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.