IslandRoar

Mother of the Year

Daughter #2 turned Sweet 16 last week. As part of her present I took her and two of her friends to a concert in Boston.

Now remember, we live on Martha's Vineyard, an island. And it was a school night. The concert tickets were for general seating, meaning we had to be there way before the door opened to get a good place on line.

I picked the girls up early from school to catch the boat and then drove to Boston in just under two hours. They would be late to school by 45 minutes the next day since the boats stop running by 9:30 pm and we were staying the night at a hotel in Falmouth.

On the one hand, this makes the whole thing that much more of an adventure. On the other hand, it's a flipping pain in the ass.

We stood in line outside the House of Blues in Boston for two hours, securing the girls a lovely spot in the area right in front of the stage. Then I wedged my way out of this mosh pit to lean on a railing further back at the edge of the room.

That's right, I leaned against a railing. There was not a chair to be found. Anywhere.

The House of Blues is a very cool space. A big stage with a large dance floor downstairs, surrounded by two upper level balconies on three sides. These were overflowing with shrilly screaming teeny boppers. But no chairs.

Parents wandered about aimlessly. A few tried to sit on the floor or against the wall but were quickly thwarted by bouncers in red shirts. Other parents found their way to one of the bars figuring, I'm assuming, that if they couldn't rest their weary butts, at least they could drown their sorrows.

I had half a mind to rally the bunch of us and organize some sort of coup. I imagined us overpowering the management, demanding they provide some succor for the over-40 set to rest our varicosed legs.

Did they not realize the medical consequences they were imposing on us from standing so long, the effect on our feet, our legs, our compromised aging circulatory systems?

The concert went on for hours. There were five bands. Five. 

Daughter #2 and her friends had been swallowed up by the crowd packed in front of the stage where, between sets, large burly bouncers trickled water into their upturned mouths like they were baby birds being fed worms by their parents. The occasional texts she sent me were the only proof I had that she was still alive.

Leaning against the railing beside me, a young couple made out passionately the entire time. Sure, I could've moved, but that choice spot to lean my aching back against was too rare and valuable a piece of real estate for me to recklessly abandon.

When finally the last band left the stage and the lights came back up, Daughter #2 emerged from the crowd and threw herself at me. "You're the most wonderful mother in the whole world," she exclaimed. "This is the best night of my whole life."

I knew how cranky she'd be by the time I dropped her off at school the next day. How short lived would be my glory.

But my legs were so tired dammit, my ass crying out for a chair. So I decided to go for it, accept the compliment. And, for one brief shining moment, I really was the best mother in the whole wide world.

 

Congratulations to Lisa at -Privilege, the winner of  my give-away and Aidan's book, Life After Yes. Thank you to everyone who left a comment.

 

Warning: New Driver Alert!

Daughter #2 got her learner's permit the other day. That's her in the photo, texting her friends with the good news only moments after it happened. Don't worry, I confiscated the phone before I let her actually start the car.

"Come on," I said as we left the DMV. "Let's go make the road a more dangerous place to be."

I was only half kidding.

First-Born Son had his license only two months before he turned left into our road and ploughed into an oncoming car. No one was hurt but his very old Volvo was totaled.

Of course I was off-island delivering my daughters to summer camp at the time, but my neighbor and friend provided support and guidance while the police filled out their reports, and the moral fortitude and hugs necessary for him to summon the courage to call me. I owe her big time but, seeing as she has four kids younger than mine, I've got a feeling payback will have its day.

Daughter #1 had her permit a mere five days before her accident. I was in the front seat beside her, in the monster Expedition, and we were on our way to one of her choral concerts. She made a left turn (what with the left-hand turns??) and didn't pull the wheel back far enough, then (I believe) proceeded to nick the gas instead of the brake with her foot, heading straight for an SUV in the oncoming lane.

It all happened really fast. I remember clutching the arm-rest and literally shutting my eyes, anticipating the impact. Again nobody hurt, but both SUV's were not drivable, and the driver's and backseat windows of the car she hit were completely shattered. Scary.

Fortunately the poor guy whose night we ruined could not have been nicer. "New driver?" he asked kindly, seeing my daughter's eyes wide with fear and shame.

He had a precious little dog in the back of his car. "She's okay," he said with heartfelt relief. "And that's all that matters."

So.

To say I consider myself a seasoned parent of new drivers may be quite the understatement. But isn't the expression, "What's two is three?"

Please keep your fingers crossed for Daughter #2.

Although my expectations might be realistic, they remain, always, high. And while my fingers are also eternally crossed, and my thoughts raised in prayer, when I am in the car with this latest new driver my eyes will be vigilant, virtually glued to the road.

 

Life After Yes!!

Aidan Donnelley Rowley is one of us. I discovered her blog Ivy League Insecurities late last fall and was immediately drawn in by the artful way she spins her words.

She is a wife, a mother of two little girls, a blogger, and a lawyer who left her job to write. Gutsy? Daring? You bet.

On May 18th, her very first novel, Life After Yes, hit the bookstands. Aidan and her publisher were kind enough to make some copies available pre-publication and I got to read it last week.

Like her blog, it did not disappoint.

Life After Yes is the story of Quinn O'Malley, aka Prudence, a young lawyer who's just gotten engaged to Sage, the guy of her dreams. The setting is Manhattan only months after 911, and Quinn's dad was among the many who died in the Towers that day.

From the moment she gets engaged Quinn starts to question everything about her life and the direction in which it's headed, tumbling, she fears, beyond her control.

The novels characters are sincere, three dimensional. Aidan's use of language weaves a hypnotic spell with passages like this:

And I stare at that ring. Study it. And my mind takes a delirious, poetic detour. If only there were relationship cleaners like there are ring cleaners. If only you could take a good relationship, one that is in fact quite beautiful and robust, but dulled in spots (because of a lost brother or father, or a meddling mother) and just drop it in and wait. And then it would come out glittering and new. Because real life tarnishes even the most stunning gems. If only.

Will Quinn marry Sage or reunite with her old flame Phelps? Will she continue her climb up the corporate legal ladder or walk away? Can she get over losing her dad and find true happiness? Does that even exist?

I loved Quinn, with her many imperfections and her self absorbed angst, and I loved Life After Yes. I was sad when I read the last page because I didn't want it to end. Way to go Aidan! And thank you for the early peek.

I've never done a giveaway here on IslandRoar. But Life After Yes is too good to keep to myself. So leave a comment between now and Monday, and on Monday night I'll do a random drawing. The winner will receive my copy of Life After Yes.

If it isn't you, I highly recommend you order or go buy a copy for yourself. I know I'll definitely be buying another. Daughter #1 is waiting rather impatiently to read it. But I think she's going to have to get in line.

 

"Yes"

"You have to come out and hear the echo," Daughter #2 calls from the front steps. "And you can hear the surf pounding," she goes on. "It's amazing!"

"I'm not getting up," I tell her. "I'm too tired. I just want to relax."

It's nine o'clock at night.

After a long day, I'm finally settled on the couch with my feet up and my laptop in front of me, totally ensconced in Blog Land.

Daughter #2 continues to yell into the dark deserted night, pausing to listen for the echo. "Come on," she entreats. "This is so cool!"

"No," I whine from under my quilt. "Not now." I can't hear any echo and I'm half tempted to accuse her of making it up in order to get me outside.

I'ts so damned easy to get caught up in our day to day stresses. So simple to be bogged down under a hundred different excuses, all of them legitimate.

I'm too tired;
I finally have five minutes to myself;
I just want to be left alone.

But where, exactly, does that leave me? Relaxed and alone?

In less than two and a half years Daughter #2, my third and last child, will go off to college; alone is definitely the operative word here.

I have raised children who appreciate the sound of the ocean. A daughter who laughs at the echo of her own voice in the star-filled night. Isn't this the kind of person I consider myself to be? The kind of mother?

"Okay. Yes, okay." I drag my sorry butt off the couch and out the front door.

"Yell something," Daughter #2 instructs. And I do.

And there, in the distance, I can hear my own words shouting back at me. I smile. And do it again.

Through the trees, the wind carries the sound of the waves crashing against the shore. It's as though they're right next door.

"I've never heard it this loud." Daughter #2's smile lights up her face. "Isn't it cool?"

"Yes." We go back inside. Continue on with our night.

Very cool, indeed.

 

This post was written as part of Momalom's Five for Ten. Click on over to see more blogger's posts on the topic of Yes.
 

Martha's Vineyard: Edgartown

Daughter #2 has just started working weekends at what will be her summer job. It's a clothing store in Edgartown, only a short bus ride away if I'm not around to drive her.

Of the six island towns, Edgartown is the quintessential New England village, brick sidewalks flanked by pristine white houses, many built almost 200 years ago by whaling captains.

It's a sleepy village in the winter with many shops and restaurants closed down, but in summer it's one of the most bustling places on the island and, except for dropping a kid off at work, catching a movie, or giving a houseguest the island tour, I try to avoid it at all costs.

Edgartown's the oldest English settlement on Martha's Vineyard, founded in 1642. The original Jaws was filmed here. Both my grandma and The Ex just happened to be out here that summer and got to watch some scenes being filmed, and a couple of my friends that grew up on the island were extras in the movie, playing kids on the beach when the shark attacked. In the film you can recognize many island sights, like Main Street in Edgartown, the area down by the pier and the Chappy ferry.

Although Chappaquiddick is a beautiful island unto itself, it's technically part of Edgartown. Two small, three-car ferries called the On Time II and III shuttle people back and forth from early morning till late at night. Some 200 people live on Chappy year round. And yes, Chappaquiddick is the site of the infamous Ted Kennedy incident back in the day.

Although Edgartown has plenty of wonderful places to eat, one of my faves is The Newes From America, a cozy pub that's been around forever and has a large number of year-rounders among its clientele.

Daughter #1 worked one summer as a dishwasher at the Edgartown Yacht Club and another at Edgartown Books, which is worth a visit just to check out the uniquely painted staircase. I believe more of Daughter #1's salary went into using her employee discount at the book store than into her bank account that summer, but this year she's working as a nanny so hopefully there will be a little more saving going on.

Daughter #2's not sure yet what her employee discount will be at this new job, but I'm already a little frightened by the gleam of excitement in her eyes when she talks about the clothing for sale.

I have a habit of comparing each Vineyard town to another place of which it reminds me, and I've always called Edgartown the "Connecticut of Martha's Vineyard." This is in no way a dis, because even though Edgartown's a pretty expensive place in the summer, it's breathtakingly beautiful, and if you come to Martha's Vineyard it's definitely worth a visit.

 

Stroll down Main Street to the harbor and check out the picture-perfect view of the lighthouse. And stop in and say hello to Daughter #2 while you're in town. Tell her wise women save more than they spend.

Maybe she'll actually listen to you. 

 

On The Precipice

The 2009 holiday season was the first since my three kids were small that there was no holiday concert for me to attend.

First-Born Son was always in band, and he and Daughter #1 both took chorus all through high school. Daughter #2 wound up dropping chorus this year to accommodate other classes, other interests.

Thus no holiday concert, and no spring concert this month.

This is also the first year I have no one in dance class. Both of my daughters started dance in kindergarten. Daughter #1 went all the way through high school, but Daughter #2 was always on again/off again. And this year she's off.

So, no new dance shoes with their fresh leathery smell. No tap-tapping around the kitchen while the table's being cleared. No year-end dance recital next month.

It's kind of sad.

I felt the same way about basketball when First-Born Son was no longer on the Vineyard high school team. I missed everything about it. The smell of the gym. The squeak of their sneakers on the polished wooden floors as they ran up and down the court. The horn that blares out to end the half.

Of course, there is another side to all this nostalgia.

I don't have to fork out the cash for those very expensive dance or basketball shoes. I don't have to drive kids to and fro to endless practices and classes, go to parent's booster meetings, or write monthly tuition checks to dance schools.

I've enjoyed a good run at this parenting thing being a main focus in my life. But now I'm down to one kid living at home full time, and for only two more years at that.

I try and remember this when I sit shivering through her field hockey games or drive her to weekend play rehearsals.

Things that seemed destined to go on forever were, in fact, fleeting.

It's bittersweet. I need a moment or two to take it all in. Digest. Look back with longing.

Then ahead with anticipation.

 

Peter Pan

When First-Born Son was four, the director of his nursery school accused me of not pushing him enough. I'd always considered her a fairly even-keeled, decent person, which made her attack on me and my son all the more appalling.

To be fair, she was upset because she wanted to move him into a class for kids that turned five before the winter but weren't attending kindergarten. It involved more sitting and work on pre-reading and writing skills, and I definitely did not want my very antsy, active little boy in this class. The whole reason I'd chosen the school had to do with their emphasis on play.

But when I refused to let her move him she went off on me.

"He doesn't even know how to ride a tricycle." This woman was practically yelling at me in the hall outside of her office.

"Yes, he does," I insisted.

"Well, he doesn't do it here."

They had a huge basement with bikes and play equipment for rainy days, and  apparently First-Born Son had not availed himself of the tricycles.

"Maybe because he can do that at home." I tried to be reasonable, always a mistake with irrational people.

"All he does is run around and rile the other kids up, getting them all to play Peter Pan or some other elaborate game," she went on.

Seriously?

This educator of pre-school children was upset because my son chose imaginary play and had the power to get the other kids involved?

I was so surprised that I actually sort of laughed in her face.

He wound up staying in his original class, and had a wonderful teacher and a great year.

But I think of that director from time to time. Especially now that First-Born Son, at 22, is attending film school and directing actors in his own movies, that are based on the stories from his imagination.

I'll have to let her know when he does his own re-make of Peter Pan.

 

Space Monkeys?

Maybe you saw the title of this post and knew immediately what I'm talking about. Maybe I'm the last one to find out about this outrageous game kids are playing all across the country, if not the world.

For those of you who, like me, are not yet in the loop, Space Monkeys is a choking game. And kids as young as 10 or 11 are trying it. It's called "the good kids choking game," because there are no drugs or alcohol involved.

I learned of it recently when a friend of mine told me a story about some middle school kids on the Vineyard she knew who got caught trying it in school.

Space Monkeys? I thought she was joking. Then I googled it. It already has a place in Urban Dictionary and there are numerous videos that illustrate the many different ways to do this on You Tube.

Needless to say I won't link them, but I looked at a few and they're really disturbing. Essentially, kids try a variety of different methods  to temporarily cut off the oxygen, on themselves or their friends.

They briefly lose consciousness. To the nurse in me, some kids look like they're even mildly seizing. Eyes rolling, limbs twitching...a great high, huh?

I mentioned it to Daughter #2 who claimed it was a stupid fad confined to middle school kids, at least out here on Martha's Vineyard.

She knew all about it. I was floored.

Once at a party when I was 15, a tough cigarette-smoking acquaintance of mine tried to get a group of us to hyperventilate into a paper bag while we sat bent over, our heads between our knees. Then we were supposed to stand up quickly, throw our heads back, and achieve some amazing high. That is, if we didn't faint.

I breathed into the paper bag, feeling ridiculous. Then I decided to quit. It didn't look like much fun and besides, I didn't trust that this girl even knew what the hell she was talking about.

The point is, the purpose of this Space Monkeys game isn't new. But the ways of inducing loss of consciousness by choking, whether with or without rope, with or without the help of "friends," appear to be multiplying. Dangerously.

Kids have sustained permanent brain damage. Some have died. WTF?

Space Monkeys. Have you heard of it? Have your kids?

 

The Ring

I told you about my high school boyfriend, the one I made out with in the rectory?

He went to a private all boys Catholic prep school. Everything at this school was just that tiniest bit grander. Including his high school ring, a colossal ornate affair with engraving on every side and a gold cross affixed under the stone.

Of course the ring was barely in his possession for one day before it was passed along to moi.

The wait had been almost more than I could endure. When finally he called to tell me to meet him at Cooper's Pond for the hand-off, I fairly flew out of the house.

Ignoring completely my mother's warning that dinner was to be served in 20 minutes whether I was there or not. And that mine would be thrown in the trash if I was late.

Yes, I was late. And yes, my dinner was in the trash. My mother was nothing if not truthful. But who needed food when they had love and a monstrous new ring, wrapped around and around in pink yarn, wedged upon one's finger to prove it?

Being completely unschooled in the sophisticated ways of romantic jewelry-wear, I wore the ring on my right hand that first morning. Till Donna Cirelli informed me, with the wisdom of Yoda, that all jewelry from one's boyfriend must be worn on a left appendage if at all possible.

For her wisdom and kindness I remain grateful to this day.

I faithfully wore the ring for a year and a half. It was big. And heavy. I had skinny fingers, requiring what seemed like yards and yards of yarn to be wrapped through the ring to make it fit. I know it sounds tacky but yarn was the sizing tool of choice at the time. No doubt there is some much more lovely high-tech solution to this problem today but, in suburban New Jersey in 1978, yarn it was.

Yarn gets hot. And dirty. I was too lazy to change it as often as I should have. Instead I took to shedding the ring at night. Then not wearing it for days at a time.

Until. One day. It was gone.

Gone.

Did it fall in the trash? Could I, or my neurotically neat mother, have thrown it away by accident? Did some jealous mean girl break into my bedroom and steal it while I was at the rectory making out?

Alas, I would never know.

It took me months to confess. Finally I couldn't stand him asking me one more time, with those big puppy dog eyes that drooped endearingly like Rocky Balboa's, why I wasn't wearing it.

I got him a new ring. Exactly like the one I'd lost. It cost about a million dollars, forcing me to come clean to my mother because of course I had to ask her to loan me the money.

When the ring arrived I delivered it. STAT. Without so much as slipping it onto my finger.

For my birthday that year he gave me a gold birthstone ring to replace it. But it didn't really matter; our days were numbered.

I never did find that ring. Part of me still hopes, with some sort of wild abstract longing, that one day I'll magically open a box of old trinkets and there it will be.

Pink yarn aged and worn, but still intact.

 

Spin Cycle: Mother's Day

As a kid I dreaded Mother's Day. My own mother, for reasons unknown to me or anyone else as far as I can gather, did not do well with Mother's Day.

Thus, there was this whole elaborate tap dance performed by me, my sister, and my father, our awkward and generally useless attempt at first coaxing her out of the dark abyss the day seemed always to demand from her, and then when that failed, our doomed efforts to avoid getting in the path when the shit inevitably hit the fan.

Clearly the perfect Mother's Day gift would have been some really bitching mood enhancing drugs. Or maybe just shots of bourbon. But, being merely a kid, I was forced to get her the next best thing: plants.

Our town held a Mother's Day plant sale each year at Cooper's Pond. I would be up and out the door on my bike by 9am which was, for me, no easy feat. These days sleeping in means 8:30 tops, but as a kid, getting up before 10 on a weekend was a freakish and unusual event.

My mother loved flowering plants and, if we managed to get through the exquisite and perplexing torture the better part of the day delivered each year, things would generally return to "normal" by dinner time and the plants were sure to bring a smile.

With a history like this I shouldn't have been surprised when I became a mother and felt my own Mother's Day storm cloud attempting to envelop me each year.

There was no good explanation for my orneriness on this particular day. I chalked it up to being a product of my environment, whether I liked it or not. Who knows, maybe this was some centuries old family curse that none of us talked about but simply endured.

Yet I was determined not to succomb, and even more, not to subject my children to the doom and gloom of the Mother's Days of my youth.

With this in mind, when the kids were young, The Ex always took them out somewhere on Mother's Day, giving me the time to garden, write, or just relax and regroup.

He would deliver them home in time for everyone to take me out to dinner. By then I would be over the hump and the day would end on a high note. The apple doesn't fall far I guess.

These days the Mother's Day curse is no more. I'm not sure when it disappeared, I'm only glad it's gone. I'll make a point though, one day, to warn my daughters. Just in case.

Because really, some family cycles were made to be broken.

 

For what must surely be more upbeat Spins on Mother's Day check out Sprite's Keeper. And a most happy Mother's Day to you and yours.

 

"Those People"

The Ex grew up in  New York state.

Being more of a city girl,  I was unused to the, shall we say, eccentricities of country living when he first brought me to his hometown.

"What's with all the yard-cars and porch-couches?" I asked.

He looked around in bewilderment. "Oh, yeah." Like he'd never noticed before.

Really, I wasn't being a snob; I was just curious. Does an upholstered couch on an exterior porch actually serve a purpose? Wouldn't it get all dank and smelly, too gross to sit on?

And what's with having two or three rusted old cars hanging out in the yard, usually looking as though their wheels haven't felt the road in at least the last decade?

These things are not tolerated in the pristine utopia that is suburban New Jersey. There are meddling neighbors and zoning laws in place specifically to prevent such atrocities.

Then I moved to Martha's Vineyard. An island. Down the end of a long winding road. Definitely the country. You can't see my house from our street, and this is a good thing.

The endless gravel drive is pretty rutted after this icy winter. The house is beautifully painted. On one side. Almost completely.

Because of course this is a job The Ex wanted to do with First-Born Son last summer. You know, the whole father-son-bonding while saving-money-in-the-deal thing?

What? Doesn't everybody's ex-husband paint their house? Seriously, we both own it and the man pays the mortgage; this was not a battle I chose to engage in. All I cared about was that the house would get painted.

But of course First-Born Son worked two jobs all summer. And on his days off there was his all important sleeping schedule. Not to mention The Ex is only available on the occasional weekend to begin with.

So the house remains partially painted. And I've learned to take deep breaths each time I pull up the driveway.

Then there are our old cars. Three of them. For when my college kids are home. At any given time at least one is generally having an issue with brakes or alternators or some such crap. So I'm glad to have a spare.

Except.

We've become Those People, haven't we?

My mother, who has always made a point of living in a palace, was quite upbeat about the house when she visited last summer. "Oh, the color looks so nice, Maureen," she crooned. "Just think how great it'll be when it's all done."

I don't think she'll be that positive this year if it's not finished when she arrives.

Maybe I need to move an old couch out onto the deck. You know, to avert her gaze from the house? Think she'll be fooled?

How about you? Are there miscellaneous pieces of furniture on your front porch, or can your house rock the cover of a magazine?

Come on, be honest. Clearly I'm in no position to judge.

 

 

Nothing to Fear

When I'm at work at the library I carry my cell phone in my pocket, set on vibrate. This way, Daughter #2 can text me when she gets home from school or if plans change. Being able to reach me makes her feel secure.

The other day I wore a skirt to work. I had no pockets so I stuck my cell phone down the front of one of my cowboy boots.

Round about mid-morning I felt it vibrate. I took a quick look and saw it was a missed call from Daughter #1. Now that was odd. She's away at college and knows I'm at work. She always waits to call in the evening.

A minute later she followed up with a text. A text that filled me with, as my mother would say, THE FEAR OF GOD. This is what it said:

Mommy, Imperative that you call me!

Mommy? Okay, my kids still do call me that. But they do not write it in their texts. Ever. Add to that her use of the word imperative, and her calling at this time of day, and I was certain something terrible had occurred.

I excused myself and ran outside to call her.

She picked up right away. "Are you at work?"

"Yes, what's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing really." She paused. "I just need to buy these tickets? To this show? And I was hoping you could transfer the money to my account?"

Seriously? I endured THE FEAR OF GOD for this?

"I'll talk to you later," I told her. And went back to work.

Where had I gone wrong? Go ahead, tell me. I can take it.

I would never have called my mother at work. NEVER. Not unless I was lying in a hospital bed dying, and probably then I wouldn't have been able to call her, so I'll just stick to NEVER.

My sister and I wouldn't even go to the school nurse if we felt sick because we couldn't disturb our mother at work unless we were bleeding to death. As for my father, he may as well not have existed between the hours of 7am and 6pm.

Now, I didn't want my kids to feel that way. But obviously I've gone too far in the other direction.

Were you allowed to call your parents when they were at work? And when you're at work, what are your rules for your kids calling you?

Clearly I need to do some laying down of the law. I may not want to instill them with THE FEAR OF GOD, but I wouldn't mind a little tingle.

 

I'm Back!

"Should you be doing that?" Daughter #2 watches me going through my parents' kitchen cabinets in search of some miscellaneous item. "Shouldn't you ask Grandma?"

She doesn't get it.

My parents had moved away long before she was born. Far away. They came twice a year to stay with us, but a visit to Grandma and Poppy's was very rare.

Thus Daughter #2's formal, best behavior in her grandparents' home. Her sweetest voice. Her feet off the furniture. Asking where things are before opening a cabinet or drawer.

But me? Not so much. I pull open hallway closets looking for towels. Pore through kitchen cabinets and drawers in search of crackers, scissors.

After all, this is my parents' house. And it therefore follows, at least in my brain, that anywhere my parents live is really partly my home too.

My mother doesn't seem to mind. She smiles fondly as I paw through her refrigerator. They both shake their heads indulgently as I snap photo after photo. They even laugh at my jokes.

What is it about being around our families of origin that puts us right back into old roles? I am the youngest. The entertainer. Whether I'm cracking them up or shocking the hell out of them, my job is to keep everybody smiling.

I like this feeling of going home again, even though I've never lived in this particular house of theirs. Haven't, in fact, lived in any house of theirs for over 26 years.

But I can still recognize the same tin measuring cup we've had since I was a kid. Still guess where the Lorna Doones are kept and know there will be a pair of scissors in the kitchen drawer.

I hope my kids feel that way about coming to visit me one day. I want them to traipse in without knocking, open the fridge, put their feet on the couch.

It's not that I begrudge them their own homes, their own independent lives. Of course not.

But it's nice to know, as long as our parents are around and independent, that there's at least one other house besides our own where we feel completely at home.

 

Passing It On

I will still be in sunny Florida when you read this. At least, it better be sunny or I will be one cranky cupcake when I return this weekend.

Several of my blogging buddies have given me marvelous awards the last few weeks. I'd like to beg your indulgence while I take this opportunity to say thank you and give them a shout-out.

I got this Beautiful Blogger award from Peggy at Square Peg in a Round Hole. I found Peggy because she's SuziCate's sister, but I keep coming back for her wonderful stories and her obvious warmth. If you haven't  been over there yet, now's the time.

 

I'm supposed to state 7 things about myself before passing this on to up to 15 bloggers. Clearly you already know pretty much all there is to know about me, but I'll give it a try.

• I discovered I was a writer at 8 and never looked back.
• I have the habit of combining 2 or more beauty products at a time (scent, blush, etc) to make the perfect personal combination.
• When I was young I wanted 8 children. For about 5 minutes.

I would like to pass this award on to Michelle at Musings of a Midlife Mama and Other Stories. She is a very recent discovery and I adore her way with words. You need to add her to your reader. Now.

 

 

The Blogger Buddy Award was given to me by SuziCate of The Water Witch's Daughter. SuziCate writes about many things, all of them with an open mind and a poet's heart. I certainly hope you know her by now!

 

I'm going to pass this award along to Erica at Pines Lake Redhead. She lives in Florida now, but she grew up in my  home state of New Jersey, and she's a fellow ginger. As well as my newly adopted little sister. Go tell her I said hi.

 

 

I got this Happy Blog Award from Poindexter at Diary Of A Technophobe. I am so happy to have found her blog. Her observations and reflections are honest and straightforward. I often find myself leaving her site with an innate sense of peace.

I am supposed to list up to 10 things that make me happy. I'll start with these:

• My cats
• Sunny weather
• Seeing the ocean
• Good conversation
• Friends, real life and virtual

I pass this onto a new friend, also from New England, Corinne of Trains, Tutus and Tea time. Corinne writes about motherhood and life and I soak up every word. Believe me, you need to check her out.

 

 

Peggy also gifted me with this Circle of Friends Award as well as an Honest Scrap Award. I am supposed to name 5 things that make me happy and do one of them every day.

Okay, in no particular order they are:

• Read
• Write
• Talk to more than one of my 3 children
• Eat something chocolate

I would like to pass this Circle of Friends award on to Linda at Bar Mitzvahzilla. She is also more of a recent find, yet I feel like I've known her all my life. Her writing is clever, generous and lots of fun. Go visit and you'll see what I mean.

 

 

I have just one last shout-out, and that's to Geri over at FaboverFifty who recently very generously named IslandRoar one of her fave blogs. Geri's blog celebrates the middle-aged woman, but she's really talking about every woman I know. I stop in frequently for a dose of empowerment.

 

If you're still with me by now, all I can say is thanks, you're the best! I'll be back soon.

 

Spring Break Unplugged

Daughter #2's Spring Break is next week and the two of us are going to visit my parents in Florida.

Where, in their case, the year might just as well still be 1994 when it comes to technological advancement.

I'm serious. There is no DVR, no digital camera. Half the time their answering machine isn't even turned on. No Wi-Fi. No (gulp) internet access of ANY KIND.

And, dare I say it, there is No Computer. That's right. You heard me. No PC, no Mac.

Therefore, after a long and intense inner debate, I have decided to leave my laptop at home. Because really, what would be the point?

You know as well as I do that if I decide to bring it I'll spend hours roaming the streets in my rental car trying to "borrow" someone's Wi-Fi. Or I'll search for a library or Starbucks just to check my email.

Next thing you know I'll stop by Facebook. And let's face it, from there it's one split second click to your blogs. Daughter #2 will get cranky and impatient and make snide remarks. Then demand to use the computer when finally I am through.

It would not be pretty.

So.

The laptop will stay home.

I'm not sure whether to drape it in black as a sign of mourning, or to jump up and down with anticipated delight.

A whole week without a computer? Whatever shall I do? Read? Write? Lie in the sun and freckle? Do a psychosocial study on the daily habits of a certain retired couple who still insist on living in the dark ages?

The possibilities are endless.

Thus I beseech you, please excuse my absence from all your lovely blogs while I'm away. I'll be sure to stop by ASAP upon my return.

Okay? Are we good?

Great. Now I'm feeling really sad. What'll I do without you guys?

Just say a prayer for me that they still have electricity and running water, would you? I'm going to need all the help I can get.

 

Spin Cycle: Words

I was very pregnant with Daughter#2, supposedly on bed rest but bored out of my mind. I decided to sit on the front steps and wait for my neighbor, who was doing me the favor of walking First-Born Son to and from kindergarten along with her six year-old son Trevor.

I watched them turn the corner onto our block, the little boys running ahead. Suddenly First-Born Son turned and ran to the mom, handing her his backpack.

Oh, how cute, I thought. He needs to show Trevor something.

Instead, he ran at him and, as I watched, proceeded to wrap his hands about Trevor's neck to choke him.

It's a miracle I didn't deliver Daughter #2 in the middle of the road, I ran across it so fast.

First-Born Son, 22, remembers this incident like it was yesterday.

"He said something really mean, like he always did. It made me so mad. I handed her my backpack because I knew I needed both hands free to choke him."

Well.

I'd like to say I was surprised. But this wasn't the first time. First-Born Son was never a violent kid. But he couldn't abide cruelty. And Trevor could be remarkably cruel. But only with his words.

His mother's rule for both her children was that they could say whatever they wanted, so long as they kept their hands to themselves.

I heard Trevor and his older sister hurl the most horrible insults at one another. Their mother told bewildered tales of them cursing at her and her husband. Even so, she felt this was an acceptable way to relieve their anger.

Hands off, no one gets hurt, right?

But First-Born Son was getting hurt. I liked this woman however, and even Trevor, so I kept giving it one more try.

Finally one day she called to tell me First-Born Son had again turned on Trevor with his hands.

"Trevor is saying some terrible things." I tried one last time to explain. "He's hoping to get First-Born Son angry enough to strike out."

"But Trevor needs to express his anger," she insisted. "I can't ask him not to do that."

"Well then I can't promise you First-Born Son won't try to choke him," I told her. In the stunned silence that followed I added, "In our house we believe words can hurt just as much as physical blows. Sometimes more."

Being the polite women we were, we remained "friends." The boys played together, more off than on, for years. First-Born Son learned to control his anger and grew out of choking Trevor or anyone else.

But Trevor, unfortunately, didn't outgrow using words as weapons. They can be a lot harder to control, in my opinion, than fists. They bruise, they leave scars no one can see but that still remain years later.

What do you think? Have you ever been so battered by words that you wanted to strike out physically?

To read about other bloggers experiences with words, please visit Sprite's Keeper. Her words are sure to make you smile.

 

Springtime Comes to Martha's Vineyard

It's springtime on the Vineyard. Do you know what that means?

Picture the scene from The Wizard of Oz, right after Dorothy and her pals have reached The Emerald City but before they get an audience with the wizard:

Rub rub here, rub rub there, whether you're tin or brass. That's how we keep you in repair in the merry old land of Oz.

Well, that's what spring is like out here. Everyone everywhere seems to be busily preparing for the approaching summer season.

Town crews cut tree branches, repair roads, and plant flowers. The air buzzes with the sound of saws as new shakes are shingled onto buildings. Hammers ring out repairing damage left behind by wind and winter.

On island roads trailers haul freshly painted boats back to the water, while on sunny weekends tourists can already be seen strolling down the Main Streets of Edgartown and Vineyard Haven.

And of course, our island Dairy Queen reopens.

That may not sound like much to you, but trust me, out here it is a very big deal. DQ closes in October, sitting there lonely and forlorn all winter until its opening day each spring.

Word spreads quickly, and by the after-school rush the line is out the door and down the driveway. Nobody complains though. We're all happy to talk to people we haven't seen all winter, happy to realize that waiting on this DQ line means summer's right around the corner.

Summer, the season of magic and chaos that every islander anticipates and dreads in almost equal measure.

But for now, we're satisfied to savor our soft-serve and enjoy this time when our island paradise is still, however briefly, ours alone.

 

Mother of My Future Grandchildren?

First-Born Son was barely 16 when he had his first "serious" girlfriend. By serious I mean they spent large amounts of time together, it involved gift giving and dating, and it lasted several months.

Friends of mine with younger sons have inquired over the years as to how I handle the GF situation. How is it seeing one's precious boy with another woman at the center of his life? What happens if one doesn't like or approve of the GF?

I would hardly consider myself an expert in this area. To date there have been roughly four or five serious GF's.

I do, however, have one fixed rule governing my attitude toward any girl First-Born Son chooses to bring home. And that is this: I treat each and every one as though she might possibly be the future mother of my grandchildren.

Call it my mantra, if you will.

Now clearly that doesn't mean we talk on the phone or that I share my secret French toast recipe with her. But it does remind me to be on my best behavior.

Because you never know, right?

Enough of you out there have actually married your high school or college sweetheart. We all know it happens. And every single one of us can no doubt remember our first time meeting the future MIL. AND the sincere, warm way she welcomed us into the fold.

Or not.

I have no intention of blowing it. I want to see my grandchildren. A lot. No matter what happens between my future daughter-in-law and my son. I'm no dummy; I know who will be pulling most of the strings when it comes to family interaction down the road.

Let's be honest. It's really easy to find things you don't like: way too much cleavage on a 15 year-old; awkward PDA in an 18 year-old; not enough respect. Too shy. Not shy enough.

But if my son has found things to be crazy about in these young women, certainly I can trust his taste enough to attempt the same?

How have those of you with sons handled, or plan on handling, the girlfriends in your boys' lives? And do you see it differently than you do the boyfriends in your daughters' lives?

 

 

Spin Cycle: Appearance

People judge by appearances. No matter how hard we try not to, we all do it.

Of course it follows then, that we're judged by our own appearance.

There are aspects of this we have some control over. I can carefully decide what to wear to a job interview or a teacher conference, hoping to create a certain impression.

But much of it is clearly open to other people's translation.

I've been accused of being a snob a time or two (secondhand, to be sure) by people who didn't know me but were interpreting the fact that I can be very shy and quiet when I first meet someone.

This bothered me a lot the first time I heard it in college, with the result being I decided I needed to smile more. Not that that's a bad thing, but now I'd be more inclined to think that the snob comment says more about the person making it than it does about me.

People have also been known to parlay my red hair and freckled appearance into the assumption that I am naive and innocent. Of course, that one is entirely true.

In this virtual world we make all kinds of assumptions about our bloggy buds, and very little of this is based on actual appearance. Which is kind of cool.

Many moons ago when I was about eight months pregnant with First-Born Son, I had a run-in with a first-year resident on the night shift. He called from the ER wanting us to do a workup on a baby (spinal tap, blood work, etc) up on the pediatric unit instead of down in the ER where it was supposed to be done.

I was the charge nurse and I had to tell him no way. It was a crazy night and we didn't have the staff to sacrifice a nurse for the hour or more such a workup would take.

I'd never met this guy, but we argued back and forth in a way that typically does not occur. He obviously had not yet accepted the fact that nurses rule the hospital world. But, having policy and protocol behind me, I won this round.

Later, after the workup when the baby was finally admitted to the floor, he came bellowing down the hall.

"Who's Maureen?" he demanded. "I want to see Maureen."

I stood up and held out my hand, smiling sweetly. "Right here."

He fumbled for words, clearly taken aback. If he hadn't have been such a super-idiot on the phone previously I might even have felt sorry for him.

Here he was expecting to see a crazy bitch on wheels, and instead who does he meet but some pregnant Pollyanna in her very adorable maternity top complete with Peter Pan collar. I may have been 26, but I probably looked about 18.

"Ummm, yes." He shook my hand, very wisely deciding to eat his words. "Nice to meet you."

I never had any problem with him again.

To read other Spins on appearance, go visit Sprite's Keeper. You can be pretty sure that with Jen, what you read is what you get. 

 

Where's My Horse??

"Did you ride your horse to work?" One of my favorite wise-ass patrons directed this comment to me a couple weeks ago, glancing at my cowboy boots.

"Of course." I went along with the joke. "Didn't you see it tied up outside?"

I love my cowboy boots. They're the real deal. I've had some boots over the years that came close, but they had a zipper or were otherwise not up to snuff.

Daughter #1 goes to school in western Pennsylvania which, for the purpose of this post, could just as well be Wyoming. Seriously, I've been there. I kid you not.

After we dropped her off at college last August for the very first time, and as The Ex and I were starting the long, emotionally wrought trek back to Massachusetts, we passed by a big sign on the highway that read something like:

Western Wear! The Most Awesomest Boots in the Whole Wide World! Stop and assuage your broken grieving heart!!

Eureka!

"Pull off here. Quick!" I shrieked to The Ex, who was driving. And miraculously, he did just that.

Back in the day, when we were married, if I asked him to pull off the highway suddenly, for anything, he'd say ever so slowly, Oooh, soorrry, you tooold me tooo late, as he drove right on by. It was nice to see he was evolving.

Inside this amazing store was a real-life cowboy. Don't ask me to prove it to you; some things you just know. He had a western drawl and a very cool cowboy hat and a cowboy shirt and a cowboy belt.

I picked out three pairs of boots to try on. But no, he brought me an entirely different pair without even measuring my feet. And, you guessed it, they fit perfectly. Like butter.

Clearly he had cowboy magic. I've never had such comfortable boots in my life.

When we went back down there for Daughter #1's Family Weekend in October we stopped in again. Daughter #2 got a pair of tall red cowboy boots from that same cowboy. To. Die. For.

Daughter #1 claims she's not interested, but we'll see how long that lasts. As for me, I'm thinking she'll be at this college for three more years...

Roughly, that translates into three more pairs of cowboy boots, wouldn't you say?