw it, but I am sure it was there), and so on and so forth).  Which means that Ellie will be feeling the same way in about 30 years and when she calls me to relay how her children don’t listen to her, I can sit back in my very very very quiet house (where breakable things are on lower shelves, candles once more live free, and dvd’s no longer fear for their souls), and tell her that this too shall pass.  

just a number

My daughter turned 2 today.  My daughter, holy crap!  In my mind I am not old enough to have one child, let alone two!  When did this happen?  When did I get so grown up?

My mother and father are 20 years older than me.  They also graduated high school 20 years before me, so we’ve had this nice 20 year thing going on to help me remember years and distances between--  Sadly (or maybe gladly), I don’t have the same 20 year thing with my own children.  I am more on the 33 and 36 year old plan.  Which means when they are my age, I am going to be really ancient..

This year was my 20^th high school reunion.  20 years!  I’ve been out of college for 16 years.  I’ve lived on the NH seacoast for about 15 years and been with my current company for 11 of those years.  That’s a long time.  That’s the mark of an older person, an advanced aged person to have those sorts of numbers following their longevity in major life events.

 

I’ll be “celebrating” my 39^th birthday this September.  How old is that?  It’s amazingly old as I have never been this age before and it kind of scares me a bit. 

When I was 10 years old, I remember my mother getting a bunch of black balloons for her 30^th birthday and all of those Over the Hill novelty gifts.  Man, she was so old at that time, right?  She was a grown up personified.  She acted like a grown up, she dressed like a grown up (sorry Mom, it was the 80’s and that beach chair shirt you had screams grown up, at least I think it was a beach chair)  She drove a grown up-esque car, did aerobics, and listened to John  Denver (again, sorry Mom,  but you did get a bit cooler once you discovered yee haw dancing!) 

My dad was 30 at that time as well (although he’ll love to remind you that my mom is 4 months older than him).  He was a grown up too.  Sure, he had wild hair, wore the Opus t-shirts and listened to his stereo playing air guitar, huge headphones with the coiled cord and sang Jethro Tull ala falsetto, but he was a grown up person. 

So they were old, right?  Could you imagine your parents at 30 hanging out with their friends or brother and sister laughing hysterically over old stories and pictures?  You’d never see them bickering and having their own parents (aka grandparents) needing to admonish them to cut it out.  They were cool, they were calm, they were sort of collected and they were in charge. They didn’t do those things anymore.  They were adults.

And I guess technically now that I am a parent and a grown up, I am in charge too.  How weird is that.  Am I actually in charge?  In charge of what?  That is what frightens me sometimes because when I look in the mirror, I don’t see a grown up.  I see myself being just myself.  I might look a bit more haggard than I used to be, but I don’t see myself being an age I remember my own parents being. 

I mean, how could I be their age?  I still like to have fun!  I still giggle over absolutely silly things (Tuesday night comes to immediate memory).  My brother, sister and I still act like we have always acted when we get together.  We still have fun, we still tease one another, we still gang up on my mom (Mufasa) in good fun. 

How could this all be if I am supposed to be a grown up?  

So when bright light hits dim head, I realize that my parents used to have just as much silly, stupid and childish fun as I still have.  We just didn’t see it because we were so focused on our own childhoods and the fact that they-were-so-old.   I sort of wish I could go back in time and rather than hanging out in the living room watching Yo MTV Raps making fun of Flavor Flav’s wall clock necklaces, I could be a fly on the wall in the kitchen see that they weren’t talking about stocks and bonds and other equally horribly adult things—They were totally having a blast talking about things that I would now wish to join in and discuss.
 

My promise to myself is to remember to age as gracefully and as unnoticeable as possible.  I look at my parents now, enjoying their deck, their reggae and rum painkillers (and MAN, are they good!) in the summer.  I look at their friends when they come over for a “deck party” and listen to their conversations, their silliness and I love that they act just like we do.  They just have a larger collection of memories to laugh about- 

Not so old afterall….

Can I keep you?

Remember this movie line?  Quick, without cheating, tell me which film it came from!!

This quote popped into my head this morning while I was helping Gabe find a website on the computer.  As I sat there waiting for the page to load, he climbed up in chair with me and just sort of hung on like a little monkey in my lap.  While he was doing this, I had the clear impression that he was asking if he could keep me.  Could I stay as his, could he add me to his memories, thus holding onto me forever.  It is so infrequent that he “gets me all to himself”, I knew that this was one of those moments I could never forget, nor ever wish to trade.  It was fleeting as he popped off my lap in search of food not a minute later, but that brief period of time was all ours, it was perfect.

As we wander through life, we spend our time gathering; clothes, toys, papers and books, memories, and even people.  And if you are like me, you tend to hold onto too much stuff that you just cannot part with.  There is no reason to keep it all, to keep lugging it around from place to place.  You might open up a box once in a while and take those things out.  Look at them, remember them, consider downsizing, but then you pack them all back up lovingly to rediscover maybe a few years later.  Every so often, you decide to throw some things away, donate to charity, give to a friend or family member. You feel good about it at first, but then a year later when you remember that item and wish to see it again, you spend a day tearing apart your attic searching in vain for something you stupidly thought was insignificant enough to get rid of.  Never again you say.. and you mean it, but then the cycle repeats.

And to a point, it has to, or we’d all become hoarders.  There is a fine line between pack rat and hoarder, so you work hard to keep yourself on the safe side.  After all, you know that you don’t look good on TV and who wants TLC following you around exploiting your personal stuff to the world anyway..

So we gather and purge, gather and purge--  it’s just stuff, right?   It can be replaced thanks to Ebay if you truly regret getting rid of that Rubadub Dolly you loved as a child.  Granted it won’t be the same one you had (I don’t believe anyone else could sharpen those fingers as well as I could or gnaw on her nose as effectively), but you could have it again if you absolutely needed to see its matted hair one more time. 

But, can you purge people?  Sure I guess you can and I guess there might be enough people in your life that could be considered “toxic” enough to warrant purging.  But your memories are there, you’ve kept them.  No matter how hard you try, you can’t truly get rid of them (yes, I know Hollywood says you can, there have been enough movies saying so, but in the real sense they are always there).  And good or bad, I guess they helped make up who you have become today. 

And unlike tangible things, you can’t sell them for money, pass off onto another family member (although some would argue you can) or truck them off to the green center for recycling--  Like it or not, you are in for the long haul.  And like anything you cannot change, you learn to adapt, to work with.

I had a horribly ugly carpet in my apartment I shared with Kristine in Wilton.  It was a horrible Avocado color (think circa 1975 toilet/fridge/oven combo) and nothing I owned was going to match it or mute it in any way.  So, as I knew that the carpet was going nowhere fast,  my mother went out and found a plaid comforter that was had blues and yellows predominantly in the pattern.  And oddly enough, and where the colors intersected, it actually made a light avocado hue.  Surprisingly, it worked and that carpet didn’t look so out of place anymore, it actually complemented my comforter and tied it all together. 

What I am getting at is that sometimes you might not want a person or memory in your physical world anymore, but getting rid of the memory of them is just as impossible as ripping up a carpet in a rental apartment.  So, rather than sit and be miserable; find a way to make it work and not stand out so much. 

Keeping a person or memory isn’t a bad thing if you know how to make it complement your life.  I have a number of friends moving through a field of indecision, sorrow and confusion--  As I think about them, I realize that many more of us might be feeling the same, be it with a loved one,  a friend, a colleague, etc.   Allowing the ghost of a memory or time before to remain can’t hurt you if you don’t allow it the power to do so.  Take from it what you need and put the rest in that box in your attic to bring back out once and in a while to consider.  

Oh, hint to the movie--------------------------->

                                                     

The Language of Family

Every family has their own language; their own sayings and personal words that mean something special to those within the “inner circle”.  Some families are more fluent than others, but in some form or another, I believe it is always something you’ll find if you pay attention closely enough.  In my world, I realize that I have a few different families and we each have our own language--  I have my immediate family, my childhood family, my college years family, my professional family, etc.. I could probably list more “families” than I have fingers if I were to honestly sit and think about it.  Yet with all of these families and the fact that I speak English with them all, the actual language I speak is entirely different depending on whom I am with. And while I find each of my families each as wonderful as the next one, my thoughts are leaning towards my immediate family on this sunny, happy Friday.

I love going home and spending time with my family.  I am sure it might get boring for others to hear some of the same stories and memories that we share time and time again, but this is the language that makes up the fabric of our family.  It is inherently “us” and as much as a part of our family as we are.  There is a feeling I have when I am with my family, of totally being peaceful within my soul.  I belong there without trying, it’s “home” no matter where I am (although being home home, as in Greenville, totally brings my sense of calm to it’s best levels, even with Beau Beau and Lulu barking and Phoebe hissing).  It’s chaos, it’s laughter, it’s yelling and bickering, but at the end of the day, it’s family and that’s good.

Watching my children the other day, I realized that there is a special group that forms it’s own family within the bigger family.  And that is the family of siblings, and with it, the language of siblings. 

I can sit and listen to my children talking and playing and catch most of what they are saying.  Ellie is harder to understand as she is still learning her words and pronunciations, but her meaning is generally there (she is a bit of a banshee, you can’t miss what she is saying at those times for sure).  But as I listened to them, I could see that Gabe was understanding things that she was saying even without being verbal and vice versa.  They had a sort of cadence to their play; their communication; that was so fascinating to watch.  They ebbed and flowed within their own conversation without really even saying much at all. 

And watching them I started to think about my own brother and sister.  The more I thought, the more I realized that we too have our own language.  We have “isms” that will bring us to the ground laughing, memories and words that just make up who we are.  I can text my brother Jeremy one word and I know that he’ll catch on and be on the same page as I am.  And I know that as much as I am smiling on my end, he’s probably shaking his head on his end, laughing as well.  So many times I’ve had my day turned around after a conversation or silly text/message from Jeremy or Gillian--  And trust me, if anyone actually saw what we were texting or heard what we were saying, they’d scratch their heads and wonder how this could be amusing.  It’s just our own language, it works. 

When I was a child and my brother, sister and I would fight, my father would look at us and tell us that no one in this world is as close to you as your brother or sister are.  I used to think he was just using that to get  us to stop fighting, but as I’ve grown up, I’ve realized the beauty to having a brother or sister (although there are times where I question that as no one can frustrate you nearly as much as your brother or sister either).  I love that we have our own language that even our parents can’t figure out sometimes.  And I can’t wait to watch Gabe and Ellie grow up and create their own memories and communication that leaves me scratching my own head trying to figure it out. 

Ice Cream!

I scream, you scream, we all scream for ICE CREAM!!.

While there are tons of “better” things in this world than ice cream (newborn baby, free shiny car, hot date, etc); it’s just one of those wonderful simple pleasures we all share. 

Think of this, it’s universal--  You can travel to different cultures and be faced with really random and sometimes scary cuisine, but give a child (old or young) a dish or cone of ice cream and the cultural differences fade away-  There is just something about it that makes you smile!  Have you ever seen anyone angrily eating ice cream?  I think not--

In my quest to conquer all things domestic, I have embarked upon mastering the art of ice cream.  I have two ice cream makers now.  I have a little 1.5 quart unit that has to sit in the freezer for 24 hours (it has that gel inside the freezer bowls) and the big 6 quart machine that sadly looks like a demented ice cream cone, complete with plastic cone shaped ice bucket.  So I am prepared to feed the masses!

The freezer maker is actually quite easy to use (make sure you actually assemble it correctly though, it can be a huge mess)-  it’s drawback is the 24 hour notice you’ll need, hard to accommodate spur of the moment ice cream making unless you allow it to constantly hog precious freezer space.  The bigger unit is cool, it can be used pretty much whenever… but it is a HUGE mess.  HUGE…  Funny, when I was making ice cream all of those years back at Camp Wapanacki using their old crank machine (and even funnier how the counselors were the ones actually stuck turning the dang crank for hours), I never noticed the mess, but then again we were out in the woods and not in my kitchen..  I’ve noticed that they now sell cool units that are both motorized and crank, I might have to invest in machine #3 someday.   Then I can gather a bunch of people and make THEM crank that thing for hours while I run around and play.. That sounds fun..

Now, as usual, I am great at planning-  I am just a little weak in execution.  I always have the best intentions, but then the couch beckons and Cold Case reruns take over and another night passes.  Then the next morning I am sad and make the plan all over again to get on track-  Famous last words, but this week I had a time frame to get it done before my ingredients were wasted on me (fresh strawberries do have a time limit)-

I’ve been planning to make strawberry ice cream since we went picking on Sunday.  I love picking fruit in the sun.  Give me a basket and I’m good to go. I think I might have been a migrant worker or gypsy in a former life as I just feel the need to gather large quantities of grown items no matter the season.  I’m passing this onto my children as well, so when my great great great great grandchildren sit around on their hovercrafts picking fruit from the floating strawberry bushes, they’ll understand where this came from.

So, last night I got my butt in gear and figured I’d get the ice cream started and then give Ellie a bath and get her bed. I figure I’ll try the newer machine as I didn’t have the foresight to freeze the smaller unit beforehand.  How hard could it be?  I’ve got this, Ellie will be in her bath and bed while it’s still running, easy right?  Ha ha ha.. good plan.  The mondo ice cream maker needs constant monitoring.  It jams, a lot.  So, while I am standing there stabbing at it with the back end of a long wooden spoon and transferring the ice and rock salt back and forth between the bucket and a bowl in order to keep it from jamming further,  I notice that Ellie is being very very quiet.  That is when I noticed that she had proceeded to unravel not one, not two, but three spools of ribbon all over the living room floor.  Added to that is the cardboard paper that surrounded the spools of ribbon, ripped up and scattered everywhere, and the package of childproof drawer stoppers that I never got around to installing.  So, at this point it is about 8pm, the living room is a mess, the kitchen is covered with ice, rock salt, and a salty briny mess that combines the two.  Just when I am about to scrap the whole project and put this thing up for sale on Ebay, the unit blessedly stops turning as it is finally frozen to the point of ice cream.

Yay!  Done!  Except now Ellie has realized that I am making “honey” (don’t ask me why she calls it this. I actually kind of like the name and it’s sort of stuck so if you hear anyone in my family saying they want honey, it’s not actually the sticky amber colored stuff out of the teddy bear container), and she has attached herself to my leg chanting honey, me honey, want honey.  So, now I have ice, rock salt, briny mess, ribbons, cardboard, drawer stopper things,  and soft serve “honey” all over the kitchen--  My first thought was to scoop her up, wailing, and pop her into the tub, but the kid in me took over.  Needless to say I said screw it and we enjoyed eating our ice cream off the spatula and wooden spoon as I cleaned out the barrel--  And it tasted GREAT!

 

After getting Ellie in her bath and bed (she was asleep in about 2.5 minutes), tackling the kitchen mess and making my dinner, it was time to relax.  I can happily say that I still got some couch time, some Cold Case time and while I sat there eating homemade strawberry ice cream, I can honestly say that it was all worth it.  So, maybe I won’t put it up on Ebay just yet---

And yah, I’ll do it again and again and again.. Although next time I might opt for the little freezer unit!

If you like pina coladas…

…and getting caught in the rain….  Sure, we all know the words to this song.  It’s catchy, it rhymes, even Jimmy Buffet has covered it--  But last night as I was rolling silverware at Hagan’s (super awesome 2^nd job where I get to, get this, talk to lots of people!), the song came on our music system and I got to really really listen to the words.

So, let’s summarize in my terms—

This guy is sick of his wife/girlfriend/mistress, whatever--  While she sleeps beside him, he’s skulking through the personal ads-  Lo and behold he finds this font of loveliness that just seems to be the perfect woman on earth.  In order to make this song work, he of course has to write back to the ad with his own pithy version, where we learn that he can offer McDonald’s fast food and booze at Noon in the rain- 

Now, I could argue that this whole situation is pretty silly..  Honestly, how would you react if you walked into a bar at noon and found your significant other sitting there awaiting her illicit tryst amongst the jukebox and sticky bar stools?  It just doesn’t seem that he’d say, oh it’s you.. and then they’d laugh (ha ha ha) and realize that they’ve just been the right people all along and only needed the newspapers skeezy ads to bring them back together--    To me, something is inherently wrong with this relationship that pina coladas, rain and dunes won’t solve.  But then again, this was the 70’s (ok, late 70’s but it still counts) where porno mustaches, polyester and astrological signs were prevalent, so I could be totally off on the point-    

But with this, life itself seemed to be a bit easier (granted I was all of about 6 when this song came out, but I can pretty much assure you that I had a way more carefree and wild childhood than my children will have, primarily by virtue of the fact that we know more now, we fear more now, we might be a bit more savvy now about predators and such, but boy, my childhood was FREE, and my kids will never feel that same amount of freedom no matter how hard I try—I mean, I am all for bike helmets and the accoutrements, but you and I all know that they’ll never heap 4 people on a big wheel while tearing down a driveway turning off into the brush and pricker bushes, laughing the entire way)

So now, put this in our time frame, it would never work.  He’d be cruising facebook or craigslist for babes.  He’d find a picture of his wife/girlfriend/mistresses’ face and/or body parts and they’d never get to the McDonald’s, booze, noon or rain stage.. game on.. right?   Statuses would be changed, internet chatter would explode, text messages buzzing like mad, pictures untagged and the wagons of your side versus my side would circle.  Maybe a lifetime movie with Meredith Baxter Birney and Leah Thompson would be filmed to portray the wrongs committed and how it’s her fault or his fault (depending on how the filmmaker wishes to go)—I could go on and on..

I love my internet, I love my computer and my ability to know what is going on with everyone’s lives at all times (I’ll admit it, can you?), but sometimes I wonder if it might be easier to just go back in time a bit.. I’ll accept the porno mustaches and astrological signs (I might have to fight you on the polyester, it just feels nasty), if it means that we’d all be carefree enough to laugh off blatant spousal infidelity (I am actually truly kidding on that one) in order to have little carefree and wild fun. 

I’ll bring the big wheel, you gather up the people…

She talks too much...

If you know me well, you know that I like to babble… a lot.  I probably am happiest in my daily life if I am talking about something that someone might be interested in hearing.  Or maybe they aren’t interested, but happily no one has really told me to be quiet.  And so I babble.

Friends and family have mentioned to me that I should write the stuff in my head down.  The other week a friend of mine paid me a compliment.  Well, I viewed it as a compliment-  She said that she loves reading my Facebook statuses because they are written exactly how I talk and that she can hear me saying it while she reads.  To me, that means I’ve made some form of impression.  It could be a horrible impression, but either way that works for me!

So, as I undertake this leap into the blog world (don’t like that word blog, I might have to change it), I cannot promise you that I will make any sense.  I might give you something to think about, something to laugh about or maybe even something to yell at me about.  I can pretty much assure you that I will keep it upbeat and silly as I am too busy in life to spend time wallowing and crying.  If I do make you cry, I am sorry as I don’t like to see anyone sad.  If I make you sad, please let me know and I will bake you cookies to make it all ok again.

So, off we go into the world of my mind.  I hope I can entertain you with my thoughts and not scare the hell out of you.  If you stop talking to me and run away in the other direction when I say hi, I will figure out that it was the latter and not the former.