Party Conversation

It hits every---and I mean EVERY---late November. The inevitable Christmas Party conversation. 

"Well..." I begin across the table, after he's had at least one  cup of coffee, there's cinammon buns emitting a heady fragrance from the oven and he's in a pretty good mood.
He freezes.  The eyes come up and the brows draw down over the edge of the coffee cup.  Sipping stops. Wary eyes menace me with what he hopes is a good balance of love and warning.  I plunge in because Pandora's box has been opened and the only way I can shut it now is to pretend I want to discuss the price of brocolli or daylight savings time or how to prevent the dog from doing his business in the neighbor's lawn.  So I plunge in.
"Soooo...I'm thinking about my Christmas party these days."
Shucks!  The rolls have another three minutes!
Try the testing lines.  How will he respond to just THINKing about the party? 
"What about it?" he asks, impassively.
I'm in luck!  He's playing the indifferent card.
The conversation puts one tentative foot out on a positive path. 
Oh, I know he's toying with me now.  No growl. A good sign. Go slowly now.  Need those rolls.
"Just making a few plans.  Lists.  You know."  I say with an air of detachment. 
Not very many thoughts.  Not very many plans.  Just a few fuzzy thoughts floating around.  No commitments.  Keep it light, airy. Very airy. Gotta slide things into place before he realizes they've been in place for a WHILE now.
"Well, I have a guest list and a few ideas for food..."
"How many people?"
Easy...easy...this is one of the tricky parts....
"Just family and a few VERY close friends."
"Like how many VERY close friends?"
Okay, this is where it doesn't sound so bad if I name names and not count heads.
"Well, Mom for one," I say vaguely.
Remember to say the word 'one' lots of times, and use the phrase 'of course' profusely.
"....and Missy and her husband and Fran and Mike, of course..."
"Does this mean we have to invite Mike's brother just because he lives with Mike?"
Uh oh...here goes.  Don't drown.
"Well, of course...it wouldn't be polite to do otherwise.  By the way, he has a new girlfriend and I hear they're inseperable."
Here goes the eye rolling.  Yay!  The rolls are done!  Place them DIRECTLY in front of him.
"And can you set up the card table in the breakfast nook for the kids?"
"I guess so..."
Yes...the rolls have him mesmerized.
"...that's...uh...Missy and Dave's 3 boys and Fran and Mike's two...that's five kids.  The card table seats four."  His eyes leave the rolls for a damaging moment.  This quandary called for a coffee refill.
Stay cool.  Solve the problem.  Quick.  
"That's okay...Mitch is older.  I'll put him at the bar."
"Okay."
Was that a small sigh of exasperation?  
"Well, the dining room table seats ten, and it's perfect because we have ten adults!"  Said with a bounce of delight.
"Ten??!!"
Oh no. Eye rolling has launched into deer-in-the-headlights. Plunge in quickly.  Retreat fast.
"I thought you realized.  Sure, Honey. ( 'Honey'...Brilliant touch!) Count em...(Oh no!  I said the word count! To late to retract)....there's Missy, Dave, Fran, Mike, You and I and Mom of course, and don't forget your brother James...."
"Is he going to be here?" 
"Isn't he here every year?"
"Okay..."
Serve up another roll..the one with the big glob of icing.

And then comes the two lines of the conversation that get's repeated just about word for word every year.

"I just don't know how you're going to fit fifteen people into this small house for a party."
"You say that every year, and every year we fit 'em all in."

And he heads for the den and the football game.

Case closed.  That's how you do it.

The Comfortable Frog

Some say that if you put a live frog into boiling water, it will see the danger and jump right out. But if you put it into cold water and gradually increase the water temperature, the frog will become more and more comfortable and remain in the pan until it's too late. It will cook itself. According to experts, this tale isn't true, but it's a good analogy of what's going on today. It's my humble opinion that we are all becoming comfortable frogs and we're sitting in a pot labeled "Socialism." It sits on a burner with Uncle Sam's fingers on the control knob.

Here's why I say this. It's come to my attention that there are a number of new things on the horizon that will better enable the government to babysit us. I hesitate to say who "invented" these great ideas, but with each time-saving, money-saving, green-thinking concept we should all feel the knob turned a bit higher on the proverbial stove where we sit, comfortable frogs, all.

Let's consider the humble light bulb. It seems we can't even choose this little household item correctly, so in the future that issue is taken out of our hands and placed in the hands of the government. Now we can't find anything but mercury-filled CFL bulbs. If you break one, you better open a window, leave the room for 15 minutes, pick up all the particles, place it in a plastic bag and dispose of it by taking it to a recycling center, which could be a bit of a distance from where you live. Now, say you decide to just throw it away in the trash. In the future, you could be fined for doing so. But you'll likely do it anyhow, as will many other people. And then all that mercury goes into the atmosphere....well, you can just imagine.

But all this is beside the point. The government is watching out for us. I feel more comfortable just knowing this.

Now for the color black. It seems that in the future, cars in California can no longer be painted black. Black pulls more heat, so people will use their air conditioners more. Again, Big Brother will take care of all of us. I'm beginning to feel very comfortable.

Soon we won't have to worry about how hot or cold our house is. It's an established fact and in the stimulus plan that Google has been hired to manufacture a gadget that will be installed in all our homes. It will be sort of like a thermostat, but we won't have to worry about regulating it---the government will tell us how hot or cold our house should be. Talk about comfortable!

Can you hear the heat control knobs clicking? Is the flame high enough that you can see it over the edge of the pot?

Why is this happening? I have no answers, but I think lots of things tie in together. There's people who own multi-million dollar homes. They can buy these homes because they work all the time---24/7, 365. They're never home. Maybe there's kids. As those kids grow, they need more and more attention and guidance. They don't get it because no one's home. Literally. Dads and Moms need to work to afford the house, the boat, the cars. There's no time for kids...no time for marriages...no time for reflection...no time for anything. So it stands to reason that there's no time to contemplate how comfortable we're all getting. Comfortable and accepting.

What will we swallow next? The government wants to babysit us. They think they know what's best for us. Car colors, light bulbs, thermostats...what next? Watch for it, the next thing is on it's way.

But consider this. To the tune of well over a trillion dollars, we have had to "babysit," the mistakes of the very government that would like to turn us into a socialist nation. They can't work out their own problems, so we all had to pitch in and hand them our last dollar---for some of us, very literally. And soon, this same government will forgo the little things---bulbs, paint, thermostats---and tell you how much money it thinks you should be making. How nice it will be to know that my doctor, who's spent year of his life in school learning his profession will soon make about as much as my son who flips burgers down the street. That fact alone should inspire my son to become a doctor!

We're getting comfortable. Too comfortable. Light bulbs, paint, thermostats, what's next? I can envision all kinds of mandatory regulations and laws on hundreds of basic, everyday issues. All in the name of green-thinking and money-saving and time-saving and whatever other good "reason" the government can come up with. It all has a label: socialism.

We need a Boston Tea Party. Before we're all dead frogs.

Glass Half Empty...Glass Half Full II

"Have you heard about Bill? He just got laid off!"
"Yeah, another victim of this awful economy. It's terrible, isn't it?"
"Yeah, and they say it's just going to get worse."
Sometime in the last few months or so we've either been part of a conversation like that or overheard a similar one. Like some sadistic fascination for a twisted horror movie, I can't seem to pull myself away from the daily hammering of stock market lows, job cut stats and my favorite station's "Earmark of the Day" segment. My husband refuses to even sit down for the evening news let alone do what I do and have it with my oatmeal and coffee.
People are rioting in the streets. There's "Tea Parties" being reported in some states. People are suffering ulcers and heart attacks. The world is in chaos. Being a Christian, I can easily point out that these are the last days before the return of Jesus, and people should expect what they see. After all, for those who enjoy a good read, the Bible will tell you all about it, down to the last detail.

But I'm also a realist. I'm not complicated, and I like to stay that way. So the practical side of me remembers what my gramma would do when things looked bleak. (No, singing wasn't it.)
She'd tell me to look for the silver lining. Nowadays, you have to really focus to see it, but it's always there. It never really goes away. And the more you look, the bigger and wider that silver lining appears to be.
All kinds of things are happening out there---positive things---that wouldn't have happened if negative things hadn't happened first.
Somewhere there's a man who's lost his job, but his wife with her nursing background picks up a position at a local hospital. Suddenly Dad's around the house more. He begins to see and appreciate everything his wife's been doing to make their house a home. He spends time with his kids and as a result he isn't the stranger that many dads become over time. Now he has time to do those small repairs she's been asking about for months. Maybe he takes a class or two, something he's wanted to do for years.
A couple hundred miles away, another man looses his job. No longer able to pay the rent, he and his wife are forced to move in with the man's brother. It's tight, but temporary. Two women share the workload, but they also share the daily company. And when times are tough, they share support, kind words and encouragment. They aren't alone in this.
Families all over the place are combining to share rent and bills and ease the burden of making ends meet. Is that a bad thing? Not necessarily. Families that love each other can cheerfully share a common environment.
But what about the not-so-loving families that are forced to live together to survive? In that case, extra effort is needed to get along and co-exist peacefully. Is that a bad thing? Not necessarily. It forces people to grow up, curb inclinations, suppress negative reactions and gain control...something they may have never had to do. An exercise in "get-a-grip and grow up."
And then there's the kids. Suddenly there's no money for the extras. The birthdays and maybe even Christmas. There's no more designer jeans and the latest makeup, jewelry or skateboard. Maybe there's not even enough room in the budget for that weekly trip to the pizza shop or the movies. Is that a bad thing? Not really.
For all the kids out there that are already overindulged, it's actually a good thing. Our kids need to learn new concepts like eating at home instead of at Burger King with a passle of friends. They need to find out what it's like to invite friends over for a rented movie instead of going to the matinee at the local theatre. They need to inhale the air of a thrift shop as they search the racks for clothes that will fit. And they need to learn to shop for bargains and use patience and wait for sales.
But more, the ones old enough to understand money and all it's ramifications need to sit down at a table with mom and dad and have the word "budget" explained to them. They need to know how much the rent, the ultilities and the bills are. Yours may be an exception, but most young teens have never had to consider a budget. They have no clue how much Dad and Mom spend to keep their world spinning.
But now that we're out of work and out of money, it's the most beautiful and appropriate time to sit our kids down and explain the facts of financial life to them. It's a great time to take them to the grocery store and make them aware of the cost of food and make them figure out where the better deals are. For those kids who have never held a job, perhaps now is the time to introduce them to the world of work. Even if it's babysitting after school. Then make them contribute to the budget.
Can you see that silver lining?
In these dreadful times, great things are happening. People are drawing together for comfort and support. Families are hunkering down and gathering in tight. They're holding hands more than they ever did. Kneeling to pray more often, and feeling more acutely grateful for living in America, even with all it's flaws. They are reinventing themselves, learning new skills and trades and sometimes finding new meaning in life because they've been forced to slow down. People who've taken their jobs for granted are feeling a new sense of thankfulness that they can still get up, get in their cars, and head for that job. In hundreds of small towns and big cities, people are finding new joy in simpler pastimes that cost little to nothing, and people are learning to make their own bread, wash their own car, sew their own clothes. They're looking for ways to save money instead of spend it and becoming more self-sufficient in the process. Are these things bad?
Not necessarily. They're all part of the silver lining.

Glass Half Empty....Glass Half Full?

I just finished The Glass Castle by Jeannette Wall. The book is a true account of her memories as she grew up. One of four siblings, she was raised by Rex Wall, her alcoholic father who was also a scientific genius, and a mother who was a displaced hippie that didn't believe in rules or boundaries---for herself or her children. Jeannette's memories begin in a rundown trailer in the desert. Her family's situation gradually worsens as her father becomes more of an alcoholic and her mother retreats deeper into an unrealistic life of painting and reading. The entire family "skedaddles" from place to place in midnight escapes from bill collectors and the law, ultimately winding up in a place and in a situation that the reader assumes can't get any worse. But as the kids grow up and realize that their life isn't the norm, they plot to escape it.

Jeannette's writing on the surface simply reveals the story of a sad, poor family that mirrors the life of many families in the early '60's. The story contains situations of blatant, disturbing sadness brought on by self-centered parents with defeating vices. Never-the-less, the brilliance of her novel is not so much in the story as in the telling of it. Setting aside the obviously hideous childhood these children endured, whether or not she realized it, Jeannette gives every reader a new, perhaps helpful slant on life.

In The Glass Castle, these abominable parents are experts at something that we should all practice, especially if we have kids. I'd loosely refer to it as "The-Glass-Half-Full" theory.

Much of the time the Walls lived in tiny, run-down, out-of-the-way places in the desert that could barely be considered towns. They occupied abandoned buildings and sheds, places where the rent was either very nominal or, preferably, non-existent. They were poor to the extreme so the kids usually had no shoes. Can you imagine children running wild in our southwestern deserts without shoes? Between cactus, scorpions, and broken glass, the average parent would be out of their mind to allow such a thing.

But the Walls children did just that because of the philosophy of their parents. "Shoes are for the weak. Go bare-footed and you build up calluses so thick it's like wearing shoes."

Now, the average person would be able to dicern that this philosophy came from simply not having enough money to buy shoes. True, but the kids swallowed it and that was the key.

When birthdays came around, there was never enough money for gifts. The reader knows where the birthday money went. It bought booze for Dad and paint and canvas for Mom. But Dad takes the kids outside, and they all lay on blankets under the Arizona night sky. Millions of stars twinkle above. Dad points to a particularly bright, glittering one and "gives" the star to his favorite daughter. "Pity those other children," he tells her. "All they get are cheap plastic toys that are going to fall apart in a little while. You have a star!"

Again, the reader sneers, grudgingly congratulationg Dad for his imagination, but pitying the child in the end. But was the child really to be pitied? Daddy's little girl was thrilled, and carried that star around in her heart as his gift to her.

As a result of their financial situation, they had no TV, board games, or radios. Their only forms of entertainment were free, and included copious reading. Jeannette was reading like a 5 year old when she was 3. Even with sporatic education, the kids turned into academic prodigies.

All because this disfunctional, destructive family was less than dirt poor.

I feel it's nesseary to point out, again, that the story contains situations that are almost unbearably sad for these four children, things they should not have had to endure under any circumstances, but my core point is: these parents twisted life into a "glass-half-full" viewpoint.

Each time these kids seemed to be deprived of something we would consider a basic life necessity, the parents would unflinchingly respond to the lack of it with a piece of wisdom that successfully led the children to "realize" that they not only didn't need it, they were better off without it. Maybe it's time we practiced a little of that with our own kids.

Now before someone thinks I'm going to try to convince my kids they don't need shoes, or games, or some food, let me say I wouldn't be able to do that if I tried. But all too often our kids successfully convince us they "need" something "vital" to their well-being. That they couldn't possibly go another day without it, or will "just die" if they don't have it.

Last week, on a Sunday evening, our youngest son rambles to the kitchen table, drops onto a chair, and casually points out to his dad and I that he needs a new set of shoes, some socks, and several new T-shirts. The existing ones have holes and are faded. He lists some good brands to buy and the colors he wants. (A new girl just appeared on the horizon, but his father and I wisely didn't bring that factor into the conversation.)

Now, to exercise the "glass-half-full" theory. I respond: "If the piles and piles of laundry in your room were to be washed, you'd find (as you have in the past) t-shirts without holes. T-shirts that are almost as vivid as when first purchased because the ones on the bottom of that pile of dirty clothes are, in fact, probably very new. You'd find socks galore. Maybe even another set of shoes you've forgotten about."

But if all that failed, I could recall how Rex Wall of The Glass Castle would have handled it. I could have said, "You know, you're going to be very thankful for those holes in your t-shirt come summer. Pity your friends with their perfect t-shirts. You're going to have built-in air conditioning whenever you wear them. I bet those t-shirts become your favorite ones!"

Last week, we ran a little low on "breakfast food." We were out of bread, butter, cereal and milk. There were no eggs, or sausage or bacon in the fridge, and little fruit. I had major shopping to do. Again, the youngest wakes up, shuffles to the kitchen, and begins to swing on the kitchen door. Within moments he's whining that there's nothing to eat. Again, perfect time for "glass-half-full" theory.

I point out, "Cold pizza is great for breakfast!" When that receives an "are-you-crazy?" look, I get more practical. "A can of Spaghettios is filling and warm!" Again, the baleful eye-rolling and heavy sigh. I should feel like the neglectful parent, yes?

Something inside me hears the voice of Rex Wall, and I respond.

"You know, you're better off going without a breakfast. You've been trying to drop a few pounds for track, and you'd be more alert---you know---less drowsy without all that fat and protein sloshing around in your stomach. "

We have become a nation of indulgence. And our kids have become the hapless victims. They actually believe they can't live without $50 pants, $100 shoes and designer shirts. They must have the latest video game before it's sold out and *gasp* they don't get one until the next shipment comes in.

They won't eat onion, bell pepper, vegetables, or store-brand cereal. They need a ride to school because it's cold outside. They have to go with friends to the movies. Friends, popcorn, soda, and Netflix in their front room is just not going to cut it.

I could go on and on. The point is, what on earth would happen if, say, the economy took a downturn...one or the other or both their parents lost their job....maybe Dad received a cut in pay...Mom got laid off? Well, all across America it's happening. We need to begin using the "glass-half-full" theory with our kids.

No, we can't buy the $50 pants off the rack. But you have pants. No, I didn't get your shoes at Foot Locker. I got them at Payless. I didn't pay $100 either, but you have shoes. No, we can't buy the video game this month. But you have books. You get them FREE at the library. And there's the great outdoors. Run, jump, bicycle. It's all free.

And when we finish with our kids, we can start on ourselves.

The Dreadmill...

I did it! I did it! 2 hours on the dreadmill. Okay, so it was at the slowest speed and included 15 minute rest intervals of 10 minutes each while the Aleve caught up to my knees. But I did it!

Here's the key...A DVD player. Hooked it up to the dread, slapped on a headset, and off I went. Nothing like a good movie to keep you going.

Current movie suggestion: Goodnight Mr. Tom, a Masterpeice Theatre movie. Setting: WWII, England goes to war with Germany. A young, evacuated boy goes to live with a reclusive old man on the outskirts of London. The old man, broken hearted from what's happened in his own past, is transformed by the little boy, who hides a painful secret. Very engaging, very good flick!

And for those of you who don't have Netflix, do yourself a favor and get it. The site is very user friendly, which is a nessesary for me. I mean, for virtually pennies you can see the movie you want, when you want to see it, and there's no overdue fee when you don't return it the next day. Or the next month, for that matter. This blog isn't for advertising, but I'll make an exception in this case. Check it out...http://www.netflix.com/

Okay...stepping off the soap box...so today is my second day with the dreadmill. Will I make it? I think so, as long as I have a good movie. I plan to watch Eragon. Today, my list does not include going back to bed.

The Best Laid Plans...

Are lists! I'm convinced of this, because every time I want to get a lot done, I make a list.
Yesterday, I made a resolution that I would get on the treadmill (affectionately referred to by a friend of mine as a dreadmill) each day, no fail. I began this resolution early in the morning over breakfast with my significant other, Daniel, and my "to-do" list for Monday.
Now, lists work great, but there's some things you have to do along with the lists if you want them to work.
First, you have to tell someone else you're making a list. This has a two-fold purpose. One, they can hold you accountable for the entries on your list, and two, they can help you remember you have a list and where it is.
Now, here's the trick. When you make the list, you show it to someone else. Spouses will do for this, as they'll see you later on that day and they can ask you what you've accomplished. They'll ask politely if you were able to get to everything you had planned, and if you didn't, you can confess it with no chastening. After all, they've been there themselves. They've felt the sting of failure. But this method is for wussies.
If you really want your list method to work, tell your kids. They fail at nothing. Moreover, your children have an agenda. They'd love to see you fail so they can let you know about it.
"Moooommm....did you (fill in the blank here) today?" Said with that pouty lower lip and that eye-rolling 'were-you-good-today? voice.
Now, at this point, if you've failed you could lie and save face. But if you're really courageous and you really want success, you bravely respond, "No." And then you find out why telling your kids about the list works so well. You are so gonna hear about your coffession of failure. If you're a parent, I don't even have to give you a scenario for this. In no time, you're going to be the most successful and efficient person in your family. All because you told your kids about your list.
I made my list yesterday, and I'm looking at it this morning. My 15 year old son hasn't started off for school yet today. I want to go back to bed. Should I tell him about my list? Then a brilliant (2 cups of coffee) idea pops into my head.
Whipping out an eraser (always make your list in pencil for obvious reasons), I replace "Start the dishwasher" with "Go back to bed."
"Honey, come look at Mom's list for today, will you?"
He's off to school. I'm off to bed.

Got Milk? Got kids? I prefer the milk, thanks.

Have you ever told your kids, "You don't know how good you have it?" I have. So many times that now I don't say it anymore. The last time I said it, my youngest son rolled his eyes so far up into his head, I thought he'd turned into a blind alien. "Moooommmm....." And I'm reminded, once again, how many times I've said that truism. So now I just smugly think it.

Here's another truism I just think: Someday, I'm going to get even. Now, if I said that one aloud, both my sons would collapse in a mountain of crowing entertainment. Yeah. How ya gonna get even Mom? Make us go to Walmart and stand in line for another box of Depends? Make us push the cart for you at the grocery store while you meander down the aisle beside us, popping one, small, aeromatic "butt-bubble" with each shuffling step? Or maybe you'll have us fetch your false teeth after you absent-mindedly wrapped them in your paper napkin at a restaurant and the busboy returned them to the kitchen? What'll it be Mom? What awful thing will you be using as payback for the deplorable way us kids have treated you? I'll think of something.

And I will. In my mind, I promise, I will. Why? Are you a parent? Then you know why. In case you aren't, or it's been too many years to remember, let me give you a fine example of why.

My youngest son has carried on a bloody boxing match with his own temper all his young life, and that's been a long time because he's 15 now. And, of course (as all us parents know) it's not his fault that he's angry. It's my fault. It's Dad's fault. It's the teacher's fault. It's the dog's fault. It's the goldfishes fault. But it's not his fault. Something else causes his uninhibited explosions of unbridled rage.

Yesterday I cleaned the second bathroom in the house. The bathroom used only by my two sons and guests. Once clean, I decided to spruce it up a bit with a few new things from Walmart---a new rug, a few matching towels, a shower curtain, and a toilet lid cover. But I wanted the boys to have their choice of color and theme.

Approaching the oldest son, I pointed a finger at his chest (if I look up to find his face I throw my back out), and said in my most commanding voice, "You have an errand to run." I have to use the voice of Caesar, or I'll hear at least 3 flawless, well-founded reasons why such an errand (and, mind you, he doesn't know what it is yet) is profoundly impossible at this time.

And then I turn to the younger of the two.

"And you, (again, the finger-pointing is vital) go with him."

Sometimes it's not clear how different 2 kids from the same mother can be, but this conversation was one of those opportunities that made it crystal clear.

The oldest (22): Geeze, Mom, I was going to spend some time with Derek." Spoken quietly, reasoningly, into my face.

The younger (15): Geeze, Mom, I just got home from school. I'm hungry. Can't I eat first?" Spoken with a "I-better-give-this-my-best-shot" whine.

"I want you both to go to Walmart and pick up a few things. Here's my charge card and a list."

Oldest: (as he becons his brother, already installed on the sofa with a bowl of Top Ramen) "Okay. C'mon."

Now, here's the up-front-in-your-face difference between the two:

The oldest, fishing for his keys, heads out the door and down the driveway toward his car.

The younger hurls himself off the sofa, pounds into the kitchen, flings the Top Ramen onto the counter (noodles erupting from the cup and baptising the freshly cleaned surface) and heads for the door, shouting, "Can't even eat in peace!"

I, being the oldest and most apt to be in complete control of myself, march to the back door and shout after him, "You're going to clean this mess up when you get home!"

Here, the differences in my angels shows again.

The oldest: Grins at his younger sibling with that "na-na-nana-na" look while climbing into his car.

The youngest: Shouts back at me, "--------- ----" I won't put the expletive here. Hopefully you see what I mean.

At this point, I have a choice. I can draw my head inside the door, shrug my shoulders at my husband, who's standing open-mouthed as a witness to this. Or, I can do what any middle-aged mother with complete self control would do. I shout at the younger one.

"For that, you can find another place to stay tonight! Call a friend!"

Those words were the sound of the soft, mothering, smooth-as-a-baby's-bottom suede gauntlet I've always used with my youngest son as it whacked him squarely across his flippy little mouth. For a split second I felt nothing---well, maybe a bit smug, or a bit satisfied. Then I felt scared.

Never, ever, ever had I said to either of my sons, "Get out." No matter how hard things have been at times, the fight always remained here. This was their safe haven. The place they could say anything and there was forgivness and healing. Today I canned the Sanctuary sign and rolled up the Mommy mat.

While at Walmart, he made phone calls to friends to try to secure a place to bunk for the night. When he got home, I got another taste of my kids differences.

In walks the oldest: "Geeze, Mom, I never knew how expensive a few bathroom accessories could be. Here's your charge card. I picked these up myself. After all, it's my bathroom."

In walks the youngest: Past the table he glides, ignoring (snubbing, as in, "I'm just too upset to eat!") his dinner plate. "Okay everyone," he says, adapting a sickening-sweet, quiet, condecending voice, "Here comes the kid from Hell. You can stop talking about me now."

*SIGH*

After a long shower, he writes down the number where he will be and heads out the door. Only if you've ever "been there" do you realize what an effort it takes not to dash to the door to persuade him to "talk things over." But I didn't. I actually let him go.

NEVER LET THEM SEE YOU SWEAT. I could change that...like many moms. Never let them see you cry.

I called the number where he said he would be to check on him as I said I would. He hadn't arrived yet (even though it had been nearly and hour), andI got to talk to his friend who lives there. Here's how the coversation went.

"Hi there. This is Andrew's mom. Is he there yet?"

"No. Is he supposed to be coming over?"

"I thought you guys made arrangements. Andrew said he's be at your house."

"Oh. Okay. I guess he will be then."

*********pregnant silence*********

"_____________, are you there?"

"Yes. Uhhh....I guess you guys finally decided to make it stick, huh?"

"What?"

"Well, Andrew's told me how many times you guys have kicked him out, but he says he must be stupid because he always comes back to the same house that doesn't want him."

That one sentence changed everything. I closed my conversation and replaced the receiver. I grabbed a Kleenex and dried my face off. My son was at his friend's house for the night, and safe. I went to bed and after crying myself to sleep, I slept soundly.

It's interesting how serene you feel when you realize that you didn't do an injustice to someone else, but that the injustice was done to you. Suddenly, you aren't the bad guy---the meany---the person with the guilty conscience. Suddenly you're the one who can, with all justification, feel vindictive.

And you know, that may work for bosses and co-workers, and brothers and sisters and friends, but not for our children. For most of us moms and dads, vindication isn't an option. For our problem children, we'll resign ourselves to sleepless nights, feelings of confusion, pain and desperation. We'll build strengths we never knew we had. We'll pray for guidance until we sweat blood.

But for many of us, we'll also be drawn closer to our spouse for strength. At times, it will feel as if they're the only lifesaver thrown from the boat of life. We'll make new resolutions about how we look at things. As we get older, so will our kids. And with age, comes wisdom, we hope. Someday, if God is merciful, we'll hear those words, "Mom, Dad, I was wrong and I'm sorry for everything I put you through." AAhhh...those golden words. And maybe, if we're really fortunate, we'll get to bounce our grandbabies on our knee.

But if this all fails to take place, there's always that big RV with the multiple slide-outs. Oh, and retirement in...say, Idaho. Maybe Alaska...or...Vermont....yeah....

Where do we come from?

"Where did I come from, Momma?" Years ago, when we asked that question we'd be given the classic answer, "Well, honey, I found you in the garden under a big cabbage leaf." That was the answer I was given, and it was always satisfactory. Then I grew up and discovered the only thing under cabbage leaves were slugs. I was back where I began, wondering where I came from. But I was young. School and friends occupied all my thoughts.

I'm not sure when the fuzzy, slightly puzzling questions began to slip into my more quiet moments. Maybe it was when I started slowing down. When backaches and headaches and a bit of extra pounds around my middle forced me to "sit a spell." That's when I began asking myself the question again, "Where did I come from?" Only I couldn't ask Momma, she was gone to her reward. So was Gramma and Grampa. And at first, it was only questions about people in my own generation. And it was only in the sit-a-spell moments. They were few and far between so, again, I didn't give it much thought.

Then along came the middle years, and the question came back again. This time I wanted serious answers. Over the years, in bits and pieces of contemplation, I'd developed a need to know where I came from. This "dangling" feeling began in my 40's. It was more of a notion. The not-to-clear image of myself, hanging like a leaf way out on a limb on a big tree devoid of any leaves within my reach. Suspended by...what? Nothing touches me, but I exist. And that image began to grow into a search for who I was.

Why do some of us need to know where we fit in the grande scheme of things? There's lots of answers---cut and dry answers---but what about the intangible answers? I remember the dangling feeling I had when I didn't know my ancestors beyond my grandfather and grandmother. Sort of like the edge of a genealogical earth, so to speak. It went to my grampa and gramma and dropped off. Many people are perfectly content to accept the fact that they're here. End of story. I couldn't. I had to know why.

And you know what? You can chase that question in your family line back to the beginning of recorded time. No. Before recorded time. Because aeons ago, somewhere on the earth, a man loved a woman and they had children. If that man had not loved that woman, I wouldn't be here.

Do I want to know so I can thank them when I see them someday? I'm not sure, but I think that's part of it. The biggest reason, though, is so I'm not dangling out there on that limb all alone. Somewhere, down through time, the tree of my family was full and all the leaves joined hands. Even though they're gone, their spirit lives on in the leaves of books and records and pictures. It's that need to put all the leaves of data back onto the limbs so the tree fills out and I can again grab the hand of my past and say I belong. This is the reason I draw breath. Because my mother, Alice Gertrude Traver, loved my father, Lamar Joseph Stonemetz. Suddenly, two leaves burst forth very near me on my branch. And another leaf appears. It's my gramma, holding the hand of my grampa. And they hold the hand of my mother, and suddenly I'm not alone on the branch any longer. I belong, and I'm gaining strength through the knowledge of the existence of my family.

Most of them weren't famous, and most didn't even live eventful lives. They were farmers and blacksmiths and ship captains. They fought in the civil war, WWI and WWII and the Revolutionary War. But their strong hands seem to reach out through the generations and take mine and remind me of who I am. I'm no longer dangling. I'm part of the centuries and the people who inhabited the centuries before me. Yes, I think I will thank them. Not for being whatever they were, but for loving each other enough that today, I'm here.

Cookie Crumbs and Onion Skins...

You can tell alot about a family from what's on their kitchen floor. Not what the floor's made of, but what's there to be swept up.



I have friends with floors so hygienic I could eat a meal then lick the spot clean (not that I would indulge in that privelege, but you get my meaning).



I have to give them credit, they work dilligently maintaining this level of pristeen madness. They walk through a room, stop and gaze, puzzled, at a fixed spot on the carpet. With the locked glare of an owl eyeing it's prey, they bend and pluck an errant shred of trash from their immaculate floor. Between two fingers, at arm's length, still examining the microscopic entity that had dared to contaminate their carpet, they head to the garbage can. That's when it fleetingly occurs to me that my eyesight must be failing me. I didn't see what they picked up. I didn't see it before they picked it up, and I didn't see it as they carried it to the trash can.
I'm immediately ashamed of myself. The fact that I couldn't see that looming boulder of trash sullying my friend's pristine home is bad enough, but her level of cleanliness makes me want to creep quietly back to my house and scrub everything until my fingers bleed. Almost.
Then there's my friend with kids. Her floors are almost as perfect, but she has a defense for her cleanliness slipups. Kids. Plain and simple. From clear across the room she can spot the offending crayon...the wayward Hotwheels car...the stray block. Like an eagle swooping in for a trout, she's across the room in two swift, gliding steps. She sweeps the sinning toy off the floor, and in one graceful move swings around and gives you the "so-sorry-you-had-to-see-that" sort of smile.
These kind of people are admirable. I mean, my gramma used to say, "Cleanliness is next to Godliness." But I'm more of a realist. I say, "Cleanliness is next to impossible." Each time I meticulously sweep my kitchen floor, then even more carefully mop it, I form a new resolve: Damp mop---just a quick "lick-and-a-prayer," each day. Then comes the next day. The first day of my damp-mop-each-day resolution.
And the phone rings. Chatting happily, my subconcious hearing picks up running water. "Gotta go...someone didn't jiggle the toilet handle." Then I'm in the bathroom, staring at a pile of towels and jeans, leaning on the counter and absently drawing x's and o's in a glob of toothpaste on the sink. Man, why does it always have to be me that cleans the bathroom? Well...there goes my kitchen floor resolve. Days later, I'm drawing a breath over an iced tea and contemplating my kitchen floor.
It's covered with cookie crumbs and onion skins. Well, not covered, but sort of dusted. "Shreddies" are in all the corners and kind of drifted up against the fronts of my dishwasher and stove.
I bake hundreds of cookies a week for my oldest son's co-workers. He sells them, and I pay my small charge card bills with that hard-earned money. He came home one day and, munching on a cookie, slid me a look. "Mom, how 'bout you make up somma these cookies and I'll take 'em to work and see if the guys wanna buy 'em?" I'll never forget that first cookie day. He came home and proudly handed me twenty dollars. His eyes smiled and I think he was as suprised and excited about it as I was. "Make lots more, Mom. They love 'em!" The rest is history.
Since then, I've re-arranged my kitchen to making the baking more streamline, but when you do this volume of cookie baking, you're bound to drop alot of "shreddy things" on the floor. Oatmeal, flour, brown sugar...it's all there. The cookies are baked, bagged (at which time more shreddies litter the floor), and sold. And then I pay my charge card bills. And then I use the same card to buy things for my family that brings them joy.
My Family loves soup, and I use alot of onions. Have you ever chased an onion skin across a floor being cooled by the breeze of a back door? I have. You won't catch it. It'll hang up somewhere, in a corner or against an appliance. Like the day the dog came tearing in the back door, drooling around a multicolored tennis ball. The air current scooted the onion skin in another direction, with me after it. And then came a teenage boy, laughing hysterically, dashing up the steps in sweaty t-shirt, grass-stained jeans, and ripped tennis shoes. Grabbing the dog, they both took a football roll over the kitchen floor and my attention---and heart---were distracted by the unbridled joy of the moment and the onion skin was forgotten.
There's a fork lying in the crevas between the refrigerator and the bottom cupboard door. It was my son's. As his hands genticulated like a mad orchestra conductor, he gave me a blow by blow reinactment of his winning throw in shotput that day. His face shone as he laughed and careened around the kitchen with his gangling teenage limbs. The Top Ramen was forgotten as his fork accidentally flew from his hand and bolted through the air, landing in the crevas. We both stopped, looked at each other, and burst out laughing. It was my intention to let him finish with his animated story, then retrieve the fork. Intentionally, I didn't rise to pick it up. I wanted nothing to kill this moment. So rarely was he like this. Laughing with complete abandon and joy. Many days were dampened with the typical teenage sulliness. My heart was dancing, and the fork was forgotten.
A milk cap lies under the edge of the dishwasher. My oldest son comes home from work very early in the morning, sometimes two or two-thirty. There's nights when physical problems have me sitting in the quiet, subdued kitchen at that time, and when he comes into the house it's so quiet that it feels like just the two of us in the world. It was one of those mornings when he came home and I was up. He popped the top on a new jug of milk and the lid rolled across the floor and slid almost out of sight. At that moment I realized how hard he worked and how tired he was. His eyes followed the milk cap, his shoulders dropped, and he turned to me with a baleful look.
"Leave it. I'll sweep it out in the morning," I said. "Come sit down."
That morning, we sat in the silent, dark kitchen and talked. Exhausted as he was, he sat and talked to me. We shared so much. For an hour or more, I learned about my oldest son. The person he'd become and the person he'd like to become. His aspirations and hopes. And then we both went off to bed.
Who knows. If he'd stooped to pick up that cap, he may have decided it was the last physical effort he wanted to make for the day. Who knows. If I had gotten up and swept it out, maybe I wouldn't have wanted to sit back down. Maybe I would have just drifted back off to bed.
The bottle cap is still there. And so are the cookie crumbs and onion skins. But I look at this way, I can sweep tomorrow. And besides, I have a defense for my cleanliness slipups. It's called love.