IslandRoar

Spin Cycle: Turning 3

Because Sprite's birthday is coming up, Jen has made this week's Spin Cycle an open forum. So when you get done here, you should check it out.

Sprite is turning three. Which got me thinking. Three is such a magical age. No longer a baby but still so small.

When each of my two daughters turned three, I had to stick them on a school bus and send them off to special pre-k programs.

Now, I grew up in suburban New Jersey and walked to school every day. And when my kids started school, I drove them or we carpooled with neighbors. Except for field trips, I had no experience putting anyone on a school bus. Let alone my tiny, just-turned-three year-old daughters who, except for my parents and a couple of trusted friends and sitters, had essentially never been out of my sight.

Daughter #1 was born with Benign Hypotonia, basically a muscle weakness causing significant delays in her gross motor skills. She didn't roll over for a year, she walked at two, and rode a bike at 12.

Daughter #2 had her speech and hearing issues. Both girls were fortunate to be eligible for excellent pre-k programs modeled for their particular needs. These included door-to-door transportation.

I drove Daughter #1 her first couple of days. But I was seven months pregnant, sick and exhausted, and D #1 wanted to take the bus with her friends. 

I thought I would throw up the first time the big yellow bus pulled up in front of our house and I clipped her into the car seat on board. I waved as it pulled away, then hopped in my car and followed it all the way to her school. I needed to see just how traumatized she would be by the time  she got there.

Instead, she was smiling, proudly carrying her little backpack as she was helped down the steps and led by the hand into her classroom. I, on the other hand, was shaking and nauseous, and could've used a shot of something strong (damn that pregnancy ban on alcohol!).

I never got used to putting her on the bus, but it did become a part of our routine. And after Daughter #2 was born, it was pretty nice not to have to haul her out two extra times each day for the pre-k run.

When it became apparent D #2 needed a special school for her auditory issues, the fact that I would be putting her on a bus, while no less traumatic, was a no-brainer. Her school was farther away, and between getting the other kids fed and out the door to their school on time, the bus (or van in her case) was a life saver.

Then again, she was my third child and I was more laid back. I only followed the van her first day. Although there was that time I passed it on our block as I was on my way home from picking up the other two kids from school. The cops had pulled it over for speeding.

I'd already reported the incident to her school and was waiting in my driveway, arms folded, foot tapping, by the time the driver finally made his way up the road to drop her off. He didn't appear very sorry but no matter; there was a new driver the next day and speed was never an  issue again.

I look back now, amazed that I was able to place these two small girls on a school bus at such a tender age. Part of me still shrieks, what were you thinking! But most of me realizes that at the time I simply could not take one more thing onto my plate.

And somehow, they have both survived.

So congratulations to both of you, Jen, on Sprite's turning three. Does that make her a big girl, or still a baby in your eyes?

I have no idea, but judging how I feel about my own little girls, now 15 and 18, my guess is that it's probably a bit of both.

 

At A Loss (part two)

 

If you haven't read Part One of this post, you can find it here.

 

After she got her hearing aids, Daughter #2's speech grew by big fat leaps and bounds.

In those first few weeks, she would cock her head to the side, exclaiming, "I hear sum-tin!" Then run to the door or window to check out what it was. I couldn't believe how much she'd been missing.

I steered myself for the years to come, the negotiations I would need to engage in, and the accommodations that would be necessary for her in the school system. In life. The uphill battle certain things would be for her, things I had so taken for granted with my other kids.

Do you know some people treat children with hearing aids like they're mentally disabled or slow? Yeah, they do. And some people are uncomfortable at the mere site of a kid with hearing aids.

Fairly or not, I came to judge my older children's friends by how they handled D #2's disability.

"Is she retarded?" One little boy asked, sneering. As though she wasn't even in the room. STRIKE OUT.

"What's your sister got in her ears?" another asked.

"Those are her hearing aids." I could see First-Born Son almost holding his breath as he said this. "To help her hear."

"Oh." The boy shrugged. "Like bionic ears. Cool." HOME RUN.

I started saving for the tiny, but enormously expensive, hearing aids that would fit inside her ear and be practically invisible, the kind the audiologist assured me would be perfect for her as an adolescent.

Then, before she turned five, on a routine audiogram, her hearing tested almost normal. We'd been going every three or four months, to our same amazing audiologist, Ellen, each time.

Ellen didn't know what to make of it. Neither did the specialists she sent us to in Manhattan.

"I guess you might call it a miracle," one doctor said. "Except I don't believe in miracles."

The director of her school took me aside and quietly suggested that I not share what had happened with the other parents; she didn't want to encourage false hope.

Today, D #2 still has fluctuations in her hearing and does much better if she can look at someone as they speak, but she no longer wears hearing aids. She sits in the front of the class by choice, and she works really hard to overcome the learning difficulties she has as a result of those early years. Really hard.

And really successfully. She is driven in a way my two other children never had to be. She wants it. Bad.

This then, is my very un-scientific theory to explain what happened: I was so sick for that entire pregnancy. I only gained 13 pounds, and she was 7lbs, 14oz, with the biggest placenta the nurses had ever seen. Looking back, I think I may have had some viral infection that was passed on to her, affecting her hearing.

Unknowingly, I continued to pass on this virus to her through the next year and a half of nursing. Gradually, after she was weaned, the virus dissipated, leaving only residual damage, in the form of fluctuations in her hearing.

At least, that's my attempt at a logical explanation.

But as for what I really think happened?

Well, let's just say that, unlike that doctor, I do believe in miracles.

Wouldn't you?

At A Loss (part one)

The following story will be told over the next two posts.

 

Daughter #2 was born hearing impaired.

We had no idea of this at the time. All I knew was that her cry was the most high-pitched, piercing sound I had ever heard.  I was a pediatric nurse and she was my third child; I knew my newborn cries (I later learned this cry is common in newborns with hearing loss).

As she grew, we would lean in, cup our hand to her ear, and murmur, "Sssp-ssp-ssp," like we were telling her a secret. We called it the "Whisper Game," and I'd played it with all my kids. They loved it, and eventually, at about a year, leaned over to "whisper" a secret back to me.

D #2 did the same thing. Except she merely opened and closed her tiny lips, never uttering a sound. Foolishly, I found this quirky and adorable, not realizing she wasn't making the whisper sound because she couldn't hear it.

"That baby looks at your face so intently when you speak," my mother would say. Of course; she was trying to read our lips, attempting to make sense of the jumbled sounds she was able to hear.

I should've known. My two older children had spoken several words by the time they turned one and were chattering away by two.

There is a video of D #2 on Easter, only weeks before her second birthday. She picks up a candy egg and says "num-num." And I nearly erupt with joy. "Do you hear that? She said num-num," I inform the camera. "She means candy!"

That video will never be easy for me to watch.

Thinking maybe she just needed speech therapy like her cousins, I took her for an evaluation. Part of this was a routine audiological screening.

It was anything but routine. I held her while the audiologist directed sounds through speakers into our soundproof booth. As they grew higher in frequency, D #2 sat in my lap, thumb in her mouth, oblivious.

There was shock, guilt, sadness. Not necessarily in that order.

But other people took it harder than I did.  As an RN I knew what was out there: brain tumors, cancer, diabetes, cerebral palsy...

Hearing loss? We could do that.

I got her enrolled in a special school for kids with speech and hearing issues. I wove multi-colored friendship bracelets to clip her hearing aids onto the collar of her clothing with so they wouldn't get lost. I learned to use my stethoscope to test her aids and batteries each morning. Taught the babysitter, The Ex, and First-Born Son how to put them in and turn them on.

The first time she cupped her hand against my ear and "whispered"  to me with real "sssp-ssp-ssp" sounds, I nearly cried with relief. With her aids, her hearing was almost normal. Other kids at her school were not nearly so lucky.

My mother was appalled whenever I put her hair in ponytails. "But then everyone will see her hearing aids," she complained. "Don't you want to hide them?"

"She wears hearing aids," I said. "This is her life. If we don't accept it, how will she?"

More next post...

All Grown Up

I got some new furniture last weekend. A couch for my family room, a love seat for my living room. And a leather recliner. In general, not a big fan of leather recliners myself, but let's just say I bought it to make a couple of other people very happy. Because apparently, that is what I live for.

My new furniture makes me irrationally content. I sneak downstairs and peek in on it as though I expect to catch it doing something it shouldn't be doing. But the love seat is just sitting there, where I left it, after about 200 different attempts at arranging it, that is. The couch too (the recliner, I'm not so sure; I think it may be something of a trouble-maker).

I see them there, and I have the urge to clap, and exclaim out loud "Yay!" I may, in fact, have actually done this. Several times.

Don't judge me too severely. Come on, admit it. You know how I feel.

Remember when we were kids and our parents purchased something boring like furniture or an appliance? I thought they were crazy to get excited over items that were clearly so mundane. Or maybe they were just old.

Although actually, an appliance was always fun because it came in a huge cardboard box. Which my parents would allow us to play with for a few days before they got rid of it. All the neighborhood kids would gather in our driveway and take turns closing each other up in the box. Which we'd then knock over, pushing and kicking it around the driveway while the person inside laughed and screamed for his or her life.

Ah, good times...

These days, I prefer the appliance to the box. I guess that means I'm old. Or maybe crazy. Or perhaps, just a grownup.

I recall when The Ex and I were in our 20's and we bought our first house, and then our first refrigerator, washer, and dryer. I was genuinely thrilled to own these things. But I was also confused that I could be so thrilled over appliances versus say, shoes or books or a vacation in Bermuda.

Then I realized what had happened. I'd become a grownup. And the definition of a grownup, apparently, is one who is able to find ridiculous fulfillment in appliances. As well as furniture.

Don't even get me started on flooring and counter tops.

How about you?

 

"Hello? Here I Am..."

Last June when my parents were here, we were driving home from Daughter #1's high school graduation.

"God," my father commented, "what some of those kids accomplish is unbelievable." He shook his head. "The talent some people have."

Excuse me, I wanted to say. Some people? You mean, like your own granddaughter, the one sitting here right next to you, by the way, who graduated in the top five percent of her class? Who got accepted into some pretty amazing colleges? Who sang in Austria, won national awards, and will be dancing in her recital next week?

But I knew it would do no good. In that moment it all came flooding back. Growing up, my sister and I were subject to a continuous litany of how pretty/talented/smart our friends were. Meanwhile there we were, standing right in front of them.

My sister struggled a little in school, but she ran the Booster Club, was on the yearbook staff, and donned the bear costume of our school mascot for football games. She worked her butt off at her after-school job, and never got into trouble.

Success starts with a mindset. I believe, without a doubt, that we can be as spectacular as we decide we are. I've always felt this.

I remember wanting to jump up and down in front of my parents, waving my arms to get their attention.

Hello? It's me, your daughter who's starring in the school play? The one who's graduating at the top of her class and working 20 hours a week in a nursing home? Can you see me?

Did you ever feel this way?

For a long time their remarks made me jealous. I'd want to snap back: Yeah, you think so-and-so is that great? You should see what a bitch she can be. Or defend myself to them: Hey, I can do that too. Just give me a chance. But I never did.

As I got older I realized they had no idea they were creating this resentment. They'd be shocked to know our feelings had ever been hurt by their remarks. Yet still I struggle, hearing them go on about other people's grandchildren, how beautiful and talented they are, what colleges they got into. Why is it so hard for them to believe they have shining stars right in their own family?

"Do you really think Daughter #1 can be a doctor?" my mother asked not long ago.

"Why couldn't she?" I asked, my grip tightening on the phone.

"It takes so long. And you have to work so hard," she went on. Meanwhile, her brother and three of my cousins are physicians. Does she think they possess some spectacular gene that is absent in her own offspring?

"I think," I said carefully, "that she can be whatever she decides she wants to be."

And I really really do.

Spin Cycle: Parental Confessions

 

I wasn't going to take part in this week's Spin because (choose one of the following):

    a) I am such a perfect parent that I have nothing to confess.
    b) My parenting confessions are so deep and dark that they cannot be 
        released into the blogosphere.

Then I realized I did have one confession I might be willing to share. And that is: I have every intention of one day being my grandchildren's favorite grandparent. And I don't care what I have to do to achieve this goal.

No, I am not yet a grandmother, and if things go as planned, I shouldn't be for at least several years too come. But when I do become one, any other grandparents the kid may have, whether real, step, or adopted, better watch out.

When my son was in high school, for a time he had a very serious girlfriend. He seemed to spend every waking moment with her and often her family. They treated him as extravagantly as they did their own kids. Presents were ridiculously expensive and always carried a designer label. Clearly they were bent on making a certain impression.

"He better not marry her," I complained to The Ex. "We'll be the schmo grandparents. I'll be baking cookies with our grandchild and they'll sweep in with tickets to Disney World. Or I'll plan a trip to Disney World and they'll take the kid to Hawaii. I can't compete with that."

"Who's getting married?" He stared at me blankly. "What are you talking about?"

Of course they eventually broke up, but not before I'd carefully thought it through, and bestowed on my imaginary future grandchildren the uncanny ability to spot any and all phony displays of affection (imaginary grandchildren are convenient that way).

I'll be the Fun Grandma, I decided. The one they stay up late with watching movies. The one who takes them sledding and chases them around the playground. The one who lets them make messes in the kitchen and splash water out of the bathtub.

I'll take them on special Grandma Vacations and spend one-on-one time with each of them. Then, when they're in high school or college, they can get a job out here summers and stay with me. What kid, after all, doesn't want to spend their summer on the Vineyard?

Let those other grandparents just try to compete with that.

Whew, simply writing all those plans exhausted the hell out of me. I may need to reconsider. Maybe it's easier to be the grandma who visits and sits regally in her chair, passing out 20's.

What do you think? What kind of grandparent do you plan on being?

Either way, I bet we'll all rock.

 

Now slink on over to Sprite's Keeper to read some more Parenting Confessions.

Blog Award

A blogger I am very fond of, Jane, over at Theycallmejane's Blog, was kind enough to bestow this award on me a couple of weeks ago. Jane's blog is clever and honest, and I make sure to check in there every day.

Before passing this award on, I am supposed to share 7 random things about myself. I am so bad at this but here goes:

-I always wanted to be an actress. I have a secret hankering for the stage and plan on getting back to community theater when Daughter #2 goes off to college (I know, I've said that one before; I told you I was bad at this).

-In 5th grade I brought a baby picture of me to school and told everyone I had a baby sister. Wishful thinking I guess. I probably also wanted to see how many people I could get to believe me. I confessed the truth only days later.

-I wrote my first complete novel when I was 11 (and no, it's not available at Barnes & Noble).

-I am addicted to the TV shows Lost and Friday Night Lights. Okay, and America's Next Top Model, but that is secret info that is not to be shared beyond this page.

-One of my dreams is to go live in Ireland for at least 6 months one day and work on a novel.

That's it. Only 5, I know. Just deal with it.

 

The 3 bloggers I would like to pass this award on to are:

-Mama Badger over at out of the boondocks and into the burbs... : Been following her blog for a while now. She never fails to make me smile.

-Ocean Girl at Live High: A fairly new discovery. Her world couldn't be more different than mine, and I am intrigued by everything she has to say.

-Heather at Welch Happenings: Also a new discovery. She has a friendly, open style of writing that always leaves me feeling like we've just sat down together for a cup of coffee.

Okay. Now go check out these women, and say hi from me.

 

Death-Defining

For her Freshman Seminar at college, Daughter #1 is taking a class on death and dying. Because she is just that lighthearted, laugh-a-minute type of girl.

As an assignment, students had to interview a person who has dealt with death as part of their work. D #1 took the easy way out and chose me.

She called me late the other night and grilled me for a half hour about my experiences as an RN working with dying patients. I don't know how she felt about it afterward, since she's about as forthcoming as the CIA, but I found the experience enlightening.

One of the questions was did I feel that working with the dying had changed my attitude about death. I didn't really think I could answer that. See, I started working in a nursing home at 16, long before I'd thought much about death at all. I have to say I'd been pretty sheltered from death; I'd never even been to a funeral.

From that, I was thrust into this world where it was commonplace for at least a couple of patients to die each month, often when I was on duty, and frequently requiring me to do post-mortem care, which basically involves washing and wrapping the body before it's transported to the funeral parlor or morgue.

I continued to work with elderly patients through college and my early days as an RN. Then I moved to pediatrics, where I had to readjust my views toward death to include young people, even children and babies. It was difficult but I considered it a privilege to work with these patients and their families. A blessing even.

As hard as it is to conceive of, I came to believe some people can live a life filled with more purpose and meaning in 8 or 18 years than others might in well over 80. I'm not saying it ever got any easier to see kids die. But I did start to see age as only one factor (albeit a significant one) in the big picture of death.

Another question Daughter #1 had was whether I thought doctors and nurses viewed death differently.

"Like night and day," I told her.

Generally speaking, physicians have an adversarial relationship with death, even those working with the terminally ill. And that's probably as it should be. Most of us count on our doctors to help us fight like crazy to avoid death.

Nurses, on the other hand, are more often the ones present when death occurs. And while we rarely welcome it, we learn to accept it as an inevitability. Having seen enough of it, we realize it's not always fearsome. And in some cases, when we know it's coming, it can even be poignant and memorable.

Don't misunderstand me. I realize the gaping difference between dealing with death on a professional versus a personal level. For all the dying I've witnessed, I've still been incredibly sheltered from it in my own life so far.

And when that changes, as it obviously will, I can only hope some tiny bit of the strength and courage I have witnessed in those I've cared for might be found within myself.

Virtual Parenting

My son called me from his cell phone the other day. He was walking on the Lower East Side in Manhattan, shopping for a Halloween costume. He wanted me to find him a certain costume store on-line and tell him how to get there.

So, from my couch in my house on Martha's Vineyard, I directed him to a couple of places within blocks from where he was. Next, I transferred the necessary funds right then and there on-line into his account so he could make the purchase.

I still find all this technology pretty trippy at times. It can bring people together in incredible ways.

I had to laugh a couple of weeks ago when Daughter #1 called from college to tell me she had just downloaded Skype onto her laptop. Skype, for those of you as technologically challenged as I, is pretty much a live video-chat via computer.

Since I have it on my laptop too, Daughter #1 wanted me to video-call her. But wait; not, as one might naturally assume, so she could see her much-longed-for and loving mother, but rather, so I could show her the dog and cats, significant beings she is apparently pining away for.

Then, the night before we went off to Parent's Weekend, she had me do the Skype thing again, this time carrying my laptop upstairs here on the Vineyard to her bedroom, and holding it in front of her closet so she could see and tell me what clothing she wanted me to bring to her at school.

"Show me the scarves behind my door," she ordered impatiently. "Hold that one up. No, not that one. Yeah, that one."

It was arduous work. I think I prefer the telephone.

"Why are you in your pajamas already," she demanded. "It's too early. You need a life."

It was enough to make me want to shut the laptop lid in, or literally on, her face.

Technology is an awesome thing. But I shudder to think what might be next.

Perhaps my kids won't come home for Thanksgiving dinner; we'll just put laptops on the table in the places they should be sitting, and we'll Skype our way through the turkey and cranberry sauce.

Maybe the pumpkin pie will be virtual? Less calories, yes, but I'm not so sure about the taste...

Mischief Night

 
Spin Cycle: Halloween

Do they call the night before Halloween "Mischief Night" where you live?

Back in New Jersey, Mischief Night was big. People left their porch lights on and listened for bands of roving kids in the dark, looking to smash pumpkins and armed with toilet paper, shaving cream, or eggs. Police cars cruised the streets.

Growing up in northern New Jersey, our town actually called it "Cabbage Night." And no, I have no idea why. One theory was that the name stemmed from farming days when kids would trash the fields and throw around the cabbages. But who knows?

My mother took Cabbage Night very seriously. We were not allowed out of the house, and she would sit in the dark at the front windows of our house, guarding it from potential marauders.

My sister and I would be up in our rooms seething, furious that we couldn't hit the streets with at least a roll of toilet paper. But then one year it was rumored boys were roaming around spraying Nair on girls' heads instead of shaving cream, causing them to lose their hair. Cabbage Night participants were urged by the authorities to stay home or, if they must venture out, to at least cover their hair with a hat.

Although we personally never knew anyone this happened to, the mere suggestion of losing our hair was enough to stop our complaining for at least several years.

Mischief Night is pretty nonexistent on the Vineyard. I don't know if this is just the island or all of New England. Any shenanigans out here tend to occur on Halloween night.

Trick or Treating is usually over before 9 pm, but the police stay on alert for possible paint ball incidents or teenagers plotting a dramatic "rumble in the park," both of which have occurred (but were quickly subdued) since I moved here nine Halloweens ago.

What's the protocol in your neck of the woods? Any shaving cream or toilet paper streamers decorating the trees in your past?

For more Halloween Spins, check out the treats over at Sprite's Keeper.

Sibling Sleepover

When we finally pulled into the parking lot of Daughter #1's dorm for Parents Weekend, Daughter #2 had jumped out of the car and was hugging her sister before I could even swing my car door open.

Daughter #1 returned her sister's embrace in her typical cautious manner, but the smile was spread wide across her face.

Who were these girls? They chattered away like two long lost friends all weekend, walking together far ahead of The Ex and me, who were strolling lazily and snapping photos as we made our way across campus Saturday.

Daughter #1 had to report to the Biology Lab to check on her paramecium, and we tagged along to watch our hard-earned collegiate dollars in action. She assigned D #2 the chores of cleaning her slides and putting her supplies away, and I watched in amused wonder as D #2 nodded and set to work.

If we'd been at home and Daughter #1 had bossed her around like this, she'd have told her in no uncertain terms to stick her slides where the sun don't shine.

Later, D #1 called us at the hotel before we picked her up for dinner, and reported that several kids in her dorm had decided to have a sibling sleepover. Daughter #2 was invited to spend the night. She was elated.

But first we had tickets to a show at the college. My daughters sat side by side in the row in front of me, heads bent together, whispering and giggling.

At least that's how it started. But by the time the show ended, D #2 stood up and whirled around complaining, "She's so mean. She said people were staring at me because of the way I laugh."

"It's true." D #1 shrugged. "She's loud and people keep looking at her." To D #1, being noticed is the kiss of death. "Why does she draw attention to herself all the time?"

D #2 turned to her sister, furious. "I hate you," she said. And right then and there in the theater, she hauled off and slugged her in the arm. Hard. Okay, I thought. Now these are the girls I know and love. Well, most of the time.

The Ex, who had far surpassed his usual allotment of Family Time, sighed heavily in my general direction in a way that could only be interpreted as: Do Something. Now. Then he went on ahead to have a cigarette.

"Take it outside," I told my daughters. "There'll be more room for you to really hurt one another."

They glared at me condescendingly and rolled their eyes.

See what I have to put up with all on my own, now that you're gone, Daughter #2's expression clearly said.

I'm so sorry, Daughter #1's return glance concurred. I'd almost forgotten how embarrassing she can be.

Then, united in their daughterly disdain, they scurried ahead of me out of the theater, towards their Sibling Sleepover.

I followed in triumph. If only it could always be this easy...

A Time To Frost

Am I the only one who's always a little relieved here on the east coast when the first hard frost finally hits?

Oh, there's a part of me that's annoyed as well. All that work during spring and summer so we can finally enjoy the minimal efforts required each autumn, with the dahlias and mums, the last frantic blooms of annuals.

And then one night, a few short hours of lowered temps, and it's all gone. Just a gray-brown withered mess. Very sad.

Except that then I know I'm done. Yes, I'll clear the gardens and mulch. Maybe even sink some new bulbs before winter, grumbling all the while. But the weeding, watering, feeding, staking, and deadheading is over for another season.

It happened the week after Columbus Day this year, reasonable for this little frost pocket I happen to live in. Sometimes I make it another few days, but there's only been one year since I moved here that it didn't frost till early November. And of course there was that one frustrating season we didn't even get through September.

In New Jersey my garden often survived well into November, and once, that I can recall, even early December.

But I was younger then, not yet 40. Now I'm old and ready to hunker down for winter. Light a fire and put my PJ's on right after dinner. I'd rather read a book (or blog) in the time I would be gardening.

I know I'll feel differently come March when the first snowdrops and crocuses poke their little heads through.

Then I'll be so glad I took the time to plant all those bulbs.

Child's Play

 

 

I am so enjoying working at the library. Now that I have a permanent job there I get to spend a lot more time at the circulation desk.

And I am here to tell you that stamping out books is just as much fun in real life as it was when I was a kid and my sister and I played "Library."

Realizing this, I got to thinking about other games we played as kids, games where we were attempting to mirror reality.

I remember being forced to play "Bride" once, by the daughter of one of my mother's friends who'd recently acquired her mother's veil. Watching her hog the veil and make out with the cement pole impersonating the bridegroom put me off that game for life.

In the same way, I would quickly tire when my sister enticed me into playing "House." Believe me, I loved being home with my kids when they were little (generally speaking...), but that had pretty much nothing to do with the tedious chores that "House," real or imaginary, is made up of.

Although it was always challenging to see how long we could keep the poor cat, trapped in baby clothing, in the game before she escaped to the basement, dragging her baby bonnet still half tied on.

Oddly enough, my sister and I played "Funeral." Did anyone else out there do this? It started, of course, with the death of a goldfish, and my father's idea to bury said fish in a small cardboard jewelry box behind the garage.

This was followed by the eventual deaths of several turtles, motivating my sister and I to pull on old high heels, gloves, and hats, and traipse out behind the garage with faux tears to say a prayer and bemoan the demise of these so-called pets, who were obviously more dear to us in death than they could ever have been in life.

One of my favorite games was "Rollerskating Restaurant." Our mother was a neat freak, which meant the cement floor of our basement was always clear. On rainy days, my sister and I would strap on our roller skates and take "orders from the imaginary "customers" seated at our old kitchen table, which now lived in our basement.

We'd then roll over to the "kitchen," cook up the order, serve it, and then clear the table for the next customer, all in our metal skates. You remember, the kind that needed a key?

On humid New Jersey summer days, our basement was the coolest room in the house and, to stay even cooler, we'd often play the game in our underwear. Which made it, I guess, a whole different kind of restaurant...

What games mirroring actual life did you play as a kid? And were they more or less fun than the real thing?

College Bound

 

By the time this entry posts, I will be pulling my Expedition onto the boat, on my way to Daughter #1's first college Parent's Weekend.

It's a long ride, so poor Daughter #2 is being ripped out of school on both Friday and Monday, which I know makes me a terrible parent who will no doubt be incurring the wrath of her teachers, very nice people that used to like me when I worked at the high school for three years.

D #1 has big plans for us. Friday and Saturday nights there are theater events and dinner plans with new friends. During the day she's made it clear we are to take her shopping to the nearby factory outlets, and to buy her a bike to use on campus.

Now, the outlets I get. That's the daughter I know. But a bike?

It's not that I don't think it's a terrific idea. I do. But D #1 requesting a bike is a little like Lance Armstrong saying he's passing up this year's Tour de France to take a Quantum Physics class (no offense, Lance).

Last month it was a tattoo. Now it's a bike. I'm a little nauseous, wondering what next month might bring. A change in major? A live-in boyfriend? Surely I jest.

But this is college, right? A time for experimentation and self discovery. Who am I to stand in the way of that?

Here's hoping she hasn't changed so much that I can at least recognize her when I see her. I'll be so relieved, I'll buy her the most bitching bike we can find.

Trick or Treat

Halloween may be the one night of the year I wish I still lived in New Jersey.

It's not that it isn't a big deal on the Vineyard. It is. Shops are open for the little ones to Trick or Treat during the day, and there are Halloween parties everywhere.

Our favorite was always at the Ag Hall where families get to take a hayride in a horse-drawn wagon, down the pitch black road and through the old West Tisbury cemetery. There, police officers and firefighters wait, dressed in spooky costumes, ready to jump out from behind the tombstones and chase the wagon as everyone on board screams in horrified delight.

People who live in Tisbury decorate their homes, eagerly awaiting the throngs of kids who hit "town" at dusk to Trick or Treat. Parents walk around with their kids right on through middle school and often in costume themselves.

I was a little nervous our first year as I watched my kids disappearing with the others into house after house. That's a major no-no where I come from. But here people have haunted houses set up inside, or baskets full of candy waiting for the kids to choose from. Older folks keep buckets of change by the door, reminding the kids to whip out their Unicef boxes.

But all that happens in town. Out where I live, the houses are far apart and well off the road. There aren't any Trick or Treaters. And, although many kids, including all of mine, Trick or treat all the way through high school here, I haven't been a participant for the past two years.

In New Jersey, a bunch of us met with our kids shortly after school and Trick or Treated in our suburban neighborhood. Then we'd head home in the dark, light up the jack-o-lanterns, and enjoy the next phase of the night: answering the door and handing out the candy.

I miss that. Now I sit home and wait to pick up my daughter and her friends, and watch them spread their loot out on the floor to count it. If I'm lucky, she'll toss me a mini Milky Way or Snickers bar.

Is Halloween a big deal where you live? What's your favorite part?

Here's hoping you have your share of Tricks AND Treats!

Spin Cycle: Recipes

Do you have any secret recipes, ones you refuse to share with anyone? Or maybe you share the recipe, but you leave out the fact that you add a certain extra ingredient or double another?

My ex-mother-in-law makes, hands down, the World's Best Potato Salad. Years ago my Ex managed to pry the recipe from her, but it wasn't easy. He had to watch her several times, pen and paper in  hand, because she basically claimed it only existed in her head.

And he now makes the World's 2nd Best Potato Salad. Hands down. But, you know, there's something missing. We remain convinced his mother's batches contain a pinch of something she may never share.

Daughter #2 read in some cookbook years ago that one should always double the amount of vanilla called for in a recipe. While I'd always been generous with the vanilla, I'd never gone that far. But we started doing it and it works, nearly every time.

Speaking of vanilla, I have a French Toast recipe with one secret ingredient. My kids love my French toast, especially if it's made with Portuguese sweet bread, very big on the Vineyard as are all things Portuguese. I have yet to share the complete recipe with anyone.

"That's so stupid, " Daughter #1 tells me not infrequently. "What if you die and we never know how to make it?"

Valid point. I'm this close to telling her. Maybe next time.

But then, alas, I will have no secrets left.

 

Realizing I may have cheated a little by not posting an actual recipe, I suggest you head quickly over to Sprite's Keeper for some legitimate Recipe Spins.

 

"Mommy Blogging"

 

What do you think of the term "Mommy Bloggers?" I don't write about my kids all the time, but I'm sure I do it often enough to be categorized somewhat as a "Mommy Blogger."

Then of course, there are the "Mommy Wars." Because apparently women  really believe there's only one way to raise a child: theirs. I don't know any of these women. The women I know are generally pretty damned supportive of one another whether they work outside the home or not.

How about "Chick-Lit?" I know I've felt guilty more than once the last few years when I read a novel about women that is light and breezy or, God forbid, romantic. And forget about wanting to write one. As though the only reading material on any of our nightstands must surely be Faulkner or Proust.

Why all the divisiveness and negativity when it comes to female labels (like if they can keep us fighting amongst ourselves, maybe they can stop us from taking over the world?)? I've mentioned this before when I blogged about how insulting I find the term "cougar." And don't get me started on what's happened to the word "feminist."

Growing up, I thought the word "feminist" stood for strong women who supported the rights and choices of all women, but now it's become such a dis, nobody wants to admit to being one, even the women I look up to for their so-called feminist ideals.

When I blogged about the term "cougar," some people suggested I embrace the word. But I'm not so sure.

Like the words "Mommy Blogger," there is something derogatory and condescending about so many of these labels. I'm not really on board with helping them become mainstream terminology.

But I think I'll throw caution to the wind and start calling myself a Feminist once more. What do you think?

In my opinion, it's the ultimate F-word.

Madame Librarian

 

Well, my summer library job has just morphed into a permanent year-round position.

I'm pretty relieved. No more scrambling to find yet another odd job to support my writing habit until I become rich and famous and immortalized in the halls of literary fame.

Yet I don't need Daughter #1 to remind me (though no doubt of course she will) that this latest employment opportunity only serves to clinch my place in the annals of future Crazy-Old-Lady status.

Before, I was just going to be that Weird-Woman-Down-the-Street. You know, the one who lives all alone, with all those cats (for the record, I have only 5 cats, but the way some people talk, you'd think there were at least 20)? I mean, it wasn't like I was some eccentric old spinster librarian or something.

Except now I kind of am. Maybe not full time, and minus the Masters in Library Science, but close enough.

Although I'm not sure if one can actually be considered "a spinster" if one was once married. Or if a sexist word like spinster is any longer even considered politically correct.

Probably not, in which case I can be the Eccentric-Old-Lady-Librarian-Divorcee. However "divorcee" sounds rather racy and provocative, and therefore probably doesn't jive with the whole "librarian" personna.

Or does it?

I think it's time to cast aside stereotypes. Or maybe, just start a whole new stereotype. What do you say to a Brilliant, Single, Writer/Librarian who loves all animals and dances on tables when the notion strikes?

I'll let you know, but I think we might be onto something...

Spin Cycle: Photo Essay

The Little Red-haired Girl

Being a red-head, the invisible but much loved Little Red-haired Girl was always my favorite Charlie Brown character.

So you can imagine my delight when Daughter #2 was cast in this very role last year in her school's production of You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown.

The only problem was, Daughter #2 is not a red-head. She knew I wouldn't be too excited about her permanantly dying her hair, so the director suggested red henna.

 

 

D#2 loved her new look so much that we now repeat the rather messy process every few months.

 

 

This then, is how one creates a Little Red-haired Girl of their own.

 

 

 

When I was growing up and people complimented my hair, my mother always said, "Oh, but mine was much redder." I vowed if I had a red-haired child I would never say that.

But when I hear comments on how much D#2's hair is like mine now, I have been known to say, "Oh yes, but my color is actually real."

 

For more photo essays go visit Sprite's Keeper.

Award Time

 

I recently received This Lovely Blog Award from Pumpkin Delight, a blog I've enjoyed for a while now.

Such honors naturally come with rules, and these are as follows:

        -Post this award on your blog, along with a link to the Lovely Blogger that 
           gifted you.
          -Pass it on to 15 other blogs you've recently discovered.
          -Contact these bloggers to let them know they've been chosen.

While I enjoy many blogs, I will follow Pumpkin's lead and pass this along to 5 other bloggers.

        1-Whoa My Horses: I've followed her for a few months now, but I never cease 
           to be intrigued by her life on the ranch.

        2-Picture Imperfect: This is a new photo blog I recently discovered. Her nature 
           shots and commentary are both worth the visit.

        3-Single Mom Survives: Another recent find. I love reading the spirited posts of 
           this gutsy single mom.

I have been following these last two bloggers for a couple of months. I would read anything they wrote.

        4-From the Inside...Out

        5-Theycallmejane's Blog

I suggest you go visit these people now. Their blogs are more than Lovely.