My oldest niece is attending her first school. It is a private school and it is connected with the church that my sister and her family attend. As such, my niece was immediately comfortable with the idea of going there each day. She understood, however, that there would be a review by a board before she was allowed to attend.
Earlier this Summer, my sister explained this process to her daughter (as much as it makes sense to explain a "board review" to a child) in order to help soften the blow if the application was not accepted. My sister used words and phrases that her daughter would understand. It was difficult for my sister, a business executive, to avoid any language that would be lost on a four and a half year old, but she felt she had succeeded. The situation seemed to be understood by all.
Weeks passed and then, one happy day, my sister returned from the mailbox with a letter addressed to her daughter. It was from the board review, inviting her to begin her educational journey this Fall. My niece looked up at my sister and said "wow, so I'm in then?" and my sister said "of course you are, Hunny. You were a shoe-in." They went for ice cream to celebrate.
My sister and my niece went to the school office last week, prior to school starting, to turn in a few final bits of paperwork. My niece sat quietly in her seat, hands nicely in her lap (as my sister had coached her to do) and the administrator was impressed with her behavior. At the end of the process, she turned to my niece and said "Well my dear, were you surprised to learn you'd be going to school here?"
And my niece very politely responded, in the most grown-up voice her little body could muster, "oh not really. I was a shoe-in."
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
"S/He Was Such a Quiet Person"
Yesterday a youth went to a local high school, with no fewer than 10 explosive devices, a chain saw and a sword with a 2-foot long blade because he was unhappy with his educational experience at this same school. He had, apparently, been expelled last year.
He managed to detonate 2 of the explosive devices before teachers and the principal ran towards him (yeah, that's not a typo - they ran TOWARDS him) and wrapped themselves around him, got him on the ground, and held him there until the authorities arrived.
And it didn't take any more than four hours for someone to utter the phrase we've heard in situations like this so many times in post-incident interviews ... "he was a quiet boy. Kept to himself mostly. Didn't seem to have many friends. Don't know that I saw him smile much."
From what the reports are saying, the plan of the "quiet boy" was to have all 10 explosives go off and then use the sword or the chainsaw on whomever tried to leave the building alive. He built the devices himself - purchasing items for "model rockets" (as he told his family) over the web since March of this year. They didn't question him because they were happy to see he had a new hobby. They hoped it would get him out in the fresh air - maybe he'd make some friends. But no, they didn't talk to him about it.
The first teacher that grabbed the kid is being called (rightfully, in my opinion) a hero. This guy (the teacher) is all of 34 years old, married with a small kid at home and, in interview after interview, he's waiving off the "hero" title, saying that he didn't have time to debate his actions - it just was what he knew was right. In fact, just now, he said that the only hero he knows is his brother, who is serving in Iraq currently.
It's sad that this youth felt that the proper response to his feelings was to try to take so many lives. It's amazing that no one was seriously hurt. It's incredible that it takes activities like this for us to call teachers "heroes". It's tragic that some parents will fail to use this experience as a doorway to talk to their sullen teenager.
The school was closed today, to allow for a security review of the facility and to let teachers and parents respond and recover. It's due to be back in session tomorrow.
*sigh* High school life in 2009. While I enjoyed my years back in the 80's, ya' couldn't PAY me to go back today.
He managed to detonate 2 of the explosive devices before teachers and the principal ran towards him (yeah, that's not a typo - they ran TOWARDS him) and wrapped themselves around him, got him on the ground, and held him there until the authorities arrived.
And it didn't take any more than four hours for someone to utter the phrase we've heard in situations like this so many times in post-incident interviews ... "he was a quiet boy. Kept to himself mostly. Didn't seem to have many friends. Don't know that I saw him smile much."
From what the reports are saying, the plan of the "quiet boy" was to have all 10 explosives go off and then use the sword or the chainsaw on whomever tried to leave the building alive. He built the devices himself - purchasing items for "model rockets" (as he told his family) over the web since March of this year. They didn't question him because they were happy to see he had a new hobby. They hoped it would get him out in the fresh air - maybe he'd make some friends. But no, they didn't talk to him about it.
The first teacher that grabbed the kid is being called (rightfully, in my opinion) a hero. This guy (the teacher) is all of 34 years old, married with a small kid at home and, in interview after interview, he's waiving off the "hero" title, saying that he didn't have time to debate his actions - it just was what he knew was right. In fact, just now, he said that the only hero he knows is his brother, who is serving in Iraq currently.
It's sad that this youth felt that the proper response to his feelings was to try to take so many lives. It's amazing that no one was seriously hurt. It's incredible that it takes activities like this for us to call teachers "heroes". It's tragic that some parents will fail to use this experience as a doorway to talk to their sullen teenager.
The school was closed today, to allow for a security review of the facility and to let teachers and parents respond and recover. It's due to be back in session tomorrow.
*sigh* High school life in 2009. While I enjoyed my years back in the 80's, ya' couldn't PAY me to go back today.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
If These Walls Could Talk
I am writing this from my bedroom ... well, it was my bedroom in the 80's, at least. It is still the same color scheme that I wanted it to be - and it looks pretty good, truth be told. But it is not my bedroom anymore. It hasn't been for ... my word, over 2 decades? Yow. That's wild to consider.
It seems that some of the rules that were active twenty plus years ago no longer apply. The "no holes in the walls" rule, for instance, is CLEARLY being violated by the posting of a calendar, a map of local fishing areas, various important receipts and licenses, and of course the fake Bill Clinton 3 dollar bill that my father thinks may be the funniest thing he's ever seen. There's a computer in here, too. It wasn't a rule that there couldn't be one in here, but computers back then were not in my vision at the time. I've noticed there isn't a phone, and that would have NEVER worked for me as a kid. (I was a teen-age girl - phones very much WERE in my vision.) The dogs are allowed not just inside the room but on the bed - unheard of back then.
This room has served me well. It has comforted me through sicknesses of the heart and the body, it has seen me recover from embarrassments and celebrate triumphs. I have slammed these doors as much as I've gazed from these windows. I've sat in this room to gather my courage as much as I've sat here regretting my boldness. I've cursed and prayed here. These walls have served as my prison and my protection.
I'll be creating a new version of my bedroom very shortly. While I won't be taking any of the material things that can be found here, the emotional lessons ... they are always with me. Hard-earned, at times - but more valuable than I'd ever dreamed they would be.
It seems that some of the rules that were active twenty plus years ago no longer apply. The "no holes in the walls" rule, for instance, is CLEARLY being violated by the posting of a calendar, a map of local fishing areas, various important receipts and licenses, and of course the fake Bill Clinton 3 dollar bill that my father thinks may be the funniest thing he's ever seen. There's a computer in here, too. It wasn't a rule that there couldn't be one in here, but computers back then were not in my vision at the time. I've noticed there isn't a phone, and that would have NEVER worked for me as a kid. (I was a teen-age girl - phones very much WERE in my vision.) The dogs are allowed not just inside the room but on the bed - unheard of back then.
This room has served me well. It has comforted me through sicknesses of the heart and the body, it has seen me recover from embarrassments and celebrate triumphs. I have slammed these doors as much as I've gazed from these windows. I've sat in this room to gather my courage as much as I've sat here regretting my boldness. I've cursed and prayed here. These walls have served as my prison and my protection.
I'll be creating a new version of my bedroom very shortly. While I won't be taking any of the material things that can be found here, the emotional lessons ... they are always with me. Hard-earned, at times - but more valuable than I'd ever dreamed they would be.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
The Daughter's Mother
It was before dinnertime on a Sunday evening. My mom and I were watching a local show that highlights landmark businesses and places in the area. Ours is a young state, nationally speaking, so we may not have the war memorials or historical registration listings that others have but we have “It’s-It” by God, and we’re damn proud.
The program we were watching had an overly-bubbly hostess taking a tour of the It’s-It factory – located in South San Francisco along the freeway, next to the airport. I learned in this brief piece of reporting that It's-It was named by an individual who had taken great care in finding the best of just four simple items … the right ice cream, the right oatmeal cookie, the right chocolate and the right shape. His response when things came together exactly as he had imagined they could would name the product … not “that’s it!” but “it’s it”. The name stuck, the product stuck, and clearly the spell was not lost on us, my mother and I, while we sat glued to the TV, watching in silent respect. Ya’ woulda thought the national anthem was being played at a ball game, the way we were reacting.
Anyway, we had dinner – a nice salad of lettuce, avocado, chick peas, mushrooms, roasted salmon, red onion, cucumber, mozzarella and croutons with a light balsamic dressing. It was a perfect meal on a warm summer evening. We finished off with a couple of chocolate chip cookies and that was that.
When I entered the market today, I walked pointedly to the frozen food aisle. I turned the corner and walked down the length … pies, pastry, waffles, veggies. I walked the length on the other side … cookie dough, whipped topping, ice cream, frozen juices … this couldn’t be happening. Could there really be no room in the freezer for It’s-It? I looked again but slower and … ahhhh yes … there it was. Alas, it was the vanilla ice cream version (not the preferred mint ice cream variety) but I eagerly grabbed them, the package of three. “Perfect”, I thought as I walked to the checkout counter. “One for my dad, my mom and myself.”
I proudly marched into the kitchen and was about to make a big deal out of unloading my grocery bag – but before I could say a word or even take out the first item, my mother hopped up from her chair and beat me to the freezer. “Look at what WE have for dessert tonight”, she said with a wide smile while holding the box. “And they’re the mint ones too – the best kind.” My father, who hadn’t seen the segment, watched in silence when I took my box out and said “and there’s three, so it’s perfect.” “Like mother, like daughter”, he said, in semi-awe of the apparent coincidence.
We barely were done chewing our dinner tonight before we ripped into the box of individually wrapped sandwiches. And you know how some things from childhood don’t live up to the hype you build up for them as an adult? Either the quality has gone downhill or the size is so much smaller? Not so here. Not at all – these absolutely lived up to the hype! The cookie portion was fresh and slightly spiced, the chocolate had a great “crrraaack” sound as we bit into the side, the ice cream stayed solid and didn’t drip … and it wasn’t that cheap fake whipped ice cream that some mass-desserts try to pass off either – this was REAL ice cream.
“It’s-It” may be the unofficial dessert of our city but it is the official provider of nostalgia for many. Created in the late 20s, It’s-It was served at a happily-named place known as "Playland at the Beach". Playland is a fond memory of the past generations and this strangely-named ice cream wonderfulness is no small part of that happiness. While we polished off our treats, my mom shared how she and her siblings would take the N-Judah train out to Playland on the hottest summer days. They’d play in the penny arcade “that ACTUALLY had games for a penny!”, and they had the carousel and the haunted house that wasn’t too scary, but they always made sure to have enough money left over for an It’s-It, since at the time it was the only place one could find ‘em.
For as long as I’ve lived here, I’d only noticed the It’s-It plant in the past decade. I wonder how I never saw the giant ice cream sign as a child - it's not like me to miss such a thing. I have also noticed they ship nationwide. Now, I’m not gonna make these a part of my daily diet, or even my weekly diet. But I like knowing that they can continue to be a part of my world wherever I am. I like knowing that something that my parents could remember from their childhoods could still be enjoyed and be so good today. That’s a comfortable feeling to have.
*************************************
I generally don't write about specific named products ... but this is different. This isn't a product - this is a memory. It's just a memory one can still experience ... here.
The program we were watching had an overly-bubbly hostess taking a tour of the It’s-It factory – located in South San Francisco along the freeway, next to the airport. I learned in this brief piece of reporting that It's-It was named by an individual who had taken great care in finding the best of just four simple items … the right ice cream, the right oatmeal cookie, the right chocolate and the right shape. His response when things came together exactly as he had imagined they could would name the product … not “that’s it!” but “it’s it”. The name stuck, the product stuck, and clearly the spell was not lost on us, my mother and I, while we sat glued to the TV, watching in silent respect. Ya’ woulda thought the national anthem was being played at a ball game, the way we were reacting.
Anyway, we had dinner – a nice salad of lettuce, avocado, chick peas, mushrooms, roasted salmon, red onion, cucumber, mozzarella and croutons with a light balsamic dressing. It was a perfect meal on a warm summer evening. We finished off with a couple of chocolate chip cookies and that was that.
When I entered the market today, I walked pointedly to the frozen food aisle. I turned the corner and walked down the length … pies, pastry, waffles, veggies. I walked the length on the other side … cookie dough, whipped topping, ice cream, frozen juices … this couldn’t be happening. Could there really be no room in the freezer for It’s-It? I looked again but slower and … ahhhh yes … there it was. Alas, it was the vanilla ice cream version (not the preferred mint ice cream variety) but I eagerly grabbed them, the package of three. “Perfect”, I thought as I walked to the checkout counter. “One for my dad, my mom and myself.”
I proudly marched into the kitchen and was about to make a big deal out of unloading my grocery bag – but before I could say a word or even take out the first item, my mother hopped up from her chair and beat me to the freezer. “Look at what WE have for dessert tonight”, she said with a wide smile while holding the box. “And they’re the mint ones too – the best kind.” My father, who hadn’t seen the segment, watched in silence when I took my box out and said “and there’s three, so it’s perfect.” “Like mother, like daughter”, he said, in semi-awe of the apparent coincidence.
We barely were done chewing our dinner tonight before we ripped into the box of individually wrapped sandwiches. And you know how some things from childhood don’t live up to the hype you build up for them as an adult? Either the quality has gone downhill or the size is so much smaller? Not so here. Not at all – these absolutely lived up to the hype! The cookie portion was fresh and slightly spiced, the chocolate had a great “crrraaack” sound as we bit into the side, the ice cream stayed solid and didn’t drip … and it wasn’t that cheap fake whipped ice cream that some mass-desserts try to pass off either – this was REAL ice cream.
“It’s-It” may be the unofficial dessert of our city but it is the official provider of nostalgia for many. Created in the late 20s, It’s-It was served at a happily-named place known as "Playland at the Beach". Playland is a fond memory of the past generations and this strangely-named ice cream wonderfulness is no small part of that happiness. While we polished off our treats, my mom shared how she and her siblings would take the N-Judah train out to Playland on the hottest summer days. They’d play in the penny arcade “that ACTUALLY had games for a penny!”, and they had the carousel and the haunted house that wasn’t too scary, but they always made sure to have enough money left over for an It’s-It, since at the time it was the only place one could find ‘em.
For as long as I’ve lived here, I’d only noticed the It’s-It plant in the past decade. I wonder how I never saw the giant ice cream sign as a child - it's not like me to miss such a thing. I have also noticed they ship nationwide. Now, I’m not gonna make these a part of my daily diet, or even my weekly diet. But I like knowing that they can continue to be a part of my world wherever I am. I like knowing that something that my parents could remember from their childhoods could still be enjoyed and be so good today. That’s a comfortable feeling to have.
*************************************
I generally don't write about specific named products ... but this is different. This isn't a product - this is a memory. It's just a memory one can still experience ... here.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Zoom x3 x9
My boy Jake is nine years old today. We've traveled 42, 524 miles together over those nine years. This means that each year, we've traveled 4,724.9 miles ... or each day, we've gone 13 miles.
In those nine years, I've visited 13 "never been there before" states and 1 other country (Jake didn't come with me for any of those trips but still). I've worked for 3 companies and held I-have-no-idea HOW many different job titles. I've been healthy and not healthy, unemployed and employed, hopeful and hopeless, lost and found.
Some of the trips that Jake and I have gone on together were for absolute pleasure (Big Sur and Santa Barbara spring to mind) but the times he makes me most happy is after he's had a good bath, looks his best, and we're just doing errands. I like the sound his door makes when I close it and the top is down - it just sounds ... friendly. I like that he is just common enough that no one makes a real fuss over him but that he's nice looking enough that it's obvious he is treated well. The one that pampers him so ridiculously is, of course, me.
It's ridiculous that I have a nine year old car with just 42,524 miles. (The average mileage driven in my state per year is 11,400 - according to a quick glance around the Internet - so Jake is 60,076 miles under being "average".) It's ridiculous that I have a car with a name. It's ridiculous that I have friends, ex-bosses, valets and family that ask about that car - BY NAME. It's ridiculous that my parents painted that name on his car cover and not his license plate. One typically paints the license plate on the cover so that the cover wouldn't get stolen - but no - Jake's "blanket" says "JAKE" in big black letters. If it ever gets stolen ... would that be identify theft???) It's ridiculous that I refer to him as I do - "he", "him", "his".
And isn't that what birthdays are all about? A time to be ridiculous?
Happy 9th to my boy Jake. Here's to seeing what the next 4,724.9 miles looks like. Betcha they'll be pretty great.
In those nine years, I've visited 13 "never been there before" states and 1 other country (Jake didn't come with me for any of those trips but still). I've worked for 3 companies and held I-have-no-idea HOW many different job titles. I've been healthy and not healthy, unemployed and employed, hopeful and hopeless, lost and found.
Some of the trips that Jake and I have gone on together were for absolute pleasure (Big Sur and Santa Barbara spring to mind) but the times he makes me most happy is after he's had a good bath, looks his best, and we're just doing errands. I like the sound his door makes when I close it and the top is down - it just sounds ... friendly. I like that he is just common enough that no one makes a real fuss over him but that he's nice looking enough that it's obvious he is treated well. The one that pampers him so ridiculously is, of course, me.
It's ridiculous that I have a nine year old car with just 42,524 miles. (The average mileage driven in my state per year is 11,400 - according to a quick glance around the Internet - so Jake is 60,076 miles under being "average".) It's ridiculous that I have a car with a name. It's ridiculous that I have friends, ex-bosses, valets and family that ask about that car - BY NAME. It's ridiculous that my parents painted that name on his car cover and not his license plate. One typically paints the license plate on the cover so that the cover wouldn't get stolen - but no - Jake's "blanket" says "JAKE" in big black letters. If it ever gets stolen ... would that be identify theft???) It's ridiculous that I refer to him as I do - "he", "him", "his".
And isn't that what birthdays are all about? A time to be ridiculous?
Happy 9th to my boy Jake. Here's to seeing what the next 4,724.9 miles looks like. Betcha they'll be pretty great.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
All That You Can't Leave Behind
There was a time, about a decade ago, when I was VERY into wine. This was a time when I had a lot of people around me whom I called my friends, a quiet evening at home would be something I'd do only as a very last resort, and I was just starting to think about buying a brand-new vehicle just for me, even though it wasn't really necessary. It wouldn't be totally inaccurate to say that I was very wrapped up in "things".
Today I sold my collection of wine, dusty from years of inactivity, to a local agency. I used that "just for me" vehicle to do this and, after I dropped off the bottles, I did a few around town errands. I've got a mental checklist that tells me I need to visit one of my closest friends for a little catch-up time, and have been enjoying MANY quiet evenings. My days are spent donating, boxing up, or throwing out "things". It seems that there is very little that I can't leave behind.
Life, it seems, has been very kind to me overall and has given me many things to think about. Oh sure - when I've lost sight of what REALLY matters, life has had no problem in smackin' me around a little bit (as this space and those closest to me will attest). But those smaller disappointments saved me from making HUGE mistakes in the long run. Any wounds that life inflicted are now just foggy memories ... ghosts with no one left to haunt.
It's more than just my being in everlasting love that does this. It's more than the sweetest thing or terrific blue sky days or having a plan in place that I will follow and everyone embraces. It's more than amazing timing or tossing a coin into a wishing well and wishing for someone else's wish to come true or just desire itself. In fact, as of late, when I look at the world, it is - indeed - a beautiful day. And, in a little while?
Grace.
(Written while listening to U2 ... duh.)
Today I sold my collection of wine, dusty from years of inactivity, to a local agency. I used that "just for me" vehicle to do this and, after I dropped off the bottles, I did a few around town errands. I've got a mental checklist that tells me I need to visit one of my closest friends for a little catch-up time, and have been enjoying MANY quiet evenings. My days are spent donating, boxing up, or throwing out "things". It seems that there is very little that I can't leave behind.
Life, it seems, has been very kind to me overall and has given me many things to think about. Oh sure - when I've lost sight of what REALLY matters, life has had no problem in smackin' me around a little bit (as this space and those closest to me will attest). But those smaller disappointments saved me from making HUGE mistakes in the long run. Any wounds that life inflicted are now just foggy memories ... ghosts with no one left to haunt.
It's more than just my being in everlasting love that does this. It's more than the sweetest thing or terrific blue sky days or having a plan in place that I will follow and everyone embraces. It's more than amazing timing or tossing a coin into a wishing well and wishing for someone else's wish to come true or just desire itself. In fact, as of late, when I look at the world, it is - indeed - a beautiful day. And, in a little while?
Grace.
(Written while listening to U2 ... duh.)
Monday, August 10, 2009
No Kiddin'
There are those that walk this spinning rock we call "home" that were destined to contribute the continuation of our species. We call those people by different versions of the same words ... "father" and "mother". (Feel free to add in further identifiers like "adopted", "step", "birth", or "in law" as needed.)
There are those, too, that walk this same spinning rock who look at "mother" as she gets out from her Cheerio-strewn mini-van with a back bumper announcing that her child has been on the honor roll at the local pre-school, with her hair up in a half-hearted pony tail that hides a blob of bubblegum she's yet to discover ... observing as she balances the diaper bag, activity bag, book bag, her own purse (which holds only coloring crayons and children's chewable aspirin), binky, and baggie of cheddar-flavored crackers, and begs to hold the sticky hand of a screaming child, their kool-aide stained face contorted in fake agony while "mother" desperately tries to explain that no one gets out from the car unless she's holding their hand. Yes, those people watch this mother and think "I'm going to take a 25 minute shower when I get home and at no time will anyone barge in with a report that they've lost their left shoe or announce, with Fido in tow and while opening the shower door, that 'doggie needs a bath, too'."
Considering the size of the run-on sentence/paragraph above (and offering no apologies for it, as I've read it many times and think it's FABULOUS), it's probably obvious which human I relate most to.
When I'm getting my morning coffee, 98% of the time there will be a version of this parent - not necessarily female - in line in front of me. And because of the way the coffee house is setup, more often than not, I'll witness this parent trying to reason with their small human that breath mints are NOT an appropriate breakfast item. And it is at this exact moment that the divide of "parent" vs. "non-parent" becomes most ... apparent. That "reasoning" thing.
Bluntly stated, if my 3 or 4 or 17 year old child were "demanding" breath mints for breakfast, the very last thing I'd be doing would be trying to reason with them. It seems obvious to me - small human asks for something ridiculous, larger human says "no", end of story. It worked for my upbringing. When did the "reasoning" thing become the norm? And, while I know it's easy for me to quietly giggle as I drive away in my two-seater, non-cereal decorated car, I try to envision how that breath mint thing would have played out in the early 70s, when my sister and I were small.
On Sundays after services, we'd stop by the market at the corner and whomever had behaved best in church - typically NOT me - would be given a dollar. The newly wealthy daughter would then dash into the store, hand the dollar to the cashier and, while the cashier was putting two jelly doughnuts into a paper bag, would pick up a Sunday newspaper. She'd then get the doughnuts and the newspaper and deliver the items to my mother in the front passenger seat of the car. The drive home would take about twelve minutes. Twelve doughnut-drool-inducing minutes. Twelve "I wonder what the funnies are about this week" minutes.
When we got home, we would each WALK to our room, get changed from our church clothes, making sure to hang them up appropriately (and if we knocked our sisters clothes off the hanger, "oops") and then WALK into in the dining room, where the doughnuts would be waiting for us. We would sit at the table and quietly enjoy the treat.
It never occurred to me - honestly - to ask for my doughnut in the car. It never honestly occurred to me to ask for my mom to pass me the funnies so that I could read them on the drive home. That's not how it was done. There was no bargaining ... no haggling necessary. It didn't work that way. We'd get the doughnuts after we'd got changed and we'd get to read the funnies after my parents were done with the newspaper. No one had to explain this to us ... 'tho I guess someone did at SOME point, because we knew the routine. But that whole "reasoning" thing ... that's completely ludicrous. If you have a small human experiencing a melt-down, kneeling to their level and talking about the situation in a calm and rational voice is only serving to make YOU feel better. THEY need to melt down. You can do what ya' want, but they've decided to melt down. They'll move on when they've completed their fit. End of story.
I can prove this, by the way.
We have all, at one point (possibly more) in our lives, experienced sadness. Not necessarily related to the goings-on with rest of the planet ... though yes, there's that kind, too. I'm talking about just waking up one overcast day and, for reasons unknown, feeling a little bit down in the dumps. And over the course of ... however long you'd like to admit - an hour, a few hours, a couple of days ... that feeling passes. You work through it. Sometimes it's as easy as acknowledging "hmm I'm kinda blue today" and other times, perhaps it requires bed rest, junk food, a Three Stooges movie-watching marathon, whatever. But you move through it. No one needs to talk at you and explain "you're just a little down and this will pass. You'll be fine. Altoids are not a meal option so select something else. Perhaps the yogurt would be more to your liking." Honestly, when I've been a little down in the dumps, someone talking AT me to tell me that everything would be alright would probably be sharply glared at - and then promptly tuned out. Why would you think your honor-roll listed child wouldn't do the same? Can you not give them that much credit?
And I'm not saying that one should be cold and distant to the needs of their own small human. Not at all. I'm saying that when the tiny human makes the unreasonable demand, the larger human can just as easily say "I think you misunderstood me. Would you like breakfast?" rather than going into a Dr. Phil-induced sit-down because ... again ... that decision to melt-down will become a decision to move on when the decision-maker chooses and not before.
I've seen these parents, God love 'em, taking little Hannah or young Ethan by the hand and sitting on the bench at the park for a 30-minute psychological review of "what went wrong, what triggered 'the event', and what we can do to prevent such situations in the future" and wonder why it is these same parents are so surprised when, later in life, Hannah and Ethan are easily overwhelmed when things get rough. Seems to me that Hannah and Ethan had parents that were too busy talking and rationalizing at them that they were never shown the healing powers of bed rest, junk food, a Three Stooges movie-marathon ... or even a jelly doughnut.
Alllllllllll that being said, the other kind of parent also baffles me.
As I was leaving the coffee house this very morning, an adorable little child was spinning round and round the lamp post DIRECTLY next to the curb where I was trying pull away. Her parents saw her spinning (and spinning and spinning) and they had to have seen me trying to leave. I rolled down the window closest to the curb and asked if someone could please make sure she wouldn't fall into the street (or under my tires) and you would have thought I was asking for the moon and stars themselves. These parents had heard what I had asked, as they were at that point looking right at my vehicle, but it somehow didn't occur to them that there was any danger whatsoever.
THEIR honor-roll listed small human, however, *did* see the danger. She immediately stopped her spinning, stepped down from the lamppost (which she was doing a terrific job in climbing), waved at me while mouthing the word "sorry", and stepped away from the sidewalk, enabling me to safely pull away.
I hope she gets a jelly doughnut for breakfast tomorrow.
There are those, too, that walk this same spinning rock who look at "mother" as she gets out from her Cheerio-strewn mini-van with a back bumper announcing that her child has been on the honor roll at the local pre-school, with her hair up in a half-hearted pony tail that hides a blob of bubblegum she's yet to discover ... observing as she balances the diaper bag, activity bag, book bag, her own purse (which holds only coloring crayons and children's chewable aspirin), binky, and baggie of cheddar-flavored crackers, and begs to hold the sticky hand of a screaming child, their kool-aide stained face contorted in fake agony while "mother" desperately tries to explain that no one gets out from the car unless she's holding their hand. Yes, those people watch this mother and think "I'm going to take a 25 minute shower when I get home and at no time will anyone barge in with a report that they've lost their left shoe or announce, with Fido in tow and while opening the shower door, that 'doggie needs a bath, too'."
Considering the size of the run-on sentence/paragraph above (and offering no apologies for it, as I've read it many times and think it's FABULOUS), it's probably obvious which human I relate most to.
When I'm getting my morning coffee, 98% of the time there will be a version of this parent - not necessarily female - in line in front of me. And because of the way the coffee house is setup, more often than not, I'll witness this parent trying to reason with their small human that breath mints are NOT an appropriate breakfast item. And it is at this exact moment that the divide of "parent" vs. "non-parent" becomes most ... apparent. That "reasoning" thing.
Bluntly stated, if my 3 or 4 or 17 year old child were "demanding" breath mints for breakfast, the very last thing I'd be doing would be trying to reason with them. It seems obvious to me - small human asks for something ridiculous, larger human says "no", end of story. It worked for my upbringing. When did the "reasoning" thing become the norm? And, while I know it's easy for me to quietly giggle as I drive away in my two-seater, non-cereal decorated car, I try to envision how that breath mint thing would have played out in the early 70s, when my sister and I were small.
On Sundays after services, we'd stop by the market at the corner and whomever had behaved best in church - typically NOT me - would be given a dollar. The newly wealthy daughter would then dash into the store, hand the dollar to the cashier and, while the cashier was putting two jelly doughnuts into a paper bag, would pick up a Sunday newspaper. She'd then get the doughnuts and the newspaper and deliver the items to my mother in the front passenger seat of the car. The drive home would take about twelve minutes. Twelve doughnut-drool-inducing minutes. Twelve "I wonder what the funnies are about this week" minutes.
When we got home, we would each WALK to our room, get changed from our church clothes, making sure to hang them up appropriately (and if we knocked our sisters clothes off the hanger, "oops") and then WALK into in the dining room, where the doughnuts would be waiting for us. We would sit at the table and quietly enjoy the treat.
It never occurred to me - honestly - to ask for my doughnut in the car. It never honestly occurred to me to ask for my mom to pass me the funnies so that I could read them on the drive home. That's not how it was done. There was no bargaining ... no haggling necessary. It didn't work that way. We'd get the doughnuts after we'd got changed and we'd get to read the funnies after my parents were done with the newspaper. No one had to explain this to us ... 'tho I guess someone did at SOME point, because we knew the routine. But that whole "reasoning" thing ... that's completely ludicrous. If you have a small human experiencing a melt-down, kneeling to their level and talking about the situation in a calm and rational voice is only serving to make YOU feel better. THEY need to melt down. You can do what ya' want, but they've decided to melt down. They'll move on when they've completed their fit. End of story.
I can prove this, by the way.
We have all, at one point (possibly more) in our lives, experienced sadness. Not necessarily related to the goings-on with rest of the planet ... though yes, there's that kind, too. I'm talking about just waking up one overcast day and, for reasons unknown, feeling a little bit down in the dumps. And over the course of ... however long you'd like to admit - an hour, a few hours, a couple of days ... that feeling passes. You work through it. Sometimes it's as easy as acknowledging "hmm I'm kinda blue today" and other times, perhaps it requires bed rest, junk food, a Three Stooges movie-watching marathon, whatever. But you move through it. No one needs to talk at you and explain "you're just a little down and this will pass. You'll be fine. Altoids are not a meal option so select something else. Perhaps the yogurt would be more to your liking." Honestly, when I've been a little down in the dumps, someone talking AT me to tell me that everything would be alright would probably be sharply glared at - and then promptly tuned out. Why would you think your honor-roll listed child wouldn't do the same? Can you not give them that much credit?
And I'm not saying that one should be cold and distant to the needs of their own small human. Not at all. I'm saying that when the tiny human makes the unreasonable demand, the larger human can just as easily say "I think you misunderstood me. Would you like breakfast?" rather than going into a Dr. Phil-induced sit-down because ... again ... that decision to melt-down will become a decision to move on when the decision-maker chooses and not before.
I've seen these parents, God love 'em, taking little Hannah or young Ethan by the hand and sitting on the bench at the park for a 30-minute psychological review of "what went wrong, what triggered 'the event', and what we can do to prevent such situations in the future" and wonder why it is these same parents are so surprised when, later in life, Hannah and Ethan are easily overwhelmed when things get rough. Seems to me that Hannah and Ethan had parents that were too busy talking and rationalizing at them that they were never shown the healing powers of bed rest, junk food, a Three Stooges movie-marathon ... or even a jelly doughnut.
Alllllllllll that being said, the other kind of parent also baffles me.
As I was leaving the coffee house this very morning, an adorable little child was spinning round and round the lamp post DIRECTLY next to the curb where I was trying pull away. Her parents saw her spinning (and spinning and spinning) and they had to have seen me trying to leave. I rolled down the window closest to the curb and asked if someone could please make sure she wouldn't fall into the street (or under my tires) and you would have thought I was asking for the moon and stars themselves. These parents had heard what I had asked, as they were at that point looking right at my vehicle, but it somehow didn't occur to them that there was any danger whatsoever.
THEIR honor-roll listed small human, however, *did* see the danger. She immediately stopped her spinning, stepped down from the lamppost (which she was doing a terrific job in climbing), waved at me while mouthing the word "sorry", and stepped away from the sidewalk, enabling me to safely pull away.
I hope she gets a jelly doughnut for breakfast tomorrow.
Friday, August 7, 2009
And Yes, They Turned Left At Albuquerque.
Since I moved away from my folks in my late teens, I've thought of myself as a pack rat. Now for some things, that's VERY true. Without question, there are files and photos and whatnot that I've hung onto for FAR too long - no doubt. There is NO reason on this or any other planet that I can think of for me to have kept my I. Magnin charge card, as an example. Does "I. Magnin" not ring any bells for you? Well, I'm not surprised - they haven't existed as a store for more than a decade. And I'm sure I had a very good reason for keeping that one red boxing glove for all these years (even 'tho I've never come across the second one that matches it).
But clothing. When it comes to clothing, I've always thought I was pretty good about not being a clothing pack rat. I've always tried to keep enough of a variety of things that I didn't have to rotate from "Summer" to "Winter" wardrobes. (This is helped by two things: first - I'm always cold so I don't really do shorts and tiny little tops and what not and - second - this is California. We don't DO winter here.)
Turns out, I was horribly, horribly wrong. I've been keeping busy with a "purge project" as of late. Basically, I make myself open and go through at least two boxes a day from my garage. The first few days were pretty easy (and yes, I cut up and tossed my I. Magnin charge card) but then I started noticing that a LOT of the boxes were clothes. How many boxes am I talking about here? Well ignoring what I've thrown out, I've donated more than 20 paper grocery bags filled with jeans and scarfs and dress shirts and suits and slacks and dresses and sweaters and shorts and tee shirts.
Oh my word, so many tee shirts.
I asked my mom at dinner the other night what year she and dad had gone to New Mexico. "That was in the early 90s, I think," she responded. "I'd forgotten all about that trip. Why do ya' ask?" I felt my face turning red as I said casually "oh no reason," and tried hard not admit that not only had I never worn the shirt they'd brought back for me but that I'd just donated it to charity.
Yesterday, just to change things up a bit, I did my standard two boxes of clothing and finished with a "bonus" box that was labeled "office crap". While I made a mental note to employ a better labeling system, I opened it up. It took me quite a bit of time to go through it, but when I was done throwing out the pens and the erasers and the clip boards and the notepads and the business cards and the cute paperclips and the logo golf-related stuff and the cartoon strips, there - at the bottom - was a box of thank you cards. Thank you cards with funny stuff and serious stuff and cat photographs and pictures of flowers and ... well, I saved 'em. I'd thrown out literally EVERYTHING in this box that I've had with me for nine years so yes, I saved the thank you cards.
And I justified it by knowing that I've never even been to New Mexico and don't really need a tee shirt from there ... but I AM frequently thankful and can always use a few cards to help me say so.
But clothing. When it comes to clothing, I've always thought I was pretty good about not being a clothing pack rat. I've always tried to keep enough of a variety of things that I didn't have to rotate from "Summer" to "Winter" wardrobes. (This is helped by two things: first - I'm always cold so I don't really do shorts and tiny little tops and what not and - second - this is California. We don't DO winter here.)
Turns out, I was horribly, horribly wrong. I've been keeping busy with a "purge project" as of late. Basically, I make myself open and go through at least two boxes a day from my garage. The first few days were pretty easy (and yes, I cut up and tossed my I. Magnin charge card) but then I started noticing that a LOT of the boxes were clothes. How many boxes am I talking about here? Well ignoring what I've thrown out, I've donated more than 20 paper grocery bags filled with jeans and scarfs and dress shirts and suits and slacks and dresses and sweaters and shorts and tee shirts.
Oh my word, so many tee shirts.
I asked my mom at dinner the other night what year she and dad had gone to New Mexico. "That was in the early 90s, I think," she responded. "I'd forgotten all about that trip. Why do ya' ask?" I felt my face turning red as I said casually "oh no reason," and tried hard not admit that not only had I never worn the shirt they'd brought back for me but that I'd just donated it to charity.
Yesterday, just to change things up a bit, I did my standard two boxes of clothing and finished with a "bonus" box that was labeled "office crap". While I made a mental note to employ a better labeling system, I opened it up. It took me quite a bit of time to go through it, but when I was done throwing out the pens and the erasers and the clip boards and the notepads and the business cards and the cute paperclips and the logo golf-related stuff and the cartoon strips, there - at the bottom - was a box of thank you cards. Thank you cards with funny stuff and serious stuff and cat photographs and pictures of flowers and ... well, I saved 'em. I'd thrown out literally EVERYTHING in this box that I've had with me for nine years so yes, I saved the thank you cards.
And I justified it by knowing that I've never even been to New Mexico and don't really need a tee shirt from there ... but I AM frequently thankful and can always use a few cards to help me say so.
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