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Why Husbands Aren’t Allowed to Shop for School Supplies

jennifer — Wed, 25 Aug 2010 02:00:54 +0000

This conversation took place in my kitchen an hour ago…

Husband: “I think I’ll take the kids school supply shopping this weekend.”

Me: “What?!…Why?”

Husband: “He (our son) got a letter in the mail from his teacher today, with a list, so I thought I’d take them.

Me: (whipping my head around to face him) “What!?! What do you mean? Is it a new, revised list or a supplement to the one we already got earlier this summer?? We’re not supposed to substitute stuff you know. What’s on it??”

Husband: “I dunno. It had things like, you know, blue folders, green folders, sanitary napkins, wait no… hand sanitizer..stuff like that.”

Go to HeyGirlMommaGo.com for today’s “Hand-Picked” updates…

Stuck in the Middle

jennifer — Tue, 13 Jul 2010 01:15:28 +0000

Have you heard of the book The Middle Place? by Kelly Corrigan? Well, my sister-in-law gave it to me months ago and last week I finally read it. I think in some ways I was afraid to read it. It’s a memoir about Kelly’s childhood, about facing a tough time in her life and at the same time dealing with her father’s illness. It’s about being in that nebulous, unchartered zone that is being a daughter and being a mother and how those roles get complicated, and maybe even fight against each other in some ways…it’s a place that she calls, “the middle place”.

I was afraid that her story might hit too close to home. Turns out I was right.

Last week we headed to northern Florida for our annual summer trip to my grandmother’s (Mema’s) house. It’s a highlight of every summer, to spend a week in the modest little oasis of a house that my grandfather built 55 years ago. I wrote about it two years ago, and I talked about how I attended a town meeting to try and help stop the development of a condominium complex across the small bay where Mema lives. Our efforts did little, unfortunately. The permit to build was given to the developer, but thankfully, so far, the economy hasn’t cooperated. But, they do hold the permit and are free to build the eye sore and the 50 boat slips they’ll cram in there to go with it. At this point, I can only hope that my nearly 90-year old grandmother will outlast the project and she’ll get to spend her last years staring out over the water and not at a wall of bricks.

Anyhoo, our trip started out as usual…the mad dash and late night packing and emails and newspaper vacation holds and such. There was no traffic on the way to the airport. We got the kids happily settled with snacks and the portable DVD player. We took off on the first leg from Boston to Atlanta and I leaned back in seat 25C and cracked open The Middle Place and read the first chapter.

We landed hours later in Atlanta to the fun news that our next flight had been cancelled and we would be enjoying a free night at the Comfort Inn North (lovely view of a roof and airplanes, ick), with a $6 dinner voucher (yeehaw), a $6 breakfast voucher (zippidee-doo-dah) and no luggage, save the small overnight kit for each of us with toothpaste, toothbrush and a whisper-thin Skymiles night shirt.

But, 18 hours later than expected, we finally landed in Panama City and as we walked out the double doors of the airport, I expected the familiar hot rush of air to wash over my face and my neck and my arms, always the first sign of the week to come. And as we drew closer to Mema’s waterfront neighborhood out on the point, I anticipated the smell of the old paper mill – sulphur mixed with salt and sweat, an odd and unpleasant to most, but to me, the defining scent of all my summers. My Beba and my other grandfather worked at the mill for years and Beba called it, quite accurately, the smell of ‘bread and butter.”

We joyfully greeted and hugged Grammy and Bah and Mema and my aunt and uncle and cousin. The kids swam in the bay. I unpacked and put the kid’s clothes in the empty white dresser drawer that Mema cleaned out in preparation for our stay. My son fished and my daughter washed shells on the deck. My Yankee husband took refuge in the lazy boy under the fan. The next night we had a little party. We bought a cake with a beach scene and flip flops on it and celebrated Mema’s upcoming 90th. We all sang and gave her a custom-made t-shirt that read “Absolutely Fabulous, 90 Years in the Making!” She smiled and said she loved it, but she wasn’t as tickled as I thought she’d be or offer to model it, and soon after the cake was done she retreated back to her room for “a little rest.”

The next day, for the first time ever in all my summer visits, the rain set in. It rained for 5 days. It sprinkled. It poured. It thundered. The sky faded from gray to black, back to gray.

My husband and I made daily attempts to get out of Mema’s hair. We snuck in just one hour at the beach and a couple of cloudy swims in the bay. Otherwise we kept the kids occupied with movies and trips to Walmart and the mall and a ride out to visit the souvenir shops along Panama City Beach. Because of the rain, the water parks were closed. The fun pirate kid’s cruise was cancelled. And the daily news warned us of unsightly tar balls washing up on the beach (thanks BP). We even drove by, which I dreaded, the burnt out shell of The Treasure Ship restaurant, my favorite as a kid. A fire earlier this year shut it down for good. It was the kind of restaurant that you’d bring your camera, where kids were given paper pirate hats while they drank huge Shirley Temples out of plastic hurricane glasses with the logo of the ship on it.

Even the biggest mega souvenir shop on the strip, a beach icon, Alvin’s, looked tired and worn to me. The live alligators in the tank looked sad. The sparkly mermaid picture frames on the shelves looked dusty. The fish tank was dirty and needed cleaning. As I walked around the store in a funk, I realized the economy and oil were doing this tourist destination no favors.

Ugh. I stood in the t-shirt section idly thumbing through the racks as the kids played skee ball. I didn’t like how this week was going at all. Despite loving the time with all my family, I was antsy, grouchy and more than a little unnerved. I had thought, as I do every year, that the salt and the sun, and driving Mema’s car and the sparkle of the sun off the bay would fill me. That the feeling of hugging Mema, wrapping my arms around her small shoulders and the feel of her cool, soft blue nightgown every morning would bring it all back. That the smell of coffee and biscuits would soothe and renew me and transport me back to that sheltered bubble of my childhood, that now I share with my kids.

I felt all of that. But at the same time, none of it.

Mema was feeling off because of an ongoing issue with pain around her eye and restless nights. One night, her growing anxiety (also an issue the past year), the crowded house, her rigid schedule thrown off and, a lack of sleep, triggered a nightmare so bad she actually grabbed hold of the curtain by her bedside and knocked over a lamp.

It was her nightmare. So why was I feeling like this was all just a bit surreal? There I was, spending a week inside one of my most treasured memories and it just didn’t feel right, even though I was RIGHT THERE, standing in Mema’s kitchen, and sleeping in her guest bed and eating her world-famous pound cake after dinner. And the sky would just not stop being so horribly gray.

I even stood out in the garage one night, trying to escape the feeling, just breathing in the smell of warm air and gasoline, trying to conjure up memories of my long passed Beba. I always feel closest to him out there, among his old tools, and where they used to keep a giant roll of thick paper from the paper mill. My brother and I were allowed to roll it out on the long driveway and scribble on it with strong smelling permanent markers that had the big fat tip to draw really thick lines.

But now, as I stood out there in the dark, the smooth concrete under my feet, bathing suits hanging over me on the line, I just couldn’t get to that place. That place that makes me feel like no matter how things change, some things remain the same.

I was stuck, in the middle.

On one of our last afternoons, we sat looking through the many photo albums Mema had put together over the years. I lingered on a picture of her with a friend on a cruise ship, going on one of her many long and exotic trips. There was a time when I was teenager that I loved to brag (and still do) that she’s the coolest grandmother you’ll ever meet. I still think she’s beautiful, stubborn as hell (and getting worse) and still has good advice to share, despite our generational differences. She still cares though, too much about what I weigh (if I get compliments she’s happy, if I don’t then, well, better luck next year if I get back to the kickboxing) – but that notion I’ve chalked up to the generational thing and the fact I can’t survive on half a turkey sandwich and coffee for lunch like she can. I’ve always admired her for being fabulous and strong and independent, not that she had much of a choice after Beba died 30 years ago. She had a nice boyfriend for while, in the late 80’s I think, a man from her church, but she had no interest in marrying him and good ol’ Bill moved on.

But again, here I was sitting next to her, watching the weather report with nothing new but more rain and looking at old photos feeling slighted, sad, and more than a little angry…This is MY special place. My haven. My Mema. And we were about to go home. This is where I come to balance out my crazy life and the junk that swirls around in my head. And this time, that’s not happening AT ALL. And I didn’t like it. Instead, I was seeing the reality of a place I love and a grandmother I love, showing the effects of time.

Mema is aging faster and she’s wrestling with curtains and table lamps and her anxiety is so thick it hangs around her like the Spanish moss on the trees around her house. Her friends are all dying before her, her best and last good friend has Alzheimer’s. She gets completely worked up over every ache and pain and is convinced, some days, that antibiotic cream causes panic attacks.

I am ridiculous. On the same day Mema turns 90 this month, I’ll turn 39. I should have faced this years ago. But the whole week suddenly felt like that ocean wave you don’t see coming… When you get distracted and glance back behind you at the beach for a moment too long…. and then,” BAM!” you’re knocked off your feet , flailing and sputtering, scraping your legs against the sharp shells on the bottom as you try to get your footing again.

I wanted to close my eyes and for just a little while ignore it all and be 14 again and lay out on the dock with my giant yellow Sony walkman and put on too little sunscreen and lay on my huge new Coppertone towel memorizing every word on the new Wham! album and fantasize about wowing my summer crush, the captain of the varsity basketball team, with my tan when I get home. And then I’d come up to the house late in the afternoon, take a long shower in the back bathroom (that would tick Mema off because I’d have gotten water all over the place) and sit down to dinner of homemade chicken casserole and butter beans and hear her familiar laugh as she sat, legs elegantly crossed, off in the corner chair or on the side couch telling stories and old jokes.

And I’m just so pissed off. I’m mad she’s no longer the grandmother that sends me postcards from Alaska and mows the lawn herself. The kind of grandmother that wears a show stopping dress at your wedding. I’m mad that she’s scared. And I’m mad that I am too. That’s she’s vulnerable and sad and that she’ll go days without wanting to get out of the house. That she’s fearful of handling things outside the tiny bubble that is now her life…getting her morning newspaper, putting her garbage out, going to the doctor for a blood pressure check, going to church, going to the Winn Dixie, having my aunt and uncle meet my parents halfway in Louisiana so they can take her to Texas for a visit because she won’t fly by herself anymore.

I’m mad at time. I’m mad that I’m getting older and my parents are getting older and this is how it works. And one day she won’t be here at all and then that whole part of my life will be gone. I am so bratty and so selfish. Like that same 14-year-old who slams doors and yells because she’s still not allowed to go on a date with a boy in his car.

It’s just not fair. But of course it is. It’s life.

And I should be absolutely and fully aware of the gift I have been given of having a 90-year old grandmother. Many of my close friends have sadly, dealt with the loss of their own parents at this point. I have no right to feel this way. I’m on borrowed time with Mema as it is. And my kids not only know her, they love and enjoy her and that’s more than I could have ever hoped for.

So as we sat around dinner at the local Po Folks restaurant on our last night, my mom and aunt and I quietly discussed the fact that next year, we just have to do it differently. Maybe we come down for a week but we take a few days and drive down to Disney with just the kids so it’s not so overwhelming for Mema. Or maybe we rent a house nearby. Or maybe she doesn’t feel up to it at all, and next year, we don’t even come. Maybe we meet her in Texas at my parents…or I fly down for the weekend. Who knows?

This trip did me a favor though. It has better prepared me for what I will have to face in the years to come. I have to focus on creating new memories of Mema, not trying to hold her accountable for the old. That photo album doesn’t have any more room for pictures. It’s time for a new one.

I was relieved to get on the plane home. I immersed myself in reading The Middle Place. And it helped. It helped me stand up out of that wave of memories and denial and fear that knocked me down when I wasn’t looking.

It helped me slowly take a walk back up the beach, back to reality. Back to being a grownup.

And straight out of the middle place.

Go to HeyGirlMommaGo.com for today’s “Hand-Picked” updates…

Playgroup

jennifer — Mon, 10 May 2010 01:35:55 +0000

I sat in the cafeteria at my daughter’s preschool on Friday, in a bright and sunny church and loved every minute of their annual Mother’s Day Tea. We were given homemade placemats, goodie bags and potted plants. We were treated to three songs, the last of which ended with little hands blowing kisses to the audience.

Heart-melting adorable stuff.

It was a wonderful day because of that, and because my daughter kept proclaiming all week, “Happy Mother’s Day Mommy!,” as if it were my birthday.

I’ve been thinking about my fellow mothers a lot lately, not only because of Mother’s Day, but I’ve been missing them due to an uber-hectic schedule, and also because a big part of my beloved Momtourage, my Friday afternoon playgroup, is quickly nearing (insert deep breath here while eyes well up) “graduation.”

For the past few years, 10 of us gals have met faithfully once a week with our preschool age kids (nearly all of whom will start kindergarten in the fall). Every Friday, at 1pm sharp (barring a volunteer commitment, travel, or stomach bug) our minivans and SUV’s pull up. We drop little shoes in the hall, and the kids head straight for the toys – we head straight for the coffee. If you’re hosting that week, you fire up the java pot, put out the cream, milk and sugar, plop some juice boxes and nut-free snacks on the table, and we’re good.

And every Friday the topics we discuss, with our hands wrapped around our coffee mugs standing in the kitchen or seated around a living room sofa, are varied. We cover everything from our kid’s summer camp schedules, to fashion dilemmas (I asked of the group this week, “Is my hair too long? Should I cut it?” The group consensus was no). We have heated discussions on tantrum management, fear of swim lessons, the latest Disney movie, who’s got Wii, where to get the best pedicure, who’s doing what for the weekend, who knows a good landscaper and stuff that, well, I’m not at liberty to even mention. We celebrate each other’s first communions and milestone birthdays and new haircuts, and tease those who get speeding tickets. We swap books and fancy shoes and the kids’ old ballet slippers and baseball pants. Most weeks there are lots of laughs, but sometimes someone may need to shed a tear or two (both kids and moms).

Some of us met years ago, some of us were acquaintances before we casually started our Friday gatherings. But regardless of how it started, it just works. We air out our parenting dilemmas, get coveted advice and vent our frustrations without restraint. And we have a rule (as hinted to previously) that personal stuff discussed in playgroup, stays in playgroup. It’s quite awesome actually.

And underneath all the coffee talk, we all, I think recognize that we have become somewhat of a Board of Directors of the 10+ little people screaming with delight in the basement playroom below us. And we take our job very seriously.

We are friends, companions, and teammates, soldiers even perhaps, in motherhood.

Case in point:

If one of us or anyone in our immediate family is sick or injured, an impressive and swift operation is launched, and we are deployed to deliver food, babysitting, rides or just comforting words.

If you surprise the group with the news that another new baby is on the way, we will jump up and down and hug you and feel your belly every week.

If you need a buddy for a power walk one afternoon, done.

If you host a fundraiser, we not only show up, we help set up.

If you need to know if a new dress works, you bring it one Friday and model it and we’ll give you an honest opinion and then loan you a necklace to go with it.

If you post pictures on Facebook, we will comment and “ooh” and “ahh” over recital and vacation pics.

If you are running late for school pick up, someone in playgroup will already have noticed your child looking lonely with their backpack, and is sitting with them, given them a big reassuring smile, calling your cell phone as you pull into the parking lot. But they won’t get you on your cell because you are already talking to another playgroup member who is just steps behind the first one, already on the task of finding your child before they get upset that mommy isn’t there yet.

If you lose someone you love, we will grieve with you and for you.

We fix scraped knees and bruised egos. We heal our kids and every week, we strengthen and heal each other.

We know we are lucky. I don’t know how you can put 10 different women together and it just clicks. We were thrown together simply by the timing of our motherhood and a common zip code.

We are Catholic. We are Jewish. We are Protestant.
We are blonde and brunette.
We are 30ish. We are 40ish.
Some of us finish triathlons together.
Some of us make the most incredible multi-colored cupcakes you have ever seen.
Some do both (I know, right!?)
We take coffee with cream.
We take tea with milk.
Some of us are entrepreneurs or run a business unit. Some of us rock the PTA.
We are shy. We are the life of the party.
We have gone to reunions and laughed that we were once teenage rebels or queen of the swim team, or that we had very big hair (well, I still do).
We grew up blocks away, or halfway across the country.
We are all so different.

But we are all incredibly efficient, and caring to each other, and we don’t pull any punches. We laugh at our most trying parental moments (following the school bus to school to make a morning argument right) and silly antics at holiday parties. We celebrate first tooth fairy visits and karate belts.

And every Friday at 3pm, with empty mugs placed in the sink, we depart as a convoy, off to get our older kids off the bus or to gymnastics…having spent two hours laughing, learning and building this team called playgroup.

Oh lordy.

I will really miss our Fridays and the safety net of seeing those gals every single week. I will miss the coffee.

Note: And I love that they will all totally razz me for writing this and recognizing this milestone that we promised we wouldn’t make a big deal of (sorry gals, I love ya).

But it will, in fact, be the end of an era.

But I also know that we will get together when we can, and simply move our discussions to coffee shops or diners or someone’s back deck (with a bottle of wine on the table perhaps). The topics will evolve…to grades, try-outs and school dances. And our lives will change. Our schedules will change, we will have unexpected highs and lows. But what we’ve built for each other and for our kids (not to mention the “Anti-teenage shenanigans” patrol that we already have in place) is here for the long haul.

We may be done with our Fridays soon.

But ladies, trust me, playgroup is just getting started.

Go to HeyGirlMommaGo.com for today’s “Hand-Picked” updates…

Tick Tock You Don’t Stop

jennifer — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 22:51:02 +0000

Forgive me.

It has been nearly one month since my last post.

And something else that I must confess – I recently started a very cool part-time work gig that is fabulous. However, the addition of such has been a bit of a shoe-horn-type exercise into my already full roster of projects, commitments, activities and parental duties. It kind of reminds me of that line from Top Gun – ”Son, your ego is writing checks your body can’t cash!” Only I don’t have a commanding officer, fly F-14’s nor do I “buzz the tower” for a cheap thrill (unless the Dunkin’ drive thru counts). I just tend to keep busy.

But it’s all good.

Eventually, I will figure out how to balance it all. But in the meantime, I must admit I have done a few things in my last few time-starved weeks that I’m not particularly proud of. So of course it’s my duty to share them with you:

1) I got dressed so fast I put two earrings (french wire not post) into the same ear. Luckily, I caught a glimpse of my double-loaded lobe before leaving for the morning.

2) I kept a burnt out light bulb in my purse for a month before I finally went to the hardware store to get a replacement. And in case you’re wondering how I pulled that off, I had it in a Tupperware container, not loose.

3) While out in the yard with the kids surveying the mess of limbs that had fallen during a storm, I looked up at a very large, broken dangling tree branch and thought, “Hmmm, I bet I could just yank that down right now.” And I did, right onto my head. And it trapped me like a Venus fly trap. The kids thought it was awesome.

4) I let my daughter watch 3 movies in a row one day so I could be on the computer working, preparing for a big project and meeting. Ouch, the guilt on that one…

5) My sweet, now-7-year-old baby ever so diplomatically suggested that the homemade chocolate Chewbacca cupcakes I made for his class for his birthday were a little “sloppy“ – “Uh, mom, did you make those cupcakes in the middle of the night?”

6) I ate dusty pretzels out of the bottom of my purse (they’d spilled in there the day before) because I was running errands and had nothing in the car to eat (Note: I was out of my stash of Luna bars and I do have a blood sugar issue, so I think this one I can sort of justify).

7) I signed up for a writing class, because you know…I have all that spare time to write a novel. But I’m 3 paragraphs in! Wahoo!

8) I let my dead dishwasher sit for days with water trapped in the bottom, then I wet-vac’d it out an hour before the new one was delivered, and then I ignored the new one because I was too busy/tired to figure out how to work it. My husband came home from a business trip and graciously read the instructions and ran the first load.

9) Thanks to a very enticing email from DSW.com, I broke my personal record for online speed-shopping. I not only saved $10 on a super cute pair of brown wedge sandals, but I completed the entire transaction in 6.7 minutes (give or take).

10) Last week I used my daughter’s brand new library card to check out our books so they wouldn’t see the overdue fees on my account.

Yup, that’s what happens.

But at least we just turned the clocks forward and there’s more daylight to make the days seem longer. If I could just convince myself that they are not, in fact, actually longer.

Go to HeyGirlMommaGo.com for today’s “Hand-Picked” updates…

Ice, Ice Baby

jennifer — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 16:30:26 +0000

So this past weekend I put on ice skates for the first time since I was about 10. And even back then I tried skating only once, maybe twice. After I saw my classmate Ian Baxter slice the top of his foot with the blade while taking his skates off, requiring stitches, well, that was that. I stuck to roller skating. No sharp edges. And they had a disco ball at the rink.

But, now, some 25 years and 2 kids later, it turns out I’m forced to face every sport and physical activity I’ve ever loved, feared or hated all over again. Case in point – last month we signed the kids up for ice skating lessons, thinking it would be a great way to pass the time during the dreaded winter months. And much to my chagrin, my husband insisted we get all new shiny equipment for the kids. My daughter’s hand-me-down skates from a neighbor were apparently OK, but my son’s used black figure skates that I snagged from my favorite local consignment shop didn’t make the cut. My husband insisted it was because his young ankles needed more support that (of course) only a brand new (and totally tough and manly looking) pair of hockey skates could provide.

Whatever.

He also bought them the fancy hockey helmets with the metal gate over their faces. I have to say though, I love seeing my little girl in all that gear – her hot pink snow pants, lime green jacket with pink faux fur collar and white helmet with intimidating silver gate over her little face, big blue eyes peering out. And by the way, a rite of passage as a mother is having to reach into a hockey mask with one finger to wipe off tears of frustration. I wonder if Wayne Gretzky’s mother ever had to do that.

Anyhoo, except for one bad week when our over-tired son refused to set foot on the ice, they’ve loved it and have done quite well, which is especially heartwarming given the iceberg-sized price tag of the whole thing.

For weeks now I’ve been content to just hang out on the sidelines, chatting with the other parents and waving enthusiastically through the glass, giving the kids two thumbs up every time they fall on their butts and get right back up. And I’ve been perfectly happy to watch my husband shepherd them around the rink during the open skate portion of the class – wearing his brand new skates of course. But recently the kids asked me (prompted by my husband..thanks for that, babe) to join them on the ice. And I promised (begrudgingly) I would. So after our recent vacation week and a few days of watching Olympic figure skating, I decided I’d better try it…I’d better practice what I preach…”You just have to try it honey! It doesn’t matter that some of the other kids can skate faster, you’ll get better every week, you just need to try it, you might love it!” and other motivational blah-blah-blah.

This past Sunday, it was time, finally, for me to break the ice. Given the possible extra electrical activity going on my brain the past year, I wondered if I should wear a helmet. I decided not to – better to blend in as much as possible and just slowly make my way around the inner wall of the rink, undetected by the droves of other parents and kids. And it wasn’t like I was planning to speed skate or try a triple salchow (which fyi, was named after Swedish figure skater Ulrich Salchow but it’s still a weird name for such a graceful move).

So with some fake enthusiasm (why is the rink so dang crowded today of all days?!) I laced up my rented skates and made my way, oh so tentatively, onto the ice. The kids were excited to teach me “some moves.” I suddenly realized that this was quite a lovely parenting moment. What a great lesson in bravery, and fearlessness I was teaching my children! I made sure I told them I was nervous and I didn’t know how to skate. I laid it on as thick as a Zamboni driver before a Bruin’s game.

“What if I fall guys?! I’m a little nervous!,” I declared.
“Don’t worry Mommy, we’ll help you!”

I was smiling (partly because it wasn’t as hard as I thought and partly because heck, yeah, I’m a darn good mom today!) while I trailed my son as he showed me how to put one foot in front of the other. Then he demonstrated how to squat down, arms bent at the elbows, tucked in tight, as if I were skiing downhill.

“What is this move for?” I asked (other than the obvious and immediate glute workout).
“I dunno,” he said, “It’s just cool.” Hmmm. OK. I played along.
Then his classmate Zoe skated by.
“Mom! Look! Zoe’s here!” And ZOOM, he was gone…my private lesson abruptly ended by a cute 7-year old brunette. A vision of things yet to come I suppose.

But I went on my merry, cautious way, and by the end of the hour, I had enough confidence to move far away from the wall. My husband complimented me on my form. I was even able to spin around in a little ice dance with my daughter, holding her hands and twirling in a circle. And except for one near run-in with a fearless toddler clutching a double stacked crate, I didn’t fall. Not once.

So mission accomplished.
Ice skating badge earned.
A few extra calories burned (oui, my glutes).
Kids and husband impressed.
Not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon.
And of course now I want my own shiny new skates…now that I’ve earned them.

Go to HeyGirlMommaGo.com for today’s “Hand-Picked” updates…

It’s Different Down Here

jennifer — Fri, 19 Feb 2010 13:20:10 +0000

So here I am, sitting on my parent’s couch in their cozy ranch house just outside of Austin, watching some of the Winter Olympics, and trying not to think about leaving and going back to reality tomorrow.

Our trips to TX to the “Glorious and Relaxing Land of Grammy and Bah” are always, well, glorious and relaxing. This year we opted to come out for school vacation week in February and it was a very good decision. No snow. No ice. No gloves, mittens, hats or puffy coats. No schedules, no homework, just an escape.

Not only do I cherish the time with family, but since my folks moved out to TX over a decade ago, we’ve learned to really love it here. The weather is warmer, the grass is greener and so much about it is just..different. The hill country, the foliage, the ranches, the architecture, the food..the whole vibe. And although I am geographically a Yankee now, I can still 1) pick out a southern accent in a crowd like a dog can hear a dog whistle and 2) make a mean banana pudding.

But being down here for a week is just freeing. And not in the way that a tropical resort with a swim-up bar used to be freeing. But it’s a lazy, relaxed, no agenda kind of a feeling. A drink-coffee-over-the-local-paper-and-unplug-and-nap-and-go-through-boxes-of-old-photos-and-watch-your-kids-cuddling-in-an-arm-chair-with-your-dad feeling. I love that every day of our visit here there’s something that reminds me that, well, we’re not in Yankeeland anymore. For instance…

1. When you go garage sale hopping with your mom in nearby neighborhoods, you could just as easily purchase a Gap sweater with the tags still on it for $3 as you could a hunting rifle.

2. When you go to a local diner for breakfast, you can’t get eggs benedict but you can get grits…and the barstools up at the counter are all occupied with men wearing big cowboy hats and boots.

3. Everywhere you go they call you “ma’am” and “sir” and in the grocery store they will ask you if you need help taking your groceries out to the car even though it’s not 1950 and you aren’t elderly.

4. Try to get a cappuccino at the Sonic drive thru (Dunkin Donuts just ain’t around these parts) and they’ll tell you “Ma’am we only sell iced coffee.” Because when you think about it, why would Texans want hot lattes when it can be over 100 degrees for a good chunk of the year?!

5. Throw a stone and you can find a great barbecue joint.

6. They wear flip-flops all year.

7. When you go to a Queen tribute concert in downtown Austin, there are cowboys there too.

8. You can sit back on a bench at a playground on a Tuesday afternoon in February and just feel the sun on your face and let the kids run around so much they actually get sweaty.

9. Even with all those big cars and big ol’ trucks on the highway, they just don’t feel the need to honk as much.

10. When you see the color burnt orange, it’s usually a t-shirt, flag or bumper sticker for the UT Longhorns. These folks really, really like their football.

Sigh.

I’m just not ready to go home tomorrow. But I always feel that way when it’s time to leave. I’m not ready to leave Grammy and Bah or their cozy ranch house or these blue skies.

But I suppose that makes me lucky. Give me a week deep in the heart of Texas and I just might be able to make it through that dang Yankee winter…with a help of a few hot cappuccinos.

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One Day at a Time

jennifer — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 02:57:14 +0000

My plan for today:
Get daughter off to preschool for the highly anticipated “Pajama Day” where they wear pj’s to school, bring a sleeping bag, pillow, stuffed animal and get pancakes for snack.

Take son to dentist at 10am then, as our usual deal, award him with a little something from the toy store across the street as a show of support for his bravery against the “picky thing.”

Take him to school before lunch.

Rush off to meet two lovely former coworkers for a long overdue lunch date.

Rush back for school pickups.

Greet sitter at 4pm and escape to home office cave for some much needed work time.

Veg after the kids go to bed.

What actually happened today:
Daughter has the sniffles, up during the night with a scratchy throat. Keep her home from school just in case due to circulation of strep around town.
Sad girl in pink pajamas. Tears, tear, tears. Promises of pancakes for lunch.

Cancel dentist appointment. Reschedule for next week.
Whining, fussing 1st grader due to no trip to toy store post-dentist.

Cancel lunch plans. So bummed.

Cancel sitter. Oh so bummed.

Get reluctant grumpy 1st grader ready for school after spending 15 minutes rearranging/canceling/rescheduling day.

Get ready to walk out the door and find handwritten crayon note by garage door written by 1st grader that is both adorable and irritating, “I am not going to school today and dote evein thik that I am going to school and this is troow (true).” Lecture 1str grader on the importance of positive attitude and flexibility.

Go to school. Call school office on the way out of the parking lot after drop off to let them know he would not be late for school today as planned (just in case he decided to detour from front entrance and instead of going to his classroom sulk in the hallway or bathroom I wanted them to know he was actually in the building). Front office now thinks i’m a nutso mom.

Drag sad preschooler to grocery store.
Sit in the parking lot and fight back tears due to the frustation level of the entire morning and the things I will not get done today.

Rent 2 movies from the red box thing. A wierd Christmas dog movie and G-Force.

Buy a People magazine for myself.

Get a cappuccino at the DD drive through.

Call my parents.

Hang out and clean kitchen while wierd dog movie is on.

Make my sad girl pancakes for lunch.

Get in 15 minutes of work/to-do list stuff.

Read People mag and wonder why, as lovely as she is, Jennifer Aniston is on the cover and Haiti is the secondary story.

Pick up 1st grader. Discuss his displeasure over a playground recess boys kung fu game gone wrong.

Watch (snooze-watched) G-force.

Make dinner.

Do some penquin unit homework with 1st grader.

Greet husband.

Escape to my office cave, do stuff for an hour, and then write this post while listening to husband playing Wii rockband in the next room.

Finish post without much editing because I’m tired.

Google lyrics to “One Day at a Time” TV show to end this post with:

“This is it; this is it. / This is life, the one you get, / so go and have a ball! / This is it; this is it, / straight ahead, and rest assured, / you can’t be sure at all. / So, while you’re here, enjoy the view; / keep on doing what you do. / Hold on tight; we’ll muddle through, / one day at a time, one day at a time! / So, up on your feet; up on your feet; / somewhere there’s music playing. / Don’t you worry none, / just take it like it comes, / one day at a time, one day at a time, / one day at a time, one day at a time, / one day at a time, one day at a time, / one day at a time…”

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Say Anything

jennifer — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 02:32:08 +0000

Last Friday morning my husband and the kids dropped me off at the Amtrak station just outside of Boston. I kissed them goodbye, headed to the self check-in kiosk, grabbed a coffee, and boarded the 8:31am train that would take me south to a small town in PA to visit my dear pal “Pauline.” The 5-hour ride of solitude that bookends the weekend is always a treasured part of the trip.

Once I settled in, I did a little writing, flipped through a magazine, then just stared out the window taking in the view of passing towns. Somewhere around Connecticut, a couple in about their mid-50’s boarded the train and took the seats behind me. It was obvious from the get-go that the wife was tightly wound, and that she was not the friendliest person on the planet. She immediately got on her cell phone, planning some sort of rehearsal for an upcoming music performance.

Her husband walked by with a big violin case, looking for a place to store it on the crowded luggage racks. She continued to bark orders about who needed to be where for rehearsals and who would meet them at Penn Station in New York. It was then that I made a mental note to sit in the quiet car on the trip back.

Ugh.

I escaped to my iPod and stared out the window. After a while I got hungry, ditched the iPod and pulled out my homemade sandwich. It was nearly noon as we drew close to New York. Behind me the unpleasant rants continued…

“We’ll be there in 10 minutes! Make sure our bags are all in the right place!” She barked to her husband. “Where is your briefcase?!” I couldn’t make out his mumbled responses. “I can’t believe you can’t find it!!”

Geez. This woman just doesn’t stop.

Then the man stood up quickly, knocking my seat forward and he moved swiftly down the car. He turned and paced back toward his seat, “I can’t find my violin. Where is my violin?!” His brow was furrowed. He was visibly upset.

“What do you mean?!” she answered sharply. He quickly strode up and down the car again, his long coat fanning out as he did so, scanning the luggage rack, eyes frantic. And again she barked from behind me, “What do you mean?! You put it away right when we got on the train! Go get it!”

He just stood in the aisle. “I can’t find it! I just don’t know what’s going on! I can’t find it! I don’t know what’s happening!!”

I felt really bad for him. I wondered if I should offer to help him find it. My gut told me this was not just a normal case of misplaced luggage on a crowded train. Something was wrong. This poor man was really confused. I guessed that maybe he was in the throes of some early dementia, or early stage Alzheimer’s disease.

He must have found the violin because he came back to his seat, knocking me forward again as he sat down abruptly.

She spat out, “Why couldn’t you find your violin! You are scaring me! This is ridiculous! We’ll have to get this checked out! What is going on with you?!” She kept at him for several more minutes. I sat in my seat. I started to fume. I felt so sorry for him as she yelled as if he were a child having a tantrum. It was awful to listen to. What a total witch this woman was.

I knew we were getting close to their stop now…maybe I should say something to her. Defend this confused man with the violin. And what if he does have Alzheimer’s and this woman would be the one caring for him?! How horrible will she treat him down the road?!

Yes. I decided I needed to say something – put her in her place. But what? And do I just turn around and ream her out in front of him? My mind raced. At least if it went sour they’d be getting off the train soon. My heart pounded in my chest as I tried to sort out what to do. I thought about my grandfather and his battle with Alzheimer’s and how awful it was to see him slip away from himself and from us. This woman behind me, no matter how mean she was, was also scared – but she was taking it out on him. And she certainly wasn’t shy about it.

As the train drew closer still to New York, I could see the skyline. This is the city where I started out right after college as a naïve, small town girl. A total fish out of water. I thought about a boss who told me I was too quiet. I had been so intimidated working at a big ad agency with big ticket clients. “I know you have things to contribute,” she’d advised, “But you’re too quiet. You need to speak up in those meetings. Show them you’re thinking. It doesn’t have to be the perfect thing, just say SOMETHING.”

I sat tensely in my seat, arms folded tightly across my chest and my moral dilemma. I only had a little time before they got off this train forever.

I saw her husband walking down the car again. He must have gone to the café car. He had a bag of potato chips in his hand.

“What are you doing with those chips?” She demanded. “You don’t need those! You aren’t putting those in your bag! No way! What are you thinking? What is going on with you? Why did you get those?”

Oh I couldn’t take this woman anymore.

My anger was now throbbing in my ears. The husband got up yet again and headed past me to the far end of the car. Maybe he was throwing out the chips.

Now was my chance.

I stood straight up, turned around and leaned forward, hands on the top of my seat, knee resting on my own seat to brace myself. I was now face to face with her. And I had NO IDEA what I was going to say.

“Excuse me,” I said in a pleasant voice. My eyes locked on her as she sat in her seat.

“Yes?” She said, looking up from her Blackberry. She had black curly hair and she was well put together…nice makeup, nice coat, professional.

“Is that your husband?” I asked in a pleasant, even tone.

She nodded.” Yes.” Her face was questioning, open.

“Well,” I said, as my jaw tensed, and my eyes narrowed, “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation with your husband for the last half hour and how you’ve been completely berating him.”

A look of complete surprise flashed across her face and then she quickly lowered her eyes to her phone. She was gripping it tightly with both hands. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that everyone within earshot was looking at me. I stayed focused on her.

“I probably have no business saying something to you…,” I started, but she cut me off – “Well,” she spat, nervously shaking her head back and forth, eyes still down, “You should just turn arou—.” I shook my head no. ”But, I will.” I said defiantly.

I honestly can’t remember exactly what I said next because the adrenaline was pumping so hard but here’s what I think I said…“Your husband is obviously going through something and he’s scared and the way you are treating him is completely unacceptable.”

She just shook her head, her curls shaking against her face, her lips pursed tight.

“After hearing you berate him, I can tell you that as scared and frustrated as you might be, he is a lot more scared than you are.”

And then I let it all hang out.

“I’ve been a volunteer for the Alzheimer’s Association for the last 8 years. And I KNOW that he is scared and confused and you are making it so much worse. He needs you to help him, not yell at him! Just think about that!”

And with that, I whipped my head around and slid back down in my seat and froze.

Oh. My. God. What did I just do?!?!

All at once I felt triumphant, brave, sad, shocked at myself and embarrassed.

What the heck did I just say? I don’t even know! Did all those other people on the train hear me? Would she come back at me with a tirade of her own? I sat like a statue in my seat, staring straight ahead, cheeks flushed. Waiting. There was silence behind me.

Just moments later her husband came back to his seat. In hushed tones she started speaking to him. And she was being much, much nicer to him already, perhaps out of fear of what the crazy lady in front of her would do next. After what seemed like forever, but was just minutes, we pulled into Penn Station. As they exited the car the woman went to great lengths not to make eye contact with me.

“Hmmpf,” I thought. She’d better keep walking. My heart rate was finally coming down.

I watched through the window as the couple rode up the escalator from the platform, the man with his violin by his side, oblivious to the whole confrontation.

Phew. They are gone.

I was relieved to realize the car was nearly empty now except for the woman next to me wearing earphones the whole time. I slid down further in my seat and tried to relax. Then I felt a big wave of sadness. I hoped that my unrehearsed, inappropriate and very public, yet passionate intervention may help that man in some way. Maybe his wife would take what I said to heart, even just a little tiny bit. Or maybe she would just write me off as a nosy stranger. Or maybe uttering the word “Alzheimer’s” had completely freaked her out and now I had made the whole thing worse. I guess I’ll never know.

I do feel proud of what I did in some ways, for standing up for someone who needed it. But then again, who do I think I am, getting in the face of total stranger like that? What if she had just hauled off and punched me? But I just knew it was one of those moments that I would regret forever if I had just sat there, doing or saying nothing. I’m also guessing that not many people stand up to this woman – first and foremost her husband – so maybe that was part of the appeal, and perhaps my speech was completely self-serving. Maybe I used it as a way to get back at every mean person or bully I never had the guts to stand up to. Maybe that naïve, intimidated advertising assistant within me just wanted to prove she was long gone.

I do believe, though, that a higher power must have put me in Row 7 and that couple to Row 8 in that car, on that particular train, on that particular day for a reason.

I hope that man gets some answers and gets the help he needs. And I hope that his wife will show him some compassion. I hope he continues to play the violin for a very long time.

I don’t know how to play any musical instruments. I’ve never had much of an aptitude for it. But the man with the violin taught me that I do, apparently, have a voice.

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