Saints

First Born Prince went with his father to volunteer at a homeless shelter last weekend.  The project is organized by our temple and the service hours are required as part of his Hebrew school education.

The Professor kept forwarding the e-mails from the ‘Hunger Project” coordinator directly to First Born Prince with notes like, “This is your responsibility.  You need to figure out what you need to do, what to wear, what to bring, etc.”

I stayed out of it.  I loosely knew their shift started around 8:00 a.m. on Sunday morning and did my part by suggesting an early bedtime Saturday night.  I figured the ritual of becoming a man should encompass the whole shebang.

When the Professor got up that day, he was pleasantly surprised to find FBP had set his alarm, was already dressed and ready to go.

FBP had the job of serving juice at meal time.  If you’ve ever spent time around homeless people, you know that sugar, in any form, is a hot commodity.   He was very busy filling and refilling their cups for them while they were eating.

“So one guy holds up his two paper cups and tells me, ‘I want more apple and grape juice.’  I took them and filled one up with apple and one with grape and brought them over to his table.  The man looked into the cups, made a face and yelled, ‘I wanted half apple and half grape in each one!’  Then the other homeless guy sitting next to him, looked over and yelled at him, ‘Awww, don’t be such a dick!’”

He was laughing as he told the punchline.  He smiled at me and said, “It was fun, Mom.”

I am thankful that my son sees the light and joy in his experiences.  There is no perfect formula for passing on the values you want for your children.  I don’t think First Born Prince would have spent time in a homeless shelter, serving people as a 12-year-old, if it wasn’t one of the requirements for his Bar Mitzvah.  Helping those in need is part of a Jewish man's commitment to God.  After FBP turns 13 this fall, it will be his choice whether or not he continues to fulfill the commandment.

As a kid, I memorized a framed prayer we had hanging on the wall in the downstairs guest bathroom, where apparently I spent a lot of time.  I don't think my mother's intention was to give me a blueprint for thoughtful living in that way, but it pretty much sums up my deal:

The Prayer of Saint Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love.

Where there is injury, pardon.

Where there is doubt, faith.

Where there is despair, hope.

Where there is darkness, light.

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Amen.

Sucking Blood

I am a vampire, roaming the earth seeking my life source.  It’s not blood I’m after, that’s far too simple of an answer for a creature like me.  It’s not love, either, that’s too Hallmark and Hollywood, if you know what I mean.  I am not soulless though.  The Professor and my boys are a source of nourishment in every sense.  Even with all my good fortune, I still need more.  I moved our family back to California thinking it was sunshine I was after.  I feel sorry for the vampires who search in either the most predictable places (sigh) or the oddest.  I’ve discovered it’s not in the California sunshine, nor is it in wine bottles, gyms or shopping malls.  Intellectually, I get the message:  The energy I am seeking comes from within.  Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Vampires don’t suck their own blood.

Then something wonderful happened.  The good people of La Jolla recruited me to help our schools.  I have volunteered in leadership positions for over ten years and was on hiatus from the public education crisis while we were in Ithaca for two years.  Since we’ve been back, I’ve been avoiding the noise by writing checks and apologizing profusely to my friends.  I was a burn out.  I rolled my eyes.  I snickered.  I almost went nuts when the parent, sitting poolside on a weekday last summer, explained to me how she couldn’t afford to give the whole $1,000 per child that the school was trying to raise, and then in the next breath told me about their vacation to Hawaii and how she was planning to take her son to Disneyland as a pre back-to-school treat.  I thought I was going to strangle a middle-aged woman right there in someone’s backyard.  How could I effectively lead a group of volunteers from a jail cell?

This year, I couldn’t refuse.  I’ve been to a few meetings already and started feeling the energy in my veins.  This community amazes me and inspires me.  I found myself laughing again and enjoying the company of the other volunteers.  These are not rich ladies who lunch.  Okay, a few are.  But most of them have careers, or work inside the home, or both.  They show up and they get shit done.  I love it.  I realized I have been too focused on the negative.  I have to let go of the people who don’t give.  I have found it in my heart to not blame the less fortunate.  Either they are clueless and wander around not knowing half of what’s going on, or worse, they know but feel like they are not in a position to give, either time or money.  I can’t imagine feeling that locked up.  Nowhere to run or hide except maybe at Disneyland and even that only lasts for a day, two if you’re charging it.

I can’t remember if vampires can see themselves in mirrors or not.  Doesn’t matter.  If my good luck continues, I’ll be like all the energized, happy souls around me.

Spring Cleaning

My favorite spring cleaning activity is purging.  Old clothes, books, toys, stupid purchases (did I really pay for an avocado peeler?) and outgrown sporting equipment are given away.  The house feels cleaner and fresher, ready for guests and naps on the back porch.  It’s taken me years of living with a New Yorker who was raised in an apartment to learn how to let go of stuff.  I used to have every single thing with meaning saved—notes passed to me in the hallway dating as far back as junior high, letters received while I was in college, dried corsages, bouquets, favorite pairs of jeans, an old boyfriend’s Stanford Football jacket (I’m actually saving it for the day he shows up on Facebook so I can get his current address and mail it back to him for his wife or kids to enjoy).  Yes, I can be nice.

I learned to let go slowly over the years, but I still have trouble with my sons’ artwork and school work, all of it from pre-school through six grade, categorized and saved.  It’s taking over my garage and office and we’re only half-way there.  Since First Born Prince, we have moved four times, twice across country.  You would think I would be better at tossing by now.  I assign emotional currency to each and every pencil and crayon stroke they’ve ever made.  A friend of mine suggested I take digital photos of everything and then recycle it.  It’s not the same.  I already feel like I lost the little boy who created what I am looking at when I dig the projects out.  How will I feel if I lose his creations? 

Then there are the keepsakes that you simply cannot toss.  I have a pile of those sacred items in our master bedroom—the blankets and pillows from when my boys were little that I can’t even bear to put in the garage.

Today I eyed the bag and knew it was time to commit--make a permanent place for the assortment of baby blankets and pillows somewhere inside my home or store it.  I picked up Charming Baby’s “emergency” nee-nee (the real nee-nee, his blanket he slept with every night of his life for seven years, was accidentally left on a Disney cruise ship).  Caressing the soft, cream fabric, I smiled remembering when I bought the back-up “just in case,” he informed me I was wasting my money because it would never replace the real one. 

Sam, the Sharpie markings read on the satin trim of the blanket.  We labeled it his first week of Kindergarten to use at school for naptime.  His real nee-nee was far too needed and cherished at home to be stored in a cubby at school.  Without emergency nee-nee in front of me, I am not sure I would have remembered how we discussed which blanket would be sacrificed, labeled and sent to do duty at an institution.  Nor would I have so clearly pictured how brave he was the day I hung up with the Disney World Lost-and-Found Specialist, confirming nee-nee was gone, and he looked me square in the eye and said, “It’s okay, Mom, I’m a big boy now.”

I think it was I who cried that night realizing I’d never see nee-nee again.

Blessing or Curse

“We were blessed with cute faces,” my father explained to his chubby fourth-grade daughter.  He was trying to comfort me as I sat across the table from him at the Howard Johnson’s All-You-Can-Eat Fried Clams night, a ritual I endured every Tuesday after my brother’s basketball practice at the JCC.  I was on a diet, so I wasn’t bellying up to the clam bar with my brother and our neighbor’s three children.  At nine-years old, I was already sitting with the moms, sipping a Tab and ordering the diet plate--a plain hamburger patty and scoop of cottage cheese with a side of canned peaches.

My father rationalized that if you had a cute face, you could get away with being a little pudgy and still be attractive.  That may have been the case for a middle-aged married man living in the suburbs in the early 80’s, but it wasn’t my reality.  I felt pressure to be skinny, not sturdy.  I was actually cursed with a gene pool of giants.

My most painful memory during those years is of the day they weighed us at school and the nurse announced each student’s weight over her shoulder to the clerk recording the numbers.  As I waited in line, my heart raced with anxiety.  I knew I weighed more than all the other kids.  No one else in my class weighed over 100 lbs.  When it was my turn, I made eye contact with the nurse and silently pleaded with her to not share my weight out loud. 

“Lisa Barnhouse, 103.”

I don’t remember if the other kids were shocked, or if I was teased, or if Jeff Shaller, the tall blonde boy who made up songs about my Barn butt, was even there that day.  I just recall the fear.

First Born Prince got really round and soft right before he started shooting up overnight.  One day he looked like maybe he should skip a meal and the next he was lanky and needed bigger shoes.  When I talked to his pediatrician about it, he told me that males lose 25% of their body fat when they go through puberty, while girls gain 40% (yes, boobs and hips are made out of fat, people).

I am glad I didn’t give him the cute-face pep talk.  Nor put him on a diet.  I reassured him he was exactly the right size for someone born 11 pounds and predicted to grow up to somewhere between 6’8” and 7 feet tall. 

Charming Baby is also the biggest kid in his class, just like his “big boned” mother and “baby fat” brother, except he doesn’t worry or feel self-conscious.  He marches to his own beat, one giant step at a time.  I only realize it’s a challenge at all when he has a growth spurt and gets clumsy all of the sudden.  Just this week he fell twice on the playground, tripping over his own feet that have grown two sizes since September.

For comforting my baby, I simply kiss his scraped-up chin and tell him I am sorry he got hurt.  Looking at that cute face he was blessed with, I don’t think there’s much else to say.

Hosting

My bare feet felt the crumbs from the Professor’s potato chips first.  Then I heard him, on the phone, conducting one of his many conference calls.  He was standing on the patio, off the kitchen, grilling some sausages.  It was almost five o’clock and I had six ladies coming over for dinner at 6:30.  I still needed to shower and finish straightening up.  It always came to a showdown.  You get two out of three at my house:  homemade food, showered hostess or pretty home.  As I chopped up the yellow bell pepper, I could feel my voice getting bitchy.

“Are you making a snack?”  I asked the Professor.  Who makes himself a sausage right before dinner?

He looked up, hit the mute button on his phone, and smiled.  I think he was wearing slippers.

“No, it’s lunch, I’ve had a busy day.”

I guess the chicken salad I made him and put on his desk at noon was technically breakfast. 

Within minutes all three of my men were on the sofa, chomping sausages and firing questions, mostly about schedules and food, their top priorities, at me.  I noticed the boys’ backpacks had been tossed in the corner of the family room and I think there was a karate uniform jammed between the sofa cushions.  I scanned the room for lacrosse sticks and old ice packs.

“Guys, guys, I can’t talk about this summer right now.  I can’t pull up my calendar, because, as you can see, I am cooking.  Will you please put your stuff away?  And, in case you didn’t notice, I just plumped up all those pillows.  Do you have to recline when you eat your sausages?”

The Professor realized what was going on.

“I forgot you have your book club tonight!  Are we messing you up?”

If they weren’t so totally innocent I might have told them to get out of the house and leave me alone.  But then I would have been alone.  Even though I say I want quiet and tidiness, I know it’s not true.  I manifested this gang of loving boys in front of me, with their noise, mess, and food needs.  Though I tried many different paths over the years, I discovered there is no other road to the laughter, kisses, and sweetness that I soak in every day.

Tea & Sympathy

We have a weekly family movie night.  Sometimes I am lazy and we just scroll through what’s “On Demand” and hope for the best.  I usually try to research a quality film, appropriate, yet interesting enough to hold the attention of ages 8 – 45, order in advance through Netflix, and have it ready, with healthy snacks, in time for the weekend.  I know, I am a miracle worker.

First Born Prince wanted some tea to sip during the show last Sunday night, a sweet little tradition we started in Ithaca.  He takes his with milk and honey.  I prefer mine spiked with comfort but I usually settle for plain.  If I can’t catch a buzz, then I am a purist.

“Mom, can I have some tea?”

“Sure.”

Neither of us moved a muscle.  He was, of course, waiting for me to hop up, put the kettle on, make a fuss with the tea bags, etc., etc.  I was already horizontal with “War Horse” all queued up, a dog by my side and a bag of Power Berries from Trader Joe’s in my lap.  (If you haven’t tried these chocolate “berries” made with acai, blueberry and pomegranate juice, DON’T—they are highly addictive.)

“Charlie, why don’t I teach you how to make it?”

“Okay.”

I walked him through all the steps, including running down the hall to ask the Professor if he wanted any.  Note:  This is a serious step when making anything in our house.  It didn’t occur to me to tell him to use a potholder or oven mitt.

“Aaaggghhh!”

He had grabbed the kettle, boiling hot, by its metal handle.  I couldn’t see what he was doing, because, remember, I was busy getting the sofa and snacks ready for everyone from my spot on the pillows.  He was fine, the burn wasn’t too bad.  I tried not to make too big of a fuss.  He’s almost six feet tall and is certainly capable of pouring hot water on his own.

It got me thinking about the process of letting go, knowing they’ll make mistakes and realizing that even when you’re lying there, eating fake healthy carbohydrates only a few feet away, that even then they will get hurt. 

If we’re lucky, they will learn from these mistakes and go off to college knowing how to make a cup of tea.

Tools

I got into the habit of sending an e-mail to our gardener when I wanted fresh flowers planted in our yard or something replaced, like part of a hedge.  It’s not that expensive, not much more than the cost of buying the flats of perennials or a 15-gallon boxwood myself and much easier than carving out the time to go to the nursery, loading up my car and then spending hours on my knees in the dirt.  Or so I thought. 

Charming Baby is full of questions about nature and desire to spend time with me. He yearns to be productive and will not turn down a challenge.  We recently made a chore chart.  I gave each of my sons a handful of mandatory tasks (trash, recycling, setting table, dishes, etc.) and then asked them to choose one of their own.  First Born Prince focuses on results, not process, so he went for the most efficient return on investment of his time, like picking up dog poop which simultaneously allows him to play lacrosse in the backyard worry-free.  He gets the whole win-win concept.  Charming Baby chose gardening.  This chore was originally intended for me to have someone help pick all the dead blossoms off our plants and trees.  Then it hit me.

I decided to surprise Charming Baby with the job of planting all the new flowers I want in the yard this season.  I also decided to enjoy myself and turn the whole project into a treat for both of us since Sam had already figured out that it wasn’t really a “chore.”  I cleared my schedule so I would have time to think at the nursery rather than running through with a cart yelling at the workers that I was parked in a red zone.  I thought through what I needed and made a list so I wouldn’t be caught having to use my ivory-handled silver pie server to dig holes, or the kids’ bamboo back scratcher as a rake.

We spent two hours hauling, digging, planting, watering and cleaning up.  We’re about a third done.  Charming Baby asked me this morning if we could get right to it after school today and even figured out which plants he wants to save for Saturday.  He likes organizing the work and is excited about the progress.

“Thank you, Mom, for buying all the flowers and letting me plant everything.”

“Thank YOU, Sam.  You did such a great job.  The yard looks beautiful.”

Just wait until it blooms.

Roots

 Passenger Ship Samuel

My family can trace its roots back to the arrival of the Barnhouses in North America from England in 1638.  One of my great grandfathers, Captain Richard Barnhouse, sailed his ship, Samuel, over and settled in Virginia.  He brought passengers and slaves in exchange for land.  He had a slave himself.  After he died, his widow, Anne Barnhouse, granted the slave his freedom.  That part reminds me of how after my father died my mother made big cash donations to her favorite charities.  My father was not into charity or parting with cash.

My mother’s side of the family came over from France, through Canada.  The French Canadians began moving to North America in the mid-18^th century and continued emigrating up through 1930.  Our family settled in New York where they built and worked in factories, no slaves involved, only hard-working French people.

Grandpa Barnhouse moved to California in the early 20^th century to be an actor in Hollywood.  He met my grandmother, also from an English family, fell madly in love, started a family and settled on a successful sales career.  My father was one of their five children, raised in an affluent suburb of Los Angeles.  When he was young, he spent his spare time swimming with his sisters or selling persimmons from their backyard at a little stand he made.

My mother was basically an only child, although she had three much-older stepsiblings, raised in Niagara Falls.  She remembers countless hours curled up reading, either at night under the covers with a flashlight or in the summers, up in the attic with old comic books she found.  She also recalls spying on her brother through the floorboards when he was entertaining dates in the basement.

We have a genealogy book from the Barnhouse side of the family and a few of my aunts belong to Daughters of the Revolution, both help keep the history alive.  I have a handwritten family tree from my maternal grandmother, also French Canadian like my grandfather, whom she met in New York.  Everything I learned about the LaFrenieres is word of mouth.

I am doing my best to paint the family’s historical picture for my sons.  Every time we revisit the past, a fact is corrected or a child born out of wedlock pops up.  The details don’t really matter but it sure is interesting to discover the English side has something in common with the French—like that one of my great grandmothers was a badass liberal, just like my mom.

Intellectual Pursuits

 

“Will you read my blog post and tell me if you think it’s too weird?”

“Sure,” says the Professor.

He doesn’t laugh which is the opposite of what I was going for.

“Too bizarre, huh?”

“You know better than to ask me.  I am too private.  But I will say one thing.  Writing about boobs is not an intellectual pursuit.  This is what happens when you live in La Jolla.”

Had I been anywhere else in my cycle I would have fought him on this.  This from a man who bought a hot tub as an impulse purchase while out grocery shopping at Costco?  He is lecturing me on intellectual pursuits?

I don’t think so!  Here’s the post:

I am not built for running, but I love it so I do it anyway.  There are a lot of things that aren’t good for me that I do regardless, but that’s another story, shared only after years of friendship and a bottle of wine.  I like the freedom and simplicity of being able to put on running shoes, my music and just go.  The last time I ran this much was in Ithaca and I fractured a toe.  Even with taping them and wearing orthotics, I may not make it to my grave without intervention.

 “I think I need foot surgery,” I told the Professor.

He looked at my feet.

“Because of how they look or because of how they feel?”

“Please.  It’s my toe.  I think I’m getting a stress fracture.  My weight isn’t being distributed properly.  My second toe is doing all the work the big toe is supposed to be doing.  I can feel it happening when I push off.” 

“Well, you have to schedule it when I can help out.”

I started thinking about the down time and the risks of anethesia. 

“I wonder if there is anything else I should have done while I am under?”

“Like what?”  He sounded hopeful.

“Oh my God, I knew it.  You want me to get new boobs.”

“No, honey, I love your boobs.  Really.  I am not one of those guys that wants everything new.  I like living in reality.”

Reality boobs?

Hunger Games

I was mean to two old men the other day at the movie theatre.  The first was at the concession counter.  I was with First Born Prince, on a special date to see “The Hunger Games.”  We were planning to go to dinner afterwards, and I was in an exceptionally good mood…until Old Man #1 cut in front of us (and the rest of the line) to get a free popcorn refill.  He didn’t make eye contact, just marched right up and wove his bag around until the counter person helped him, right in the middle of my transaction.  The sales clerk literally stopped filling up my son’s soda to wait on him.

When he turned around, I spoke up.

“Excuse me, Sir, did you see the line of people here waiting?”

“Excuse me, Ma’am!”  His tone was indignant.  “I was getting a refill!”  I noticed his hand holding the popcorn-in-question was shaking and I didn’t want him to drop it or anything, so I just turned back to pay for the soda.

“Maybe he was confused, Mom.”  Son of Pollyanna reminded me to give others the benefit of the doubt.  I also wasn’t 100% sure what the rules around refills were since I’ve been depriving myself of movie theatre popcorn for over thirty years now.

We were seated, excited for the movie to begin, when Old Man #2 strolled in just as the lights dimmed and sat in the seat directly in front of my son, on TOP of a special cushion he brought with him.  There were many, many other open seats.  We had purposely arrived early and I was frustrated by the turn of events.

I asked really loudly, “Charlie, CAN YOU SEE?”

“No,” he whispered.

“I GUESS WE’LL HAVE TO MOVE THEN!”

The old man didn’t flinch.  I stood in the aisle with my hand on my hip, searching for another good seat, giving out a long, loud, heavy sigh.  Finally, Old Man #2 snuck a peek at me.  I marched off.

“It’s okay, Mom.”  First Born Prince-slash-Son of Pollyanna wanted back my bubbly mood.

And it was.  We ended up in good seats.  We were two rows back and I looked at Old Man #2 nestling himself into his booster seat and realized he was alone.  I started to feel a little sinking feeling in my stomach.  I wondered if Old Man #1 was alone, too.  I thought to myself, “What the hell is wrong with me?” 

As we left the theater and made our way to dinner, I remembered the sage advice my father used to give me, “Don’t be an asshole.”

It didn’t really matter what the refill protocol was or that an old man plunked himself down in front of my strapping 12-year-old, did it?  I was on a date with my son and was excited to discuss the merits of a great film over a slice of pizza and the rules of the elderly or the impatient, or the clueless, needn’t apply to me.

We only go around once, it’s a short ride.

Price Tags

The elementary school’s fundraising gala program came home in Charming Baby's backpack, complete with auction item listings and their descriptions.  The Professor had already read through the details online and thought it would be fun to bid on “Navy Seal for a Day.”  The winner gets to go with a real Navy Seal to their elite training center here in San Diego and spend a day learning all about it.  All I could think was, “There’s a Navy Seal at the school and this is the first I've heard about it?”

I like to bid on experiences as well and sifted through the little booklet to see if there were any vacation packages for the family.

“Oh, Mom, I already read that and know what I want.”

This surprised me and made me laugh, picturing him stretched out on the sofa with his long legs crossed, scanning a list of offerings for anything that might appeal to him.

“I would like to do the Teacher Feature with Ms. White.”

Teacher Features are experiences that teachers from the school donate to the auction, like taking the four highest bidders to pizza and bowling for the afternoon.  Another popular one is a teacher who brings a lucky group to a Padres baseball game.  Ms. White is Charming Baby’s second-grade teacher and was offering a Scrapbooking Class.  I would never have guessed.

“Really?  What made you choose that one?”

“Well, I liked the trip to Belmont Park (boardwalk amusement with a roller coaster and arcade), but that’s another teacher and I want to do something with my teacher.  Plus I think you get dessert with Ms. White and I’m not sure you do with the other one.”

Charming Baby had to pick a theme for his scrapbook and bring in photos and mementos.  My heart cracked open going through the two years of memories from our sabbatical in Ithaca.  It was easy to see what he cherished:  outdoor adventures with his brother, waterfalls, snow, our big yard full of deer, time on Cornell campus, and playing with Huck.

“My hiking stick can’t fit in there, Mom!”  He made jokes as we filled the Ziploc.

When I picked him up yesterday after the much-anticipated event, he was beaming and proud and held in his arms a keepsake that truly was priceless.

Dude!

On my way back from dropping First Born Prince at school I saw a dad I know driving home with his surfboard on top of his car, coming up the hill from the beach.  It was 7:20a.m. and he was already done with his surf session.

Done?  Dude! 

He was already finished because he’s a lawyer and I am sure had to be in his office by 9:00.   It hit me like a ton of sand that all the surfers I know are successful working professionals...teachers, lawyers, surgeons, engineers, physical therapists…most of them are the healthiest people in my social circle, too.  They are physically and mentally fit and as a bonus, tend to be soulful, kind and caring.

I used to be afraid of the negative surf-culture stereotypes.   I grew up with a mixed bag of screw-ups and college-bound surfers.  I am a protective mother now.  No one wants a kid who ditches class to surf or falls out of a VW bus in a cloud of smoke.  But now that I see how my peers at the beach ended up, I realize it’s not the love of the ocean that breeds screw-ups.

Surfing is a sport, like any other—not wanting your son to surf because he might end up like Jeff Spicoli is like not letting your son play football because he might turn out like Michael Vick.  Likewise, not trying to surf when you live in La Jolla is like not trying to ski when you live at the base of a gorgeous ski resort.  The wave breaks here are infamous and we boast year-round surfing weather.

Charming Baby wants to learn how to surf this summer.  I foolishly dissuaded my older son from trying it.  Thankfully I am older and wiser now.  We’re fortunate to live here and I’m excited he is interested in one of the more challenging, yet rewarding, sports available to us on the coast.

If everybody had an ocean…

Easy Roads

I still remember when my babies were in my arms nursing how they would look at me and reach their little hand up to stroke my cheek.  It made me feel like everything was right in the world.  I’d turn off the Law & Order marathon, put down the burrito, prop myself up against some comfy pillows and just enjoy the time doing something natural, simple and easy.

Except, getting to that point wasn't.  First, I almost missed the boat on the father of my children.  I didn’t want to get married young (by my standards, not Appalachian).  The Professor put up with years of dating, breaking up, living together in sin, and in therapy.  I finally did agree to be a child bride.  I was 28.

Then, the Professor was ready to start a family, again years before I was.  I had just hit my stride in my career and didn’t want to slow down.  He was worried we might run into trouble conceiving (Had he seen my hips?), having read somewhere it could take up to two years to get pregnant “naturally.”  I bought the logic, thinking we could avoid pressure if we got started early.  At any rate, I figured baby making might be more fun if it wasn’t a pre-scheduled activity, like a Body Pump class at the gym.  I got pregnant the first month off of birth control.  I was 30.

In between my two babies, I had a pregnancy that didn’t make it.  I carried our middle son for six months.  I’ve come to understand that miscarriages and terminations are part of motherhood.  We’ve come a long way from having children to help out on the farm, and making a few extra “just in case.”  We now know exactly why we can or can’t, will or won’t conceive, carry and deliver.  Scientific progress doesn’t make it easier.  I grieved heavily over the loss.  I was 34.

Charming Baby came along soon thereafter, thanks to ovulation testing kits.  There is nothing less romantic than telling a man he has to do it immediately when he gets home from his business trip because you’ve released an egg.  Conceiving wasn’t the part that was rough, though.  After a successful (albeit nauseous) pregnancy, my OB-GYN advised me to induce early.  My first baby was 10 lbs. 14 oz. at birth and while it was wonderful that I could actually push out an 11 lb. baby, it wasn’t advisable.  Where First Born Prince had been big and beautiful and pink, Charming Baby, who was forced out before he was ready, was thin and yellow and just looked like he wasn’t fully baked.  He was jittery and had jaundice.  I was mad at myself for listening to ill advice.  I was 35.

Some women make it look easy.  They have twins, with no household help, and casually nurse their infants, one after the other, without you even noticing.  Others act like feeding their one little baby is a military exercise and everyone should stop talking, round up burp cloths and stand at attention until the last gas bubble is gone.  I like to think I have had enough challenges achieving the title “mother” that I am not smug or unsympathetic.  But I am keenly aware of how extremely fortunate I am.  I hit the mommy jackpot with two strong healthy boys and am in the sweet spot of my journey.  I am 43.

Ice Queen

In a perfect Texas twang, the voice on the other end of the line instructs me, “Now just hold on a minute.  A truck is drivin’ by and I can’t hear ye.”

I wait and then continue to tell the salesman that the ice maker I want from him makes the clear, square kind of cubes. 

“Y’ all don’t like the cresent-shaped ones?  I’ve got one of those.”

He then tells me to hold again.

“Another truck?”

“No, are you old enough to know who Marlon Brando is?”

“Sure, yeah.”

“Well, I am watchin’ “Mutiny on the Bounty” and my favorite part is comin’ up.”

“Oh, really?”  I try to be nice.  I want my ice maker before summer.

“Here it is.  The part when the captain slaps the first mate.”

I’ve been exchanging phone calls with Alan from Texas for a few months.  I need a special custom ice maker to replace the broken one we have.  It’s a fussy, special size, costs-an-arm and-a-leg number, but I found this broker who you can get a factory second from for less than half retail.  We already have a door panel that matches our other appliances, so it doesn’t matter if there is cosmetic damage.  I am sure he already thinks I am a fruity and nutty Californian who is willing to pay extra time and money for square, clear ice, so I guess I can steer my thoughts about this factory seconds salesman slash Marlon Brandon fan in another direction.

“Tell me about it, Alan.”

Did you get what you wanted?

“Valentine's Day:  When the cynics criticize the romantics for the over-commercialization of the holiday and the romantics criticize the cynics for lack of belief in love and we take the time to step back and realize how lucky we are to have people we love who love us, no matter whether or not we are in a relationship. We celebrate the bonds between us that we wouldn't be able to live without.”

--Sydney Roslin

I caught an ad for a Valentine's Day special from the massage studio I like:

“Add 30 minutes of foot reflexology to your massage for only $30!”

The Professor interrupted my daydream of having my arches worked.

“So, I’m heading over to Costco.  Are flowers for Valentine’s Day okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

He brings me flowers from Costco every time he goes.  I REALLY appreciate that.  I also do not think he needs to prove anything to me on Valentine’s Day.  BUT he did ask AND my feet were already tingling in anticipation of what I really wanted.  I grabbed the ad and walked down the hall to his office.

“I hope this doesn’t come across as rude, but I actually don’t want flowers from Costco for Valentine’s Day.  I want foot reflexology.”

His eyes lit up.  God love him, all he wants to do is get it right.

“Great.  Perfect.  Give me the name of the place and I’ll handle it.”

I used to resent having to dictate what I wanted, feeling unromantic and piggish and bossy.  I prefer to think of myself as loving and generous and easy-going.

And that’s exactly how I’ll be tomorrow after my massage with 30 minutes added-on of foot reflexology.

Sweet Surprises

 

There is a mentally-disabled man, Peter, who works at the grocery store near us.  I don’t go to Vons very often anymore but used to be a regular there when the kids were younger.  Peter would always come over to our cart when I had Charming Baby with me.  He'd usually share something personal with me like, “I’m going to the Greek Festival.  I’m Greek.”  I was never sure how the conversations would go.  He didn’t make eye contact, asked a lot of questions, and sometimes followed me around while I shopped.  He seemed like a happy kid trapped in a man's body.

I saw Peter again today for the first time in over two years. I was cruising through the produce section when I heard his friendly, familiar voice.

“HI!”

“Hi, Peter.”  I didn’t think he would remember me.

“Where is your son?”

“He’s at school.” Unbelievable.  The clerks with all their faculties don’t remember me from one week to the next.

“Oh.”  He was quiet for a minute.  “How is he?”

“He’s great.  He likes school.  Thanks for asking.”

“Whitney Houston died.”

“Yes, I know.”

“It’s sad.”

“Yes, it is, but at least we have her beautiful music to remember her by," I replied, wondering if he was trying to make conversation or if he was really sad about losing Whitney Houston. 

“Okay, bye!”  He said loudly and began to walk away.

I must have turned my back to him when I reached for the bag of grapes.  I was trying to multi-task, already late to go pick up First Born Prince at the orthodontist.  I didn’t mean to cut him off.

“Good-bye, Peter!"  I yelled after him.

I thought about what a sweet soul he is and how it really was nice seeing him. Can't say that about everyone you run into.

He's a Lover

 Just when I was beginning to take myself too seriously, a Post-It note appeared on my desk, slapped there by a sticky, slightly pudgy hand with dirty fingernails:

I Love you, Mom.  P.S. Cme and tok to me.

Charming Baby had been trying to get my attention for a while and I hadn’t clued in yet.

“Sam, give me five minutes and I’ll wrap up what I’m doing.”

“Okay, I’ll be down in my room."  

"Waiting.”  He sang out.

My youngest son is the one who I thought was my fighter.  So impervious he was to cooperation as a three-year old, I took “Redirecting Children’s Behavior,” a parenting class that focuses on logical consequences instead of threats and punishments.  Twice.  I had to find a way to stop myself from pinning the child down and forcing sunscreen onto his red, defiant face.  Or, worse, avoid tackling him in public spaces and wrestling the kicking maniac into his stroller.

Up until a few years ago I was certain he would be the one who would leave me, run off to a university far away, never call or text, sleep his way through his twenties with women I’d rather not dine with, and then end up marrying some girl who had an unfortunate nickname for him like, “Sexy Sammy.”

Something happened along the way.  He blossomed into a lover.  He likes to sing.  And dance.  And cuddle.  He likes to comfort himself when he’s falling asleep by running his fingers through my hair.  When we are sitting across from each other in a crowded place, I’ll look up and catch him staring at me and he’ll mouth, I LOVE YOU.” 

The most tender part of it is that he has learned to articulate exactly what he wants and ask for it in a positive way.  He is light years ahead of me.  I still bark like a salty sea captain when I am not getting what I want.  I try to be patient and I work very hard to model polite behavior, but I am no lover.  I thought I was going to pass my hard-earned, deep-creased frown line down to my baby.  Turns out I was just waiting for him to come along and teach me how to soften it.

Time Bandits

“The following classrooms do not have anyone signed up for Teacher Relief tomorrow…” 

I scanned the e-mail sent from the school for the list.  Glaring at me like my mother catching me French kissing a boy on the porch, was my son’s teacher’s name.  I hadn’t signed up beforehand because I had scheduled myself as writing this week.  I couldn’t stand the guilt.  I immediately decided I would go in to staple flip books and sharpen pencils.

As luck would have it, I woke up this morning with a huge brainstorm and was frustrated I couldn’t sit down and explore my thoughts.  Hemmingway was able to write the great American novel because when he got out of bed with a hot idea, he could pour himself a cup of coffee, light a cigarette, and write until he had dug deep enough to feel satisfied.  I, on the other hand, had to make breakfasts, pack lunches, shuttle blood relatives to school, AND, now, kiss away a few hours of my time.  Gratis.

Then, I was thrown a bone.   The Professor offered to take the boys to the basketball game this afternoon.  (Our public high school was playing the top team in the county.)  Instead of homework, play dates and doling out snacks, I suddenly found myself with two free (quiet) hours.

I was at a crossroad.  Sort of like when bathing suit season is around the corner and every fucking corn chip is a crossroad.  I had an empty afternoon in the middle of the week.  What was I going to do with it?  Straighten up the house.  Catch up on e-mail. Return phone calls.  Schedule the handyman.  File Aetna claims.  No.  No.  No.  No.  And hell no.  Pour myself a glass of wine and write.  Now we’re getting somewhere.

It was pure chance that I got my two hours back today.  I realize novels aren’t written by being squeezed in on a to-do list.  Time to beef up my watch dog skills and guard myself against the time bandits!

School for Cavemen

“Dad says we would have made a really good caveman family,” First Born Prince tells me.

“Because of how big and strong we all are, we would never worry about anything.  We’d have plenty of food from hunting and we’d be able to defend our cave.”

I know this caveman fantasy.  He was dreaming about how simple life would be if all he had to do was bring home meat and hit me over the head with a club once in a while. 

Except, wherever you go, even in time travel, there you are.

The Professor would constantly be in discussion with tribe elders, trying to figure out how to build better weapons and make fire.  Word would get out about this large man in a well-heated cave and he would be asked to travel to other cave tribes and teach them what he’s learned.

I could see myself in a fashionable animal hide explaining to the other cavewomen how I enjoyed having a warm cave and lots of meat but that I was exhausted from how the Professor was constantly analyzing the way we did things.  I’d confide that although the basket he gave me was helpful, I liked to gather berries my own damn way.

He’d be gone for weeks at a time, taking his sack of new tools with him.  The other cave people would ask me if I missed him and I would say yes but really I would be happy for the break to live on ill-gathered berries and soak in the hot springs with the other cave women who had successful hunters who were gone a lot.

When he’d return, he’d be full of tales of other tribes who inspired him, young cavemen with good ideas of their own and I would show him the new boulders I found for us to sit on while we ate our meat.

At the end of the day, when we were all tucked safely into our warm cave corners, bellies full, I’d look over at my big, exhausted caveman and be very proud.