tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14248974822239185702024-03-18T23:50:55.588-04:00Cafe CaticheSnapshots of family, random musings, and a bit of wit-- written by a coffee-fueled mother and inspired by Kate Chopin's fictional Catiche who kept the fires going and the food hot.Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.comBlogger255125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-15942180695943342732015-04-02T22:01:00.004-04:002015-04-02T22:01:57.470-04:00Shift and ReturnMy daughter left. My daughter left me. My daughter left us. And within the leaving was a whole year of complicated efforts to delay the inevitable, and the terrible grasp of the inevitable, and the preparation for the leaving, and then the leaving itself.<br />
<br />
My last post was made the month my family began talking about the inevitable. Efforts to write creatively since then have resulted in the closing of my personal computer before I could even start, and then leaving it closed all together. There are some things that shouldn't be said at the time of great events. In fact, there are times that events are so great that nothing can be said, or written, about anything.<br />
<br />
And so I have been quiet here as I grieved the effects of my daughter's choosing to attend high school three states away with her father. She is the elephant in my unwritten blogs. Her voice, absent from my home, lives as a ghost skirting the shadows in my thoughts across the day. I have grown fatigued of how this dusk plagues me.<br />
<br />
So it is time to begin again and break into the light with both word and action. It's time for a shift of sorts.<br />
<br />
Last evening, my husband and I discussed the concept of the shift key and the carriage return lever on typewriters-- back for those of us who once clacked away on those. Using a shift key, one would cause to raise an arc of type hammers so that the secondary characters could be punched onto paper-- the cleverly squiggled ampersand, or an exclamation point perhaps. Return physically moved the writer to the next line by rolling the page-- something done after a decision of whether or not to break a word with a hyphen so the remaining syllables would stack neatly against a new margin below. Now of course, a computer does all of that automatically, and somewhat akin to that, I have fallen into the lazy habit of living with grief for events that would have rolled out anyway. <br />
<br />
Having recently come across another writer's nostalgic mention of typewriters, with a similar discussion (and when I find the article again I will link it here), I began to think how shift and return applied to what I must do-- make an active choice to reach for essential elements and continue to a new line. My husband pointed out that shift and enter, hit simultaneously in Word-- on a modern keyboard-- brings one to a new page entirely.<br />
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This comes just in time for my teenage daughter to return home for a warm visit, to remind me that words are waiting to be written, that my motherhood hasn't ended as much as endured a rather astounding shift in it. <br />
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Shift and return together is the best choice here, isn't it? A new page in a book still unfolding.<br />
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Welcome back, Catiche.<br />
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<br />Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-40606133332067582842013-08-01T21:00:00.001-04:002013-08-01T21:05:17.453-04:00Fear of Flying: Isn't There a Pill for This?<br />
I don't travel as well as I appear to. Really. Terrorists. Turbulence. The entire duration of flight, my head is filled with death or near-death scenarios, and while I try to explain practical measures to myself or recite safety statistics, fear wins, like it did Sunday when the nose of the plane I was traveling in suddenly pitched downward 45 degrees and to the right-- when it wasn't supposed to. I was completely unprepared. Tea flew out the little hole in the safety lid of my styrofoam cup so that even though I hadn't actually urinated in my pants, I looked like I did. I found myself clutching the big, meaty arm of the fellow on my left, who had braced himself against the seat in front of him. Laughing, I let go and said, "I think I need to re-examine my relationship with Jesus."<br />
<br />
"Well, I just called on him," said the lady on my right. I think Jesus had a whole line of us to address that night. I kept hoping I was toward the front of it and he was feeling kindly.<br />
<br />
Later toward the end of the flight-- a flight that had started poorly due to a pre-take-off roach who had been trying desperately to hide in my purse only to run away and then return to dance across my feet-- I turned to the guy on the left and patted his arm. <br />
<br />
"It's almost over. Hopefully the landing is better."<br />
"I have never experienced anything like that," he said referring to the turbulence, "Never."<br />
"At least you didn't scream like a girl."<br />
"But I wanted to. I really wanted to scream like a girl."<br />
I turned to the woman on my right; she was doubled over in laughter. "Took your mind off the roach, didn't it?" I said. <br />
<br />
My fear of flying is usually handled with a nice bourbon and coke pre-flight or on the flight, but knowing that the rule <i>one in the air equals two on the ground</i> applies doubly to me, I don't partake of alcohol if I know that I might have to drive myself post-flight. And so this time, I tried soberly and desperately to shove aside my tendency to profile for terrorists and pray for no thunderstorms. Earlier, I had changed seats with a gentleman so he could sit with his wife in the exit row. I turned to him and said, "I expect a superior performance from you in case of emergency." He thought I was kidding. I kind of wasn't. I had already read my emergency pamphlet and was deliberating, in case of crash landing, whether or not I should lay the 40-50 pound door across the bench row seating or toss it out the plane. And then I thought that everyone would be in the way of laying the door across the seats anyway, and why was that an option. And then I wondered if maneuvering the door would be like picking up my son, as he is about 43 pounds and getting a little tough for me to wrangle. I thought I had escaped the exit row dilemma altogether when I noticed that, having traded seats with the other passenger, I had only moved up one row and was still technically in the exit row. The people beside me-- were they fit enough to handle this? Would they like a bourbon to take the edge off too? Isn't it a bad idea to have a bourbon if you are expected to remove a 40-50 pound piece of equipment and potentially fling it out the doorframe so you can save 100 plus passengers? At one point, I turned to the lady on my right and said I should probably get a prescription for anxiety pills just for flights. I know they exist. I used to take them. Damnitol or whatever.<br />
<br />
I sat shaking and shuddering in the airplane that shook and shuddered across air pockets and thermals, and thought that one day my kids would really know how much I loved them to fly two roundtrips in two weeks to spend time with them during their full-summer visit with their dad. The wet pants would have to be proof, pee or no pee. So would the therapy bill incurred from dealing with flight anxiety.<br />
<br />
But I did survive. We had a decent landing. My pants were dry by the time I got off the plane. The next day, a co-worker recommended that I book morning flights, as they are usually smoother. I wondered about trains briefly, but they take at least twice as long as driving and then there was the whole Spain thing.<br />
<br />
I'm doomed. Just doomed. I should get used to the wet pants.<br />
<br />Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-64150233717344541052013-07-20T17:40:00.001-04:002013-07-20T17:40:31.102-04:00The Year of the DogWhen I divorced my children's father, I took the kids, the barest of furnishings, and my dog. I left much behind, including assets. It's the kind of decision most people never understand having to make until they themselves must do it. I was criticized by people close to me for leaving the house, the 401K, the wedding china. I was even asked by the movers if I was sure what I was taking was <i>all</i> I was taking as they loaded up about half the space of a small truck. <i>I was okay</i>, I said. <i>I had my kids and my dog</i>, I said. Friends moved us into my sister's rental home, and we settled in for a new life, my kids and my dog, and we were as okay as we could be, but Buster missed Dakota, as he had spent about a decade with her in our former life.<br />
<br />
I culled through the belongings I had and sold many of them on Craigslist or at a garage sale to help pay bills. I watched shards of that former life go away and pondered both the grief and adventure of it all. I put my daughter in therapy to coach her through shock and change, and braced myself for the rebellion of my youngest, who was too young for therapy. I did not miss the big house nor the man in it. I did not miss the many belongings (except for a pasta bowl set, which I had really liked). And it was ok, because I had my kids... and my dog-- yet he was growing more and more depressed.<br />
<br />
Worried Buster would not survive without his mate, I eventually returned him to my children's father. I had volunteered to take Dakota too and care for them both, but it was an all or nothing choice when he refused to let go of her, a choice I could understand. My dog was so suddenly like the baby brought to the court of King Solomon. You know the story-- the mother, out of love and the desire to preserve life, would rather give her child to another than divide and therefore kill. My dog, whom I had adored for all his quirks--who had an obsession for peeing on my ex's belongings, would sleep perched on the pitch of a dog house roof, wore an extremely comedic expression on his wrinkled face, killed a beaver in our backyard and bore the scars, hated snow, and loved to steal my daughter's rag doll-- was no longer mine. Yet unlike the baby that was eventually restored with his birth mother in that old tale, Buster would never be able to come home with me. And I was fine, I said, because I had my kids and I did the right thing for the dog. It gave me comfort to know he was happy with his mate. But two or three years later, Dakota having grown older and passed, Buster died too, and I grieved as though he had been with me all along. By then I had remarried, was caring for my husband's old husky, and had relocated hundreds of miles away. I had never regretted returning Buster to his former home, but his absence loomed larger than ever. While I would swear to my husband that we weren't getting another dog when our husky would pass (her hair, her random shitting about the house), I found myself shopping online in my spare time. I would visit the adoption center on Saturdays. And this Christmas, I found a litter of puppies up for adoption, told the kids I would think about it, and then a month later, after wringing my hands over the impracticality of bringing home a new dog to train, I learned a puppy in that precious litter was still available, and adopted him. It was a hard decision. It was also the right one.<br />
<br />
Toby is my dog, a dog that lies in resigned hopelessness when I leave for work in the morning. He functions as a therapy dog for my son, company for my daughter after school, and a sentry to my home. He has been easy to train, sweet, forgiving, and devoted. And he has been excellent company on mornings like this one, when my husband is occupied elsewhere, my kids are gone with their dad for the summer, and I am feeling the absence of my husband's husky, Sydni.<br />
<br />
Nearly two weeks ago, we called a mobile veterinarian to help Syd pass from suffering and old age into the great beyond. My husband wrote his ex-wife and his daughters with the news of his decision. In veritable prose, he described Sydni as going to a place where she could again climb fences, chase rabbits, and snatch salmon from wild streams. Like saying goodbye to Buster that first time, I knew then and still know this was the right decision, one that provided relief. But this morning, I thought about her stable, fuzzy presence, the charm of her contented smile when she napped, and her ceaseless giving of her "fur babies," which my kids and I would roll between our fingers when we plucked loose her shedding coat. When I was struggling to adjust to life in a new city in a new family arrangement, I would stroke her and tell her everything I wasn't telling others, and she would silently take it all in, letting me tickle her ears and play with her tail. I can say now though, that I am ok-- that our old husky lived to make sure we would <i>all</i> be okay, and having seen that, and the entry of a new puppy to our home, she was ready to go.<br />
<br />
I am a practical person, one for whom there is always, as a college girlfriend once said to me, a means to my madness. I do nothing without a solid reason for doing so. I make careful, well-deliberated decisions. But I am a fool for dogs.<br />
<br />
I love dogs. Loved them before I was even allowed or able to have one. I love the furry bodies, wagging tails, and insistent noses. I love that dogs have facial expressions with eyebrows that raise, furrow, relax. I love that dogs are so forgiving and so friendly. I love ears that perk and flop and puppy cankles and toe feathers and drippy jowls. Much to be said for dogs. My husband and I are both aware of the power of a dog, especially dogs that survive the end of your previous relationship, sit with you when you are sick, and help you in your tasks (chewing on your socks while you are trying to put them on). We love the heavy sigh the puppy gives when he settles down to sleep, the manner in which he drops his rope toy into our laps for play, or the way he obligingly lets us put his gentle leader on his nose for walks. Oh, much to be said for dogs.<br />
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It has been the year of the dog for us, seeing one die peacefully at home, her fuzzy head cradled by my husband, my hand feeling her side rise and fall for that final breath; and for bringing home one mellow, sprawling puppy who thinks playtime is 3:40 in the morning, and who, as he rests at my feet even now, provides a restful, comforting presence, and one of hope. We are going to be okay. We <i>are</i> okay.<br />
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<br />Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-15191729956116832252013-07-08T21:53:00.000-04:002013-07-08T21:53:11.516-04:00Laundry is a Love LanguageMy manager recently said to me, in a gesture of reassurance, that she
understood I might think my job is thankless. "No," I said suddenly,
"Laundry is thankless." I have a tedious job, one that can be isolating,
and sometimes the recommendations I make are stetted, the editorial
term for disregarding a suggested change, but I never feel unappreciated
or unimportant. I see projects roll from copies of text and art into
final, polished digital displays or printed work. I see the means to an
end, every day. Laundry, however...<br />
<br />
As mothers know,
laundry is ceaseless. Washed and folded today, soiled and crumpled
tomorrow. The young people sheath themselves with sanitized, dried, and
pressed cotton in the morning, and by evening, the clothes are dingy,
crusty, stained, reek of body odor, smack of yard dirt, and need
rewashing, which we do-- again and again. I thought about this and my
manager's conversation with me about the importance of my work as I
packed my children's clothes the other night for summer with their
father. I had grouched at my daughter for folding recklessly and
inconsistently, and I came after her with scolding, instructions on
re-folding, and assistance. When the children went to the porch to look
for July 4th fireworks, I stayed behind, folding, stacking, and
smoothing, suddenly graced with the realization that this is the one
time my laundering is not an act to be taken for granted.<br />
<br />
When
my children unpack their clothes at their father's, they will see my
handiwork in the neat stacks of t-shirts and shorts, undies and jammies.
The clothes I blessed one last time with purposeful, nurturing hands--
hands that cradled Tiny and Chicken Little as newborns, cleaned drains
and changed dressings post-surgeries, sewed Halloween costumes, and
stirred pots of gumbo, polenta, and sauce. They will see how tidy and
tucked into their luggage are all the essentials they themselves might
have forgotten. I will be there in clothes that smell like the detergent
I use and folded in the manner in which they are familiar. The children
won't think about it as keenly as I might, but I can rest in the
assurance that I have provided one last gesture that goes noticed at
their father's house long after my good-bye hugs and kisses have
evaporated from their skin.<br />
<br />
Thankless? Not this time. Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-66772297511833453262013-07-04T09:55:00.000-04:002013-07-04T09:55:57.077-04:00Well-Trained?My son was devastated to have lost another critical Lego piece to our nine-month-old border collie.<br />
"That's what happens when you leave your stuff lying around," I said. Tiny objected.<br />
"But I thought he was well-trained," he cried.<br />
"You're well-trained, and you do crazy stuff all the time."<br />
<br />
We have pondered the curious sight of my son's smurf-blue poop (a certain someone sucked down a blue sharpie, no kidding), his bizarre tendency to flush household items down the toilet as a protest against visiting his father (couldn't he just draw a picture full of angst like other kids?), and his occasional exhibitionist behavior (for no reason whatsoever). In fact, my son isn't at all a far stretch from the aforementioned puppy, whom we have taught to respond appropriately to a myriad of commands, including "Toby, don't lick your wiener." He needed only a little time to figure out the ban on wiener-licking in my presence. My son needed a greater deal of training, however, for his wiener-issue last year, but he now responds well to "Tiny, quit flashing your wiener." Licking and flashing aside, both critters, despite receiving plenty of affection, structure, and nurturing to coach them into being socially acceptable, occasionally indulge in random miscreant behavior. Because it's fun. Because they can. Wieners aside, they share a common bond.<br />
<br />
They are both brilliant thieves. The pup gleefully steals Legos, socks, underwear, Kleenex, and blankies. This year, my son's booty included a Kindle, a watch, miscellaneous Lego guys, and ten dollars. Each time, we stepped up Tiny's training. And just when I thought he was untrainable, the cycle broke, and Tiny restored himself with a sense of respect for other people's things... most of the time. Toby recently skulked into the living room with a stolen peanut butter and jelly sandwich, flashed it before me, and then lay down in complete shame and resignation. Of the two beasts, he is by far the easier one to train.<br />
<br />
Despite the struggle to thwart thievery, Tiny is a leader in the manner in which he returns items (most of the time). We hope his approach inspires his four-legged friend to do the same. Normally, stolen items are returned pretty much in the manner in which they were snatched-- whole, unbroken, unsoiled. Right now, our fuzzy fella gladly returns the Legos he steals, but 24 hours later processed in a pile of poop in the backyard.<br />
<br />
We take our training one day at a time chez Catiche. Wish us luck.<br />
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<br />Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-90476618628709987862013-06-30T12:49:00.000-04:002013-06-30T12:49:42.983-04:00Don't Waste the PrettyIt's what a beautician told me some years ago as she bent over my nails when I was half-crazed with the decision I had just made-- to leave my philandering then-husband and begin anew. Honestly, I didn't know what she meant.<br />
<br />
"Don't waste the pretty?" I asked.<br />
"Don't waste the pretty," she said again and proceeded to describe a man she was in a relationship with, the sex they were having (I believe up against the wall was mentioned), and the frustration with her pending divorce. I was still hung up on pretty. What I didn't really realize was, at 35 years old with two kids, no solid career, and a mountain of worry, that I was pretty. And that pretty could matter at that age and at that time-- to me. To someone else who could take that pretty and make me feel... dynamic. Apparently, I was pretty enough for this girl to see it.<br />
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A simple thing, a tiny gift, a piece of newness long after the years of trailing a wedding train down a church aisle of ribbons and blooms, promises and potential. I had forgotten what pretty was, and pretty isn't something a woman feels when she learns her husband has been banging someone else for two years. Pretty isn't something I thought about after tending babies and being an accessory to my then-husband's career-- helpful, but invisible, and ultimately, unappreciated. He had, at one time, bragged to his co-workers that he had married me for my smarts but that he didn't find me beautiful. It was a back-handed comment, particularly when at home he would insinuate that I wasn't smart enough to succeed in the world of business. I didn't just feel unattractive, I felt incompetent and abandoned. It was a terrible time. Who knew that pretty could be a defining moment?<br />
<br />
But "don't waste the pretty" was the right and unconventional advice I was given at a time when my life was more questions than answers and more fear than foundation.<br />
<br />
And I didn't waste the pretty, but I was choosy about it. My pretty blossomed in the attentions of the man I ended up marrying later, not that all stories should end that way. But "don't waste the pretty" gave me permission to break rules and convention and to be, for a little while, a girl again-- that unfettered girl awaiting a date on a porch trimmed in azaleas and twinkle lights, a girl smiling secretly with the knowledge that someone thought she was the poetic drug of love embodied in flame and flesh. A girl, a pretty girl, who could not just be loved, but be... craved.<br />
<br />
Pretty is empowering.<br />
<br />
A few months ago, I sat in my hairdresser's chair and asked that question that people usually only give the most untruthful answer to: "How are you?" In a conversation that resulted from our mutual discovery that things were for both of us very hard, very bleak, very overwhelming, I was able to turn to her and tell her as she described the end of her relationship and the circumstances surrounding it, the magic words she says she still finds herself repeating: <i>Don't waste the pretty</i>.<br />
<br />
This young woman, a mother herself, is a sort of muse in the modern, alternative sense. At not even 30 years old, she is petite and lean with tattoos emblazoning her shoulders, chest, and the backs of her thighs. Ropes of dark hair trimmed with crimson spiral about a most delicate face. There is usually something artfully torn or fitted and leathery across her body. There are piercings. Somehow, running throughout her <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Suicide_Girls">Suicide Girl</a> image, she is soft-spoken, deliberate, hesitant, sweet, and innocent. I keep waiting for wings to break forth and lift her. I just want to protect this girl. I tell her, as she asks questions about the things she is thinking about, that everything will be ok, that there is time, and that time is the answer. And I tell her again, <i>don't waste the pretty</i>.<br />
<br />
Could a girl who has striven for her indie-punk appeal still be affected by pretty? When I see her, I see so much pretty and fragility. And while I know what century this is and that women aren't supposed to hang expectations for ourselves on armored men astride white horses, that there are those of us who just want, for five seconds, to put everything else aside and be pretty to someone, as she most certainly does. And as I most certainly do.<br />
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Those years ago, in what I refer to as my previous life, I sat in a church praying to God that I not waste away and grow old before my time-- unrecognized, unloved, and unappreciated. I felt my sexuality dissolving under the weight of laundry baskets, dirty dishes, needful children, and neglect. I was second to someone else's high-powered career, with his golf dates, expense accounts, slick sales talk, and business plans. I would later pack up my art studio and shelve those aspirations thinking that my goals were detracting from the family I was trying to hold together. I thought I deserved the hand I was taking-- the hand of someone who would rather indulge in Internet fantasy, office trysts, and dishonest business practices. Pretty was a luxury then. I was just trying to survive.<br />
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I thank the beautician who first brought back pretty to me, and to the young lady who is taking the turn I once took for reminding me again about pretty. To her, I pass the advice on. Don't waste it. Don't waste the pretty.Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-74357823950162690412013-06-28T18:52:00.001-04:002013-06-28T23:26:24.776-04:00Much Ado About Sobriety, or How Not to See Shakespeare<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I should be embarrassed to write this
about myself, but I see from <a href="http://thebloggess.com/">The Bloggess</a> that putting it all out there may bring me an empathetic sisterhood of sorts (not that I discount male readers). If humiliating
myself joins me with the world, so be it. Jenny Lawson, this post is for
you. <a href="http://thebloggess.com/2013/06/im-coming-out/">Because wine</a>. (She knows what I'm talking about.)</span><span style="font-size: small;">
<br />
<br />This week for date night, my husband
and I went to have a quick bite at a restaurant before heading to
the movies. The last calorie of the cheese and crackers I had consumed
two hours prior had long worn off, but due to time, we had to cancel our
appetizer order and plan to eat post-film. Long story short, I saw <i>Much Ado About Nothing</i>-- kind
of, sort of, really under the influence of a single ten-dollar glass of
Malbec that I drank in a rush so as not to waste money or the beverage
itself. Let's say I couldn't quite
pull off this wine-consumption very gracefully. Really, this is all my
mother's fault since she was a child of very lean times and has long told
many stories of going without. "Waste not, want not," she would say. Were it not for her, I would have said, "Damn
you, Malbec," and walked away globe-half-full, and I would be able
to fully tell you about <i>Much Ado</i> with all the conscious, canny,
pithy tell-all know-how of a regular movie-goer and reader of the classics.
<br />
<br />I remember slinking into our seats feeling
a little warm and goofy, then suddenly being engaged by the full impact
of the Malbec, a Malbec designed to take no prisoners. All I could think
was, "Holy God. There is two of everyone in this film." My husband
would nudge me periodically in his suddenly remarkable ability to single out not
just characters, but a plot: "Do you understand what's going on here?
Isn't this great? Isn't this funny? So do you know who that guy is and
what he's doing?" <i>Really</i>, I wanted to say, <i>I'm not incoherent, I'm
just... incoherent</i>. I could hear smatterings of laughter from all
the fully-functioning movie-goers around us, smug little Shakespeare-savant
giggles and remarks. An elite club of enthusiasts. Alas, I was an outsider--
"An ass!" to quote the constable in <i>Much Ado</i> (the one
quotable line I can really recall) because apparently Shakespeare requires some
sobriety, and I was, somewhat accidentally, noncompliant in that regard.
<br />
<br />Between those excited pokes from my
spouse, my internal monologue for most of the film ran like this:
<br /><i>Why is this film full of white people?
Isn't this the 21st century?
Why is everyone in a suit? I really wish my husband's shoulder
was softer because I could totally sleep in here. What do these people do for a living?
Lords and ladies aside, someone has to be working here.Why are these rich people consorting
with the maids? Whose house is that? Nice house. Doesn't
really look like any of those people really live there though... is that
judgy? I am being judgy.
Isn't this a big deal about virginity
that may or may not be intact anyway? Hero could be pulling one over on all of us. And why would anyone sabotage someone else's
love life? What kind of person does that? I should have this matter investigated...
oh look, a constable.These people have too much time on their
hands. Doesn't someone have a job? Besides the constable? Do men really stand around and pontificate
about the virtues of love? No, no they don't. I question Shakespeare's
sexual orientation... return to judginess.
</i><br />
<br />When it ended, my husband was all high
marks and raving commentary, but I was thinking, "There were body doubles
in most of that movie and I didn't see them in the credits"... <i>because
wine</i>. Earlier today, my father called and I mentioned the film. "I'm
sorry I can't tell you much about it," I said. I didn't tell him I
blamed my mother for why though. :)</span><br />
</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-36242028773530663742013-06-25T22:36:00.001-04:002013-06-25T22:36:46.347-04:00At least he's quiet...Bill Cosby once spoke of a dinner out with his wife and very young son. At one point, the child was lying on the floor between tables of diners. Bill and his wife deliberated over whether or not to tell the child to get up, and then suddenly Bill's wife said, "At least he's quiet."<br />
<br />
There is much to be said for quiet. At the office the other day, as I spoke to one of my colleagues, her child, whom I hadn't known was there, darted out from her cube into the open and proceeded to practice karate moves in the common area. My friend heaved a sigh. "At least he's quiet," I said.<br />
<br />
My mom used to say over and over again that children should be seen and not heard. I used to despise that line of old school thought, but much can be said about not having to listen to whining, banging, or any of the other chaotic noises that accompany children. Seeing the squirt bounce about and having to listen to him tearing apart the house are two different concepts.<br />
<br />
I never quote my mother's adage, but my children have still picked up my craving for peace and project it onto their own situations. This morning, our floppy-eared puppy bounded into bed between my son and me. He rolled around for a snuggle and waltzed about the bed squishing us in the process.<br />
<br />
"Ugh!" I cried, shoving the dog off the bed.<br />
"At least he's quiet," said Tiny.Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-6343151809015623422013-06-23T13:00:00.001-04:002013-06-25T22:37:05.230-04:00Conversation, Nudity, and a Mini-Tyrant: The Relative Social Life of the Working MotherOne evening, my children and I visited an orchid specialist, which is
really a blog post in itself, but anyway, the conversation between the
shopkeeper and me went the way it often does when I make a new
acquaintance: food and family.<br />
<br />
"Where's your favorite restaurant?" he asked.<br />
"Depends on what I like to order," I said, and then elaborated.<br />
"So what restaurant do you go to... to be social?"<br />
"Social? I don't have a social life."<br />
"You don't have a social life?"<br />
I
pointed to my children who were sucking on mints, swinging their legs
on a settee in the shop, and toying with orchid blossoms they had been
given. "That's my social life."<br />
<br />
I think it was Barbara
Walters who once said that there exists family, career, and a social
life, but you cannot have all three; you must choose two. I once
resented the truth of this and wondered what I was missing socially, but
as my children have grown older, I have become better at embracing time
with them for the gift it really is. Time is fleeting. We are creating
memories. We still have our frustrations though.<br />
<br />
Last
week, after comical drills about the tennis court, we admired the
lightening bugs flitting about, and then dawdled home hand-in-hand.
Houses slipped into silhouettes against a dimming sky and the air held
the magic of almost-summer... but then the kids' joking and chatter
morphed into crabbing and arguing, an obvious signal for bedtime. I sent
them in to start baths, planning to take a few minutes of solace before
the usual routine of monitoring and tucking in. The youngest suddenly
appeared naked on the front porch to hotly voice a bitter complaint
about his sister. He made no sense whatsoever. I scratched my head a
minute and thought how nice it would be to have a glass of wine at the
restaurant around the corner... with someone who wasn't six years old,
irrational, naked, and non-compliant. <br />
<br />
I often say that
my social life is at the office, and I think for many of us, that's
true. I have a group of good women friends there-- mostly mothers like
myself, some of whom have raised children under extraordinary
circumstances and pressures. The peace and wisdom they give me is
priceless, and I find that work provides a sense of relief rather than
duress because of that. It's been a wonderful cure for the isolation I
felt in a new state four years ago, and besides-- no one has ever shown
up at my cube naked and irrational. :)<br />
<br />Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-69802643365233825002013-06-12T21:51:00.000-04:002013-06-12T21:58:09.222-04:00He might be Tiny, but he's got it going on...It's been a weird week. I sat down tonight with my son, who is often in trouble, the source of trouble, or party to someone else's trouble, and asked him how he handles stress. I just wondered what he would say.<br />
<br />
"Go to Starbucks and have coffee," he said.<br />
"What else?" I asked.<br />
"Go have coffee with people."<br />
"No, seriously."<br />
"Coffee."<br />
<br />
My son isn't seven yet. He seems to have a good handle on things for a kid who is in constant hot water. But instead of the coffee cure, I opted for a small glass of wine.<br />
<br />
"I'd like some wine, cheese, and olives, please," he said, "and then we can sit on the deck together."<br />
"You can't have wine. And I am not up to fixing a cheese plate."<br />
"It's okay," he said. Tiny proceeded to pull out olives, mustard, and crackers, and arrange a rather pleasing looking tapas. "Would you like the recipe?" he asked as he wrote it for me. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure when my first grader turned 40, but there he was admiring his plate, which I decided would be his dinner with the addition of some leftover salad. I made egg sandwiches for my daughter and I, and invited Tiny to join us in the dining room.<br />
<br />
"You go on ahead. I'm good," he said, motioning us away with the back of a hand. Where does he get this stuff?<br />
<br />Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-61034228946285102032013-06-09T22:11:00.001-04:002013-06-09T22:11:33.546-04:00Long time, no toothbrushYes, I know it's been a while. Six months since a last post isn't exactly regular maintenance, but we've had a lot going on here. To give you a better picture of what keeps us occupied, let me tell you about the latest plumbing fiasco.<br />
<br />
Recently, I went to ensure my children had brushed their teeth at bedtime. There was only one toothbrush in the cup, my son's, and it was damp from use.<br />
<br />
"Chicken Little," I addressed my daughter, "Where is your toothbrush?"<br />
"I haven't had one for three days," she said.<br />
"What have you been using to brush your teeth then?"<br />
"I used Tiny's."<br />
"GROSS!" I cried. <br />
<br />
Then I thought a minute and called my son into the room. "Tiny, what did you do with your sister's toothbrush?"<br />
"Well, you know how it is when you are sitting on the toilet, and I like to suck on my toothbrush," he started.<br />
"No, no I don't know how it is. I don't think about sucking on toothbrushes while I use the toilet."<br />
"Well," he continued, "I reached for mine and grabbed the wrong one and sucked on it anyway, and then I accidentally dropped it into the toilet <i>and flushed it</i>." Riiggght.<br />
<br />
Thanks to the plumbing snake, which sees more use than I like to admit, we retrieved the wayward toothbrush and my son went to bed without book time and tucking-in snuggles. And he still owes us a store bought toothbrush to make up for the deed. While I would like to think that this is his last flushing prank, I know otherwise. My toilets have so far seen blocks of soap, a herd of Littlest Pet Shop creatures, three other toothbrushes, and some markers (and these are just the things I know about). Most of these were part of a strange annual flushing ritual.<br />
<br />
One day, there will be an excavation and everything I ever wondered about that went missing will be found in the sewer. I'll ask my son about it, and he'll start with "Well, you know how it is...."<br />
<br />
<br />
Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-6935091965701767722012-12-18T18:30:00.000-05:002012-12-18T18:30:54.722-05:00An Open Letter to Teachers: Thank You<b><i>This week, instead of packing a Christmas gift to send to my children's teachers, I sat down and wrote a letter of gratitude. I wanted all the teachers in our life to be aware of how much they are valued, especially in light of the traumatic shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary. Each teacher received a copy of this today. Here, for a broader thank you to all who serve children, is the letter. I removed the full names of my children and their pictures here, but those were included in the original text. </i></b><br />
<br />
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Dear Teacher,</div>
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Thank you for teaching my child.
Thank you for showing up every day ready for class and for whatever insanity my
child and his or her classmates throw at you. Having been in your shoes, I can
say with certainty that there are likely many days where you have said, after
dealing with some miscreant’s antics, that you could not teach another day. But yet you rose the next morning,
returned to school, and re-committed yourself to educating young people. Thank
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I place my trust in you and the
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a hothead and my daughter was an airhead that, in those moments, they were. We
deal at home accordingly, backing up your every word. I know that when my child
enters the school halls, that you are taking over for me for the next several
hours. You will see my children in their best and weakest moments. You will
strive to raise them up, to give them long term goals, to help them mature into
people with vision. Your work extends far beyond ABCs and scientific theories,
tests and art projects; you are creating a thinking person who will make the
world better than it is now. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Thank you for coming back to
school this week to send the message to my children that their schools are safe,
while the rest of the world fights to make that a more believable truth. I
trembled Monday morning as I put my little son on the bus and cast reminders to
my daughter as she departed. I said to myself that it would all be okay. With
you at our side, fighting to protect our children, working to restore our
faith in humanity, how could it not be? This weekend, I told my son and
daughter that teachers are heroes, that not one of you would ever hesitate to
protect them. I believe that. I was a teacher once too. We are the guardians of
souls and so much more.</div>
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<br /></div>
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It is okay to grieve now, to be
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continue to commit to my children and others in your work despite your grief
and fear is an act of bravery. You will always be a hero to us.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Merry Christmas, dearest Teacher!
You are in my prayers.</div>
Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-68534230993612727432012-12-09T12:35:00.000-05:002012-12-09T12:35:58.518-05:00Troll Patrol<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I just this week told my husband that I feel like I am
living with a troll. I was referencing my twelve-year-old daughter. “You’re not
going to tell her that, are you?” he asked. “Of course not,” I said, feigning
mortification. Truthfully, I have implied this before, however, when telling
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Not only is our Chicken Little heavy footed, but she leaves
a trail of crumbs that betray her efforts to hide her snacking out-of-zone. I
can trace her steps through the kitchen, to the living room, and up the stairs
on any given day. I may come home to find explosions in the microwave and
shredded cheese across the counter, her dishes piled at the side of the sink.
At this point, I nudge our troll into action and watch her scuttle about
vacuuming and wiping the detritus left behind.</div>
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She often acts half-wittedly, such as with her approach to
laundry. Recently, I had a load of whites in the dryer ready to be folded. She removed her wet jeans from the washer and put them in with the dry whites
and ran the dryer again. Of course, this resulted in an unsuccessful attempt to
dry anything. Having found this late at night when she was already in bed, I
had to take care of the matter myself, sort and re-dry items, and when I told
her about it, received her standard, a wide-eyed dreamy “Whaaatttt?”</div>
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<br /></div>
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The other week, I pulled out the laundry she had folded,
which contained a vast amount of items that couldn’t be put away because<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>when I picked them up, they had been crumpled
into random layers, not a corner to corner in sight, not a neat line or crease
anywhere. Meanwhile, her little brother jet-folded into perfect quarters stacks
of washcloths and napkins. I pointed this out to my Chicken Little, at which
she said, “Whaaatttt?” and then with a goofy smile redid the folding. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Yesterday, I had asked for her help sorting placemats and
napkins from potholders and kitchen towels in the large bins I keep in our
dining room on the rolling rack. When I went in to check her progress, she had
done what the trolls among us do—a sort of assemblage of semi-related items in
random ways, with non-matching items tucked between them. Everything had to be
removed from the bins, refolded, regrouped with similar items, and then put
away one more time. It’s exhausting making sure she doesn’t slack on the job.</div>
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<br /></div>
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This morning, she was, at my husband’s suggested tactic,
picking out the rabbit food from his bedding due to her having recklessly
poured so much food in the feeder that it spilt everywhere. Later, she may have
to put away her laundry, which she will likely shove in random drawers,
therefore complicating how she chooses her outfits in the morning, and resulting
in crumply mismatched pairings. Rejected outfits will become piled at the foot
of her bed, which is another matter in itself; for in her bed (IN her bed), she
hordes notebooks, pens, pencils, markers, scissors, novels, and toys. I don’t know
how she sleeps between my forced evacuations of such accumulating odds and
ends. Only a troll would know.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Toilet paper-replacing is another challenge with our pre-teen,
who having not yet mastered the art of hygiene, might skip replacing an empty
cardboard roll and opt for some kind of shake and dodge maneuver instead,
leaving whoever comes after her in a serious lurch. And don’t ask about hand washing.
On more than one occasion, I have bent over to kiss her good night, detected a
foul odor and sent her back to the bathroom for a sound application of hot
water and soap. Despite the shower she took
before church today, I noted rings of grey in the creases of her neck, and was
appalled. Like I said, we live with a troll.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My husband offers advice for troll-coaching. “Find a way not
to be angry when you talk to her about this.” But it is hard not be angry or
frustrated when you have spent days, months, and years repeating yourself. Like
how she chews with her mouth open or talks to me with sour cream pasted across
her upper lip and cheek, and I have to say, for the millionth time, how not to
eat like a troll. Kids wonder what’s wrong with their parents—why can’t they
smile more, why can’t they be fun? Because we live with trolls.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I asked a friend the other day how long this phase lasts—he sighed,
pursed his lips, thought a minute, and then said, “Yeah. Yep. It goes to about
age seventeen.” He clapped me on the back. “Settle in. It’s a long road.” Yes,
it is a long road— with a bridge on it that the troll lives under.</div>
Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-65511915780934236662012-12-06T21:34:00.002-05:002012-12-06T21:34:26.866-05:00Damn the Elf on a Shelf<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Contrary to the true spirit of Christmas, I
hate Elf on a Shelf.</div>
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<br /></div>
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My kids’ father has an Elf on a Shelf, and
so for a time, the kids enjoyed it down there when they would visit during the
holidays. Tiny and Chicken Little wanted me to get one, but I would resist. “No,”
I would say, “Let that be your father’s tradition and we can have other
traditions.” This year though, I lost my common sense and decided we could get
an elf. At Barnes and Noble, my son and I looked at all the boxes of
elves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We opened one and looked it over—the
box had a hole cut in the plastic window so the little fella could breathe. We
reached in and tried to poke it with a finger. The elf looked all skinny and
shocked, with cartoonish dilated pupils and a forced smile, like a miniature
crack addict in a cheap red suit. “Creepy,” said my son. So at another store,
we found similar elves, but these were fuzzy. What a good idea, I thought
foolishly, that way the kids will want to touch and play with it. They chose a
girl elf and my daughter spent the rest of the evening embellishing her with
earrings, a sparkly hair bow, and a tiny tutu for an underskirt. I had to
rescue the thing from her, remind Chicken Little about her habit to glom all
over things and take over, and passed the elf to Tiny for him to cuddle before
bedtime.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But apparently, touching the elf is against
the rules. In fact, the elf has lots of rules, and while the kids stood behind
me at the store laying out who would do what with the elf and when, what they
didn’t tell me until they got home were all the conditions of owning an elf as
those applied to parents. As it turns out, you have to move it every night. The
elf is really a stool pigeon for Santa. The elf is supposed to leave notes. And
there is supposed to be some sort of scavenger hunt. Our third day of owning
the elf resulted in a complete melee before school one morning, where I busted Chicken
Little for fooling with the elf while the one who was actually to blame allowed
his sister to take the heat. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At one
point, I announced to the oldest that Mommy had a full-time job and it didn’t
include time for fooling with an imaginary toy. Yes, shock, horror, and the
corruption of childhood innocence, all on an ordinary Wednesday morning. </div>
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We managed to recover somewhat. Our elf has
left one note. I have been kind enough to see to the elf’s comfort in our house—the
providing of a Kleenex for a nose blowing, the application of chapstick, and
even a refreshing yoga workout (downward-facing-elf). There will be no scavenger hunt, but the elf may make her way to the
top of the Christmas tree on Christmas morning.</div>
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I see some of my friends’ elves have perused
liquor cabinets and hung out in the Barbie car to pick up chicks. I celebrate
that creativity. Largely, however, I am interested in getting rid of this elf.
Is it flammable? Does it have a life expectancy? Does Santa ever recall his
elves back to the factory? Parents have told me that they have purchased one
elf per child to resolve the tensions created by owning one of Santa’s helpers.
I find this to be a sad state of affairs and plan to write Santa immediately
about how this recent tradition of Elf on a Shelf is really dividing households
and causing pain and consternation. In the meantime, what is the elf really
reporting to Santa? “All is well chez Catiche as far as the kids are concerned,
but I think the mother needs to be moved to the naughty list.”</div>
Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-37737022654843555752012-12-02T10:08:00.000-05:002012-12-02T10:08:07.142-05:00ADHD: The Best Boy in the WorldMy son was officially diagnosed with ADHD this year. This comes as no surprise to anyone who really knows him. I find myself in an interesting place, however. There are the parents who tell me they do not advocate use of medication (and for good reasons) and then there are those who, like me, put up a long battle and finally say to the doctor, "My child needs more than what I can do for him." Medication is a tricky deal. Side effects, risks from long-term usage, a journey that requires time and patience to adjust meds. My theory behind the medication is that it clears up his brain fog just enough so we can work on teaching new behaviors (making good choices, speech therapy, and how to organize). While I hope medication is not a long-term need, I do, however, know quite a few people with other disorders who will be on their meds for life. I see his need for meds but worry about it at the same time.<br />
<br />
We did what so many others have done when a child seems recklessly driven by an internal motor like Tiny's: vitamins, changing diet, participation in physical activities such as sports and yoga, running the track before class or in-between classes, meditation and visualization exercises (yes, really), behavior modification, reward and consequences, stimulation gadgets he could fool with to burn off the fidgets and wiggles (he would ultimately break those), and adjusting sleep schedules. While elements of these things have relieved some of Tiny's tendencies to be on a constant search-and-destroy mission, they were no real redirection. One of the things that pushed me to look into medication was the acknowledgment that his behavior, documented in child study meetings, psychological evaluations, and countless emails with teachers, was making him feel like he was a failure, and nothing we were doing to naturally relieve his symptoms would help. One day, I said to my ex-husband as we discussed ways to help Tiny, "Imagine what it must be like to be him." Silence followed as we both digested the fact that our boy had become the stand-out in his school for a history of erratic, destructive, loud, paranoid, angry, and occasionally defiant, behavior. His academic performance was mediocre, but I have always known that within Tiny's body is a sharp, bright mind. How could we help him be who he needed to be?<br />
<br />
Tiny is on a low dose of Adderall XR. He takes a multivitamin, which I have begun to give 30 minutes before his ADHD meds instead of at the same time, and two doses of fish oil a day. He sees two specialists who work with children who have ADHD, anxiety, and other emotional disorders. Something interesting is happening. While he is still the busy boy I would expect a boy to be--climbing, running, playing, building forts out of blocks or boxes and knocking them over with a triumphant hurrah--he is communicating far more clearly and causing less and less conflict at school and home. While he has always been Mommy's Tiny, as I call him, he is increasingly pleasurable to do things with. He takes his time to explain in detail why he needs his space/toys not encroached upon instead of yelling and throwing things. He follows directions quickly. His attention span has increased and he spends an hour if not longer on his legos or his elaborate drawings. He is working better toward long-term goals.<br />
<br />
The hardship lies in sensitivity, which the addition of fish oil to his routine seems to abate lately. There have been many afternoons where he cries easily or is irritated easily by others. There was a meltdown at school one day last week--but it was only the second one in a month of the new treatment, whereas before, I was being emailed or called nearly daily with reports. Tiny is improving. He is also learning how to listen to his body when he needs to relax or change environments. He charts his own behavior on a calendar beside his activity table at home. <br />
<br />
Moments ago, my son came to see me to ask permission to play outside. I told him to change out the t-shirt he was wearing for a long-sleeved shirt and to put socks on. He did as asked and came again to show me he had followed directions. He stood sweetly, his sandy hair framing his precious little face. I pulled him into my lap to tell him what a good boy he was, to say that he was the best boy in the world, and that I believed he was a gift. He tucked his head under my chin and cuddled. Then we talked about how his body was feeling and if he needed help with his occasional headaches (a side-effect). Tiny scooted out the door to play and returned moments later with a calm remark that the neighbor's kids weren't awake to play yet and that he was going upstairs to play legos. And on he went. I can hear him constructing a world and creating a narrative to go along with it--chatting and happy play noises becoming music against the clicking of my keyboard as a write. This scene would have played out in battle only a month or two ago.<br />
<br />
I remember crying to my father a few years ago that Tiny was a special needs child and I was so frustrated with his lack of processing and understanding. He was this wild thing that wouldn't learn safety from painful accidents and for whom punishments meant nothing. He always was, though, what I told him this morning: the best boy in the world. And he always will be. We simply see more of the wondrous capacity he has to live happily than we have before. While medication is of great concern, great blessings have abounded because of it. I don't call it a cure-all, nor have I advocated it to other parents yet. Instead, I operate on a wait-and-see basis. Each child's mind and biology are unique. What I have found though is beautiful support from other parents with special children. For this, I thank each of you--keep the support and the ideas coming.<br />
<br />
<br />Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-87243453815072663632012-11-14T23:19:00.000-05:002012-11-14T23:19:15.392-05:00The More Things Change<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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There is a picture I cannot throw away: the last house I
grew up in, my mother, my then-fiancé and I (the weekend he proposed), and my sister and her then-fiancé, as they stood beside a moving truck with
her belongings tucked inside. I was 22, barefoot and standing on a piece of
shade in the July heat. My left hand was raised to show the engagement ring I
was wearing. My fiancé was standing behind me in his typical way, one hand in
his pocket. He was waving at my father, who took the picture. The house behind
me would drown in Hurricane Katrina 11 years later. The marriages would fail.
The relationship between my sister and I would come to a great divide. Only my mother, who is still
married to the picture-taker, and the concrete street itself remain as steadfastly as before. Even the yard,
trees, and sidewalk would later be claimed by floodwater, then the backhoes would scrape away whatever was the last physical reminder of our home.</div>
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I hold this photo, as proof that I did once live in this
place and I was once closely entangled with the people in it. I remember a life
before more life—children, dogs, multiple moves, travels—and the end of
things—flood, divorce, deaths, endings. History is the embodiment
of bittersweetness. Would I wish to be the girl in the picture again? A girl
near the same age as that of my step-daughters? The girl who was facing
marriage but didn’t really know what she wanted to be when she grew up? No. But this is a good picture, and one that is also
glorious. We were all young there, with so much ahead. I can hear the voices of
each person present, feel the summer pressing down on our skin, and even
retreat into the memory of that cool, blue-brick house for iced tea and a seat
on the embroidered, floral couch after the moving truck pulled away. </div>
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What I miss is what could have been simpler, easier, less
harrowing—but I have learned that no hard change comes without its own reward
anyway, and so I type this from the comfortable colonial home in a historic
town 1000 miles away from the footprint of that picture. My pretty children snooze
upstairs in rooms I decorated to their taste. My second husband irons his own
clothes as he watches a documentary on baseball in the next room and casually offers
reassurances about our holiday plans. Our dog rests behind me, her back pressed
to the legs of my chair. She chases rabbits in her sleep as she dreams, too old
to pursue such things in her waking hours anymore.</div>
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I still talk to everyone involved with that picture, some
more than others, and all for different reasons. I can still close my eyes and
see everything as it once used to be. You know, I once heard this expression—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the more things change, the more they remain
the same</i>. I no longer believe that to be true.</div>
Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-10184970981406236292012-11-07T22:51:00.000-05:002012-11-07T22:58:09.977-05:00Bullying... with Jesus<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am having a little trouble with something, and am trying
to gently express this special request. I hope that what I say here might give
some people pause for consideration of the wording of their messages on
Facebook and blog comments throughout the Web.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Throughout the recent presidential campaign, while I found
people to be publicly kind when expressing thoughts, the Web became a free for
all and many posts were hard to take. Readers were told to wake up, that they
were blind to truth, that they were allowing the media to delude them, and
referred to as ignorant. Would you have said such a thing to your neighbor over
dinner? Would you have told this to your mom or to your boss at work? </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A general assumption was made that people were not following
the news, conducting research, or in any other manner carefully weighing the
voter decision. And finally, of course, God was used as a weapon, as a way to
represent the be-all and end-all. Does this not smack a bit of judgment? Are
some of you aware of how it might feel to be preyed upon by Facebook friends or
blog buddies in this manner? Certainly, I have enough faith in humanity to know
that if those who do this were aware of their impact that they would have
chosen a better way to frame their ideas. I can tell you this morning that one
gentleman told me the attitude of certain people pushed him away from choosing their
candidate. He was reluctant to be part of a group that didn’t seem welcome to
the variety of reasons and ideas that should be considered in the
decision-making process in general. He felt alienated. I understand. Right now,
I feel bullied… by Jesus.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While some posts were blatantly callous, others were
blindsiding. One Facebooker posted a lovely sentiment about looking within our
hearts. When I expressed nicely that I was still on the fence and considering
points of view, I was told that if I read my Bible, I would know what the
answer is, and among other things said, I was fairly well accused of being one
who was ill-informed or misdirected—for still working to come to a sound
decision. In that same chain of
post and responses, another person cited disapproval of a candidate’s religion.
Do you remember that John F. Kennedy was our first and only Catholic president?
His Catholicism was often used as a point of doubt by those who opposed his
candidacy and election, yet today he is cited as one of our most popular and
best presidents. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The religious posts have taken the form of bullying. Many plead
us to pray for the half of the country that “voted wrongfully.” Posts are
constant, and the worst ones I remove from my newsfeed, but that doesn’t stop
the feeling of sympathy for those being hounded by pages full of bitter
Jesus-wielders. To those that keep crying defeat and fear for the future of our
country, find solace in knowing that our history has often held our citizens to
flames of doubt, and we have survived: stock market crashes, World Wars, the
Great Depression, polio scares, and more. Each time, it was not fear that drove us to rise. We rose again because we fought to do so. The only difference between
then and now is that it is easier to quickly expose the masses to every worldly event and our opinions about it.
So put your pack on your back and march on, fair soldier. Have faith. Have
hope.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I researched my
voting decision carefully, not even telling my husband who I voted for until
the election results were coming in. My goal was to be happy with the decision
I made; to combine reason, rationality, and instinct; and to find the blessing
in the ability to vote and watch an election come to a resolution. What I
ultimately wanted was a message sent to whoever earned the title of president: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Many in this country weren’t sure enough of
your principles to endorse you. Please do your best to inspire us and resolve
the crises close to our hearts. </i>When I left the voting booth Tuesday, I was
completely at peace with my decision.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the people who write that those who voted for Obama
should be prayed for—to have some kind of political conversion or eye-opening,
they say—I am sorry to say your message is not being received as goodwill. It
feels like you are passing out hair shirts. I offer this morsel of thought: Perhaps,
God in all his infinite wisdom, desired a close election after all, and called
individuals to vote a certain way for reasons beyond our understanding. Or
perhaps, God in all his infinite power, doesn’t need an election by limited
mortals on one patch of land in the globe to effect change. Do you think it
might be, maybe, a kind of errant supposition on our part, that we are so
great, so noble, so flawless, our spot at the right hand of God so given, that
we should belittle, patronize, or<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>criticize others as we attempt to cling to virtue? Do you think, given
the hand-to-hand battles of daily life, that an unconditionally loving God would
punish you for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">your vote</i>? </div>
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Over recent years, the word “Christian” has morphed from not
just “follower of Christ,” but to become more synonymous with “charitable.”
What I wish is for those who do claim Christian as part of our heritage and
faith, and continue to espouse it in our public posts, to exercise both
meanings of the word, in hopes of inspiring those that remain to follow. </div>
Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-2013884696941961752012-11-03T18:38:00.000-04:002012-11-03T18:38:32.153-04:00The Great Voter DebateThis is the only post I will likely write about politics. I feel about politics the way I do about sports--that is to say, I appreciate it but recognize that aspects of it will always be beyond my interest. The reason why has to do with the political "enthusiasts" or other purveyors of that information. Many are, like I have witnessed certain sports fans to be, rabidly unforgiving of anyone who does not share their team colors. I tend to collect newsy highlights and ask people what they think, then do some additional reading on the matter. When television commentators begin their rants, when editorials run obnoxiously... I get to a point and then shut it all out.<br />
<br />
It's pretty ugly out there. And yes, I understand that one man or another in the White House can allow the cost of gas go up, change a policy that makes it harder for my daughter to receive a student loan, and so on. But I am not about to insult a neighbor while discussing the fact that maybe he voted for someone whose term enabled those changes to take place. Recently, I mentioned to two women that I was interested in other people's points of view and had not yet formed a concrete opinion. I asked them what they thought. The response: "Well, if you cared anything about your body, you would know who to vote for." Do you hear the implication? Meanwhile, circulating the web is a video by David Barton saying that God will hold me accountable if I vote for the man who allows for the abortion of unborn children. You know, I am not worrying about going to hell on this one because I am already there as a voter in crisis. It's the hell I go through every four years.<br />
<br />
I hate debates and don't think the best candidate arises from that battlefield. It allows a candidate to behave like a spoiled child, one who condescends with snide remarks, interruptions, and talking over the other. The fast talker who twists statistics to his liking is the winner. Yes, flailing on opinion is not such a smart move during a political debate, but I know many great thinkers who simply take time to put words together. Sweating under the heat of stage lights, camera, and public opinion, how might you perform? <br />
<br />
Advertising that comes in my mail or rolled up and parked in the railing to my porch is just as bad. One today read VOTER GUIDE and I mistakenly thought it contained an objective list of information about the two candidates for the U.S. Senate. Instead, it was an endorsement for one candidate. I gave it to my son to make a paper airplane out of it. My local councilman, who is running for re-election, was
recently criticized in another flyer that stated he used city money to pave the alley that
happened to be behind his house. I asked myself, if this was the worst
thing that could be said about him, wasn't that almost an endorsement?<br />
<br />
I wish candidates weren't allowed to support criticisms of their running mates and could only post their own successes and visions. I wish they were kind in regard to one another. A local gentleman running for representation with the school board shook my hand and then said something very nice about his opposing candidate, who shares similar experiences and credibility. I was touched by that, and he ultimately earned my vote with that gesture. He was who I thought would best represent my school needs to the public and school board. I won't wince when he rises to speak.<br />
<br />
While I can't guarantee the outcome of the election, I can promise this... a chain of feedback here. I will get at least one or two posts or emails that invariably tell me why I should vote for one person over another. This will prove my point entirely. :)<br />
<br />
Good luck voting. I wish you confidence and comfort in your choice. And I will hope for a brilliant future for us all. At worst case, folks, it's just another four years, and we get to do this again.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-87991368107617366712012-10-31T22:19:00.000-04:002012-10-31T22:19:10.496-04:00If God Be With Us<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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“Answered prayers,” reads an email I received from someone,
who like me, didn’t suffer in the latest round of storms. Lately, my email box and
Facebook pages abound with posts of thanks to God in regard to escaping the
damage of Hurricane Sandy. I read these posts, consider the suffering and
distress in the northeastern states and have to ask this: Do you think the
residents in those locations didn’t pray? Surely, you do not think
God listened to your prayers and not another's to the degree that he swung
his cyclonic force into the path of those others. </div>
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Last night, I considered this with my husband, who read to
me <a href="http://warprayer.org/">Mark Twain’s “The War Prayer,”</a> which was initially censored from publication
and finally printed posthumously in 1923. Mark Twain’s point, illustrated by a
preacher leading his people to pray for victory and a man who rose to the
pulpit to counter that prayer, was that one could be construed as unwittingly
praying for the destruction of others and their property. I turn this over in
my head and remember <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Katrina. There are
stories of a family friend sheltering his daughter from the sight of bodies
being retrieved from Lake Ponchartrain. Didn’t those people—drowning victims,
the residents that suffered loss and damage, the men and women called in to
provide relief—pray? My parents’ own home filled with turbid waters and was
destroyed, yet we all prayed for that not to happen. Did someone's desperate prayers for safety send that storm to us and not the Carolinas? Aren't both sides in a battle praying for victory, saying, "If God be with us..."?</div>
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I appreciate prayers of gratitude, but I do not credit God
for sparing me when there exists the suffering of another. I sometimes
wonder, what the purpose is in prayer and God at all—not doubting the existence
of the divine unnameable force that is the ultimate connection in all things
living and not, but simply doubting why. I weigh what appears to be, depending
on the situation at hand, God’s sense of humor, irony, grace, and karmic energy.
These days, I pray differently than I did years before—before I watched Katrina’s
flooding of my hometown while two blow-hards behind me said that New Orleans
was Soddom and Gomorrah; before I divorced and had to decide which path was the
right hardship to bear; before
my first mother-in-law died of lung cancer within three months of diagnosis. These days I simply pray this when faced with the
potential of blight: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Please Lord, give me
the wisdom to know what to do, and to have the courage to act upon it</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s a funny thing about prayer. It’s an innate reflex,
something I draw upon frequently as a method of reflection and sourcing good
will. Just when I think there is no purpose in it, I find myself humbled in the
cool, grey thoughts of a soul’s private shared space with God. I find myself
asking, but first seeking the right words in hopes I do not errantly pray
selfishly. While I love the wonder that is God and the wisdom one finds in
Biblical books, I wince at the thought that God listens to a chosen few in chosen
moments. Yet I persist. Is that not faith?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A friend at work came to see me today with prayer requests,
something that I find humbling and sweet—and they are the prayers I have an easier
time making known to God—prayers for health, prayers to find the best way to diagnose
a mystery pain. They are the things that don’t throw someone else under the
bus, so to speak. When she came to me with her requests, I mentioned my questions
about prayer. My friend, who just retired from years of serving in the music
ministry of her church, said that what God really wants is for us to talk to Him,
to have that relationship. She said, “He already knows what is in our hearts.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The truth is that I think about God all the time. I wonder all the time and look for His guidance. I look
for questions and answers alike, and ponder the mystery that some say is simply
the most powerful love—love for all mankind, love as though you are
one particle in an infinite solution of teeming life—rolling around and clicking, connecting, and bouncing
off others in non-stop flow. I wondered recently if I should pray to feel that
kind of transformative love for all people, something that would make me
vulnerable. I started to pray for this and stopped. Perhaps, it is not my
job to ask for a gift too big to bear. So instead, as I watch the world spin
around me, with its hurricanes, blizzards, earthquakes, and human struggles, I
will again say what I know to be true so far: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Please
Lord, give me the wisdom to know what to do, and to have the courage to act
upon it</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-2384678247256962922012-10-27T19:41:00.000-04:002012-10-28T09:59:39.158-04:00Mother of a Boy<br />
You ever read those italicized notes at the end of an article that describe
the writer? There will be some brief mention about what that person does for a
living (along with the writing because so few of us can actually live off
that) and a little tidbit about her family life: <em>Judy is the mother of
an active boy. </em>Every time I read "active boy" I wonder why not
just say what it really is: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Judy is the
mother of a boy</i>. It's superfluous to add "active" really. There
is no such thing, therefore no clarifier is needed. Just saying a woman rears a
boy should instantly draw feelings of empathy from the reader.<br />
<br />
When I learn that an expecting mother is having a boy, I reach out to her in
mercy and compassion. "Hold on to your hat," I say. Forget any
nice-looking furniture you have, any freshly painted wall, any nice-smelling
bathroom. Get ready for all the science projects he'll bring home, like the pet
worm my son and his friend tried to sneak in the house last week. Get ready for
the fact that while you are trying to cook dinner, he is flushing three
toothbrushes down your toilet (yes), hosing his sister against her will
outside, or, having found a blue ink pad in your art supplies, he is using it
to stamp geometric patterns on your flagstone path in the yard, your minivan,
and the neighbors’ brick edging that trims the path to their home. And by the
way, it took me days to figure out that it was permanent ink— I had my son
scrub it off with a toothbrush and detergent. I should have made him use one of
the toothbrushes I had snaked out of the toilet from the first incident I
mentioned.<br />
<br />
Yes, to say that one is the mother of a boy is description enough. One day
at church, there was a woman sobbing outside the doors to the building. She was
being comforted by a friend. Concerned, I walked over and asked if they needed
help. “It’s ok,” said one woman as she held an arm around the crying one, “She
is just raising boys.” No kidding. <br />
<br />
We have countless stories about the wild boys among our family and friends.
My grandmother tied her second-born to a tree so she could complete chores in
peace. An Indiana friend of mine once came home to her son swinging on a rope
like Tarzan from the second floor interior balcony of her home. The other
stories I have, especially a host of them about my son’s birth father, aren’t
even fit for print. While some of these boys I knew grew up okay, others didn’t.
My grandmother on her deathbed still obsessively worried about at least one of
her sons. I supposed that happens. The people I worry the most about though are
the mothers. We are exhausted from cleaning up the damage.<br />
<br />
A friend of mine, whose little boy has similar difficulties to my Tiny Man's,
described his recent suspension from school. She asked me how she was supposed
to keep going—how much could she really take. The next day I walked up to her
office and told her Tiny had just been suspended from after-school care. We
laughed. It’s the best we can do. Mothers take all our children’s faults and
eccentricities to heart. We grew these creatures. They came from us. They are
extensions of ourselves. When we see them do things we wouldn’t do (because we were girls), we become
unglued. And we need other mothers to sympathize with us because they
understand. When I tell men what my son does, most of them say something like,
“I did the same stuff.” My husband appears to be an anomaly in this department,
the worst story about him being that he jumped off the top of the refrigerator
once in a while, usually with his Dad waiting to catch him and encouraging it.
At least Tiny is incredibly sweet and affectionate; it’s what has kept him
alive this long. By the way, among the things I did to ground my son for his
having misbehaved enough to be suspended, I put him in time-out in his room
from after school let out until supper time. He could play alone with his own
toys—no friends, no TV, no Wii, no dog, no free-ranging it outside. He made do.
I caught him emptying buckets of water out his bedroom window to amuse himself.
There is no rest for the weary mother of the boy. <br />
<br />
While all mothers deserve medals for the hell their boys put them through, there
are those of us who deserve special awards for raising a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hyperactive</i> boy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a recent
ADHD article I read, the doctor described raising a child with this disorder as
raising a child times five. So, if you are going to call a spade a spade, here
it is. This is what my byline should read: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
author is an editor, a blogger, and an artist. In addition to bringing home the
bacon and trying to maintain snippets of a creative life, she is married to a handsome,
brilliant academic and skydiver who she fears could die any day, leaving her solely
responsible for her son with ADHD and his sister, who is often grossly
disappointed with her brother’s misconduct.<o:p></o:p></i>Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-16531047502620229132012-10-24T08:18:00.001-04:002012-10-24T08:18:41.482-04:00Computer FunkI would blog more, but my home computer is such an issue that I can't do it all that conveniently right now. Pages take forever to load. I keep typing, but the cursor remains in the same place for long periods of time, then a whole line of text appears which requires editing for typos. I go back to do that, the cursor "backs up" the text again. Pages freeze. Things quit working. So pardon me for not having a whole lot going on here for this week or next. <br />
<br />
Yes, I ran a virus scan, updated my protection, and defragged my harddrive. It's still a pain. And no, I am not buying a new computer. This is the most ridiculously expensive year I have had in a while. Eventually, when I have the patience and time, I will sort out matters.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, I'll get back soon. I have hosts of craziness to document....Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-49716518295065314922012-10-06T22:49:00.000-04:002012-12-02T10:22:10.370-05:00The Commonwealth: Casseroles and Culture Virginia. It's beautiful here--virgin forest crawling across much of it, shrouding what once sheltered Native Americans and the first colonists. There are still areas of those early settlements that remain preserved, and others, of course, have expanded into contemporary urban populations prideful of their legacy. The English left their mark in a rather distinguished old-country accent, long Os rounding out the speech of the locals whose families weave back to the first peoples. Careful in speech as they are, they are even more careful with the establishing of relationships; it is hard to break into even common society here, and the presence of some of us as transients remains exactly that. Too, the proximity to the culture of the true northern states has ebbed away some of what could have been a hospitable reputation in one of the most elegant states in the fifty. I love living here, but find it curiously confounding. Southern, yet stand-offish. I simply shrug and say to newcomers, "Virginians!" and they say, "We've noticed."<br />
<br />
This summer, our household survived two people having surgery; first for my son, then me. Where I grew up, my household would have been blanketed in casseroles and other steaming dishes for days. One or two visitors would have delivered a bottle of wine (when not for the patient, highly recommended for those providing care!). Deep and mid-southerners do more than check on us, they do not believe that the patient is fine, and show up anyway. So with my son's surgery, I hit Mommy-exhaustion by Day 3 of recovery, and when irritated by something his out-of-state father did at that time, I said, in a fatigued tirade to him, "And dammit, I need a casserole, and no one has brought one!" The mind-set of the Virginian is that distance is best, and if you need something, you'll ask for it. The trouble with Deep Southerners like myself is that according to our own traditions, we dare not ask. But, I guess you could say I am learning; right before my surgery, my boss asked me what I needed. I looked at her and said, "A casserole." And she sent one--had it delivered by a local catering company--something my Louisiana girlfriends found uproarious. <br />
<br />
While Virginians wish not to intrude upon you unless asked, they think nothing of making oddly direct observations, things my mother would have chastised me for, and often did, in our soft-spoken household. Last year, a parent of a child in my son's class bumped into me at a local eatery. She knew my son, but she and I had never met. So imagine my shock when she introduced herself and said her boy had said Tiny was in frequent trouble at school, and that she had asked him if Tiny was mean, and the boy had said no, that he was actually a nice kid. She told me this, and I thought--if I were permitted in my upbringing to say it to a stranger--"You're shittin' me." I remained speechless for a moment and invented something gracious to say. It's what ladies of the Deep South do instead of saying "You're shittin' me" which we are so clearly thinking.<br />
<br />
In Missississippi, Alabama, Louisiana, Georgia, and Tennessee, if you would see a stream of neighbors coming and going from a gathering near your home, you wouldn't just be invited, you'd be recruited. There is a wonderful scene in <i>Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil</i>, when a Georgia local knocks on the door of the visiting New York writer for ice, and then brings him to a neighboring bash. He isn't used to this. Apparently, Virginians aren't either. And more than once have I watched a parade of adults and children entering a neighbor's home for parties while waving to us on our porch. I have adapted to this now, too, and have begged my children to just stay inside and avoid any tension. I have taught them households have borders and not everyone should be included all the time. In fact, I have grown to even like this a bit. Keeps things small, manageable even, when it's our turn to host an event. There is something to be said for becoming Virginian.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, where I grew up, we took new people under downy wings of conversation and comfort. We want you to be all right. We ply you with Mama's chess pie and Daddy's cocktails. We send boatloads of prepared meals to the ailing. (Note my favorite quote from my first mother-in-law when she was dying of cancer--she pointed to all the fruit baskets her Florida friends had sent. "Have some fruit. We have fruit out the yang.") We are afraid new people are lonely, left-out, excluded. In Virginia, no one wants to bother you. Or they can't be bothered. In the deeper southern regions, it bothers us that you might be lonely. We 'd rather die than overlook the potential of good company anyway. So imagine my surprise at my office when, in my first days there a year and a half ago, no one came to see me at lunch, ask how "the new girl" was doing, and invite me down for company. I felt terrible. Eventually though, I adapted. When I want company, I head to the group table at the cafe on my floor, when I don't, I eat in my cube. These days, I have too much work anyway.<br />
<br />
It is hard to make friends in Virginia. Sure, people are nice here. But having you over is an earned position, not a casually-made offer. A workmate asked me recently if I was going to visit with friends one weekend. "I work and raise children," I said, "I have no close friends in Virginia." He was shocked, "But you are so friendly!" he said. Frankly, I have learned that is probably the cause, as my social tendencies in the very first office I was in here three years ago made me a bit of an outsider. The vibe in that office had been more morgue-cum-library, and I just didn't fit. Being an emotional trainwreck didn't help either, but that story is for another day.<br />
<br />
In Lousiana and Mississippi, we had constant events and company. Extended family was a part of daily life. In Tennessee, I had a social schedule that the Queen of England might find exausting. It was moderate in Indiana, and earned after two years of residence there. I maintained many busy nights of fun dinners in Georgia. Here in Virginia, it is different. I lived here six months before my husband and I were invited to anything (with the exception of drinks with his first boss, who used that time to hit on me in a surprise alone moment, so that shouldn't count). Living here has groomed me to choose even more carefully those I might befriend, people who can understand and tolerate the complexity of our step-family arrangement, heavy travel for the kids' visitation, my husband's two jobs, the kids' activities, and a very nuclear family-centric life in general. Maybe, Virginia has been good for me in that way.<br />
<br />
The other day, the phone rang with a kind and eager request for coffee and chatter from a parent at my daughter's school, an accomplishment of earning trust. "Who was that?" Tiny asked. "A friend," I said, "Mommy has a friend in Virginia. High five me."Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-43490019908516593502012-10-03T08:00:00.000-04:002012-10-03T08:06:05.713-04:00Despicable Cheese FoodThis post is long overdue. Most people who know me well are familiar with my aversion to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_cheese">American Cheese Singles</a>. For the rest of you, I write in the hopes of dissuading you from further American cheese consumption.<br />
<br />
The package reads CHEESE FOOD, not CHEESE, because it isn't really cheese--it's cheese-like (or cheese-ish). Like I said to a lady at work last week, cheese is to cheese food as dog is to dog food. Makes you wonder right there, doesn't it? Would <em>cheese</em> even eat this stuff? My ladyfriend said that her reluctance to eat American cheese is that it is nearly the same consistency as the plastic that wraps it. Therefore, I ask, where does the cheese end and the plastic begin? It's damp, clingy, tears easily, resembles a sort of flexible plaster. It is an unnatural yellow. I find it fascinating that it may not be legally sold as cheese, but as a cheese product.<br />
<br />
People here in the States melt it, fling it on burgers, eat it plain from the plastic wrap. They might, given a little prodding, use it as poster adhesive or a devil-be-damned bandaid. I have bought it for guest children, the kind of kids who only eat chicken nuggets from the frozen foods section, and once the children went home, got rid of this cheese imposter, and flung it into the deep well of the outdoor trash, where it could rest in peace.<br />
<br />
Somehow, this stuff is worse on eggs than on meats--not sure why that is--and I have more than once staunchly returned burgers and breakfast biscuits with the complaint that I absolutely specified no cheese, and yet here it was, an insulting yellow on what was already an artificially and overly-manipulated protein product. Enough is enough, I say. With so many fabulous cheeses out there, why do we persist with this one?<br />
<br />
My kids have inherited my distaste for American cheese, which we have all extended to another amazingly artificial American food product, Cheese Whiz. Can't eat that either, but I have to credit it for its appearance in my favorite line from <em>Loser</em>, a song by Beck: <em>Get crazy with the Cheese Whiz!</em> Apparently Beck also has the 411 on this cheese--as getting crazy with it would be all that you could do.Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-84703728962799560482012-10-01T07:57:00.000-04:002012-10-01T18:00:08.562-04:00Meatal Stenosis and the Recovering WeenieThis summer my son had surgery for meatal stenosis, a narrowing of the urethra that makes urination difficult. The solution was to cut him a longer hole than the one he had. (This is the point in the story that most men, when they ask about what happened to my son, start running away or dancing with their hands over their privates.) Tiny Man was so exhausted with the pain of trying to pee properly that he couldn't wait for surgery. Like the doctors had promised me, I promised him that he would be all better in two to three days. Insert buzzer sound here and ring the BS alarm. <br />
<br />
Recovery from surgery to the meatus is painful. It took much longer than the promised three days, and on top of that, due to a reduction of immunity when under anesthesia, he developed tonsilitis and ear infections. When he wasn't burning up my couch with high fever and scaring the hell out of me, he was crying because he had to pee through his newly cut incision. He missed almost a full week of school, would tire easily, and would get sore just walking around. I saw that his healing instructions from the surgery center said he could return to riding his bike the day after surgery. I took one look at my son and his wounded weenie and forbade him to use the bike or play with his rough-housing neighbor child until I was sure he was better. In the meantime, my son would stand on the front walk, wait for neighbors to walk by, and say, "Hi. I just had surgery on my crotch. Do you want to see?" Between nursing his wound and preventing him from exposing himself to strangers, I was exhausted.<br />
<br />
Two weeks later, my son complained of itching, so at the follow-up I inquired as to the reason for the discomfort. "Those stitches," said his doctor, "likely get uncomfortable. Are you still putting neosporin on them?" No, I explained, because I had been told to only do this for about four days. The doctor clarified, "Apply it twice a day for a month or more. Those stitches can last for up to two months." Seriously? Why are we never told not just the RIGHT information but ALL the information? The stitches lasted most of the summer and my son's energy level was negatively affected for at least three weeks of the start of it. Across July and August, he still occasionally complained of pain when urinating. Now, he seems back to normal and the odd symptoms that led us to the doctor in the first place have stopped: constantly showing others his weiner (hence his dismissal from riding the bus last year), peeing in public, wetting the bed or the floor, complaining of pain, and urinating with a stream strong enough to put out a small fire. Unfortunately, he still is fascinated with wanting to show <em>me </em>his weenie. "Look!" he says proudly, "Want to see how much better it is?"<br />
<br />Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1424897482223918570.post-40611786984294907932012-09-26T23:05:00.001-04:002012-10-01T07:45:43.418-04:00Dining with Children: The Qdoba ExperienceOnce a week, I treat my kids to a meal out with just mommy. Their favorite restaurant is Qdoba, one of those fast-fresh Mexican joints. Ideally, we stand in line and tell a server what to pile on our tortilla bowl as we watch over the counter and scoot sideways to the cash register. While the food there is always decent, and I can feed the three of us for about 20 dollars, it's not convenient to eat there with kids. I am sure that the kind managers of Qdoba would argue with me that it <em>is</em> a kid-friendly place, and they certainly mean<em> </em>it to be. But this whole style of ordering, which is found at other places, such as Subway, Moe's, and Chipotle, is not conducive to peaceful and easy meal-engaging for anyone who totes in line a tyke or two. To clarify exactly why, here is what often takes place when my kids and I visit Qdoba:<br />
<br />
Me: <em>Allright, kids. While we wait, take a look at the menu and decide what you'd like. And no, you may not have Coke.</em><br />
Tiny: <em>Chips and wocamowee!</em><br />
Chicken Little: <em>Ummmmmmmm. Ummmmmmmmm.</em><br />
Tiny: <em>Chips and wocamowee! Mom? Mom. Mom! Chips and wocamowee, please.</em><br />
Me (turning to CL): <em>You need to decide. </em>(turning to server when it's our time to order) <em>I'll have the Mexican gumbo with black beans and salsa please</em>. <br />
CL: <em>Ummmmm. Ummmmmm. I'll have the... ummmm.</em> <br />
<br />
Tiny Man starts walking back and forth behind the line of people being served, running his hand along the tile of the wall that divides the line from the dining room. He then quickly progresses to running back and forth. <br />
<br />
Me: (ignoring daughter who has had ten minutes to make a decision): <em>The little man over here will have the chips and woca...I mean guacamole.</em> (to Tiny) <em>Cut it out. Either stay beside me or go choose a table and wait.</em><br />
CL: <em>I'll have the regular nachos and a bowl of Mexican gumbo and a side of...</em><br />
Me: <em>No. We talked about this before we came in. That's too much food for you. Stick with the kid's nachos.</em><br />
CL: <em>But I am always hungry afterward!</em> <br />
Me: <em>Then just pick one thing and one side.</em><br />
<br />
Tiny has scampered off to find a table and I hear him calling <em>(Mom? Mom. Mom!).</em> Meanwhile, the server is doing her best to be patient. People are piling up behind me. At this point, Tiny may have come back from the table and is asking for a brownie, as there is always a bowl of saran-wrapped ones on the counter. Whoever puts those there should be shot.<br />
<br />
Tiny: <em>Mom? Mom! Can I have a brownie? Mom? Mom!</em> <br />
Me: <em>No. Go sit down.</em> (turning to CL) <em>This year, sweetheart.</em> <br />
<br />
CL: <em>Ok, then I'll have the regular nachos with a side of...</em><br />
Me: <em>Oh, no. What did I just say? That's too much food.</em> (server heaves a sigh)<br />
CL: <em>Ooookkkaay. I'll have the kids' nachos with a side of Mexican gumbo.</em><br />
Me: <em>Tiny? Tiny. Come back here.</em> (watching server pile way too much on the kid nachos as CL asks for every condiment there is.) <em>Wait, no, stop. That's too much food. We have just had this conversation. No. No more. Grown ups shouldn't even eat that much.</em><br />
CL: (to server) <em>I'll have a coke, please.</em><br />
ME: <em>No, no she won't. We are all having unsweet tea. Holy God, that's a huge plate of nachos for kids.</em> <em>Chicken Little!</em><br />
<br />
At this point, there is the gathering of food, paying for everything, getting the empty cups that the kids and I will have to fill ourselves, and then trying to figure out how to get it all to the table. If the restaurant isn't slammed, the very nice and patient server earns a wealth of gratitude prayers from me by offering to help. And then there's the pouring of tea and making sure that my daughter doesn't fill her cup with Sprite on the sly. When I arrive at the table, I have to tell the kids to quit arguing over who has more tea in whose cup while I wander back to get forks, spoons, and napkins.<br />
<br />
By the time I sit down to eat, I am exhausted, my son's face is happily spattered with guac, my daughter is hunched over her food, and I begin the second set of parental badgerings, the ones that appear whether we eat at home or out.<br />
<br />
"Sweetheart, sit up. Thank you. Chew with your mouth closed. Baby doll, look at your mother. Sit up straight. Like this. Honey, bring your food to you, not you to your food. Elbows off the table, Tiny.Wipe your face, Little Man. Elbows. Hey! Elbows! Don't grab your sister's food. No, you may not have his chips-- you have plenty. Oh, no thank you, Bunnykins. Mommy doesn't want to share and get your cold. Focus on your meal. Cut that out. Leave that alone. Chew with your mouth closed. Seriously, sweetheart, at twelve you should know how to chew with your mouth closed, and it's wearing me out to tell you this at least two meals a day every day each year. Holy God. Tiny. Dude. Eat. Cut that out..."<br />
<br />
I know you read this and think to yourself that surely there are ways to prep the kids for this experience... or maybe, as I sometimes do, that birth control is a beautiful thing. We <em>do</em> prepare before going to Qdoba, but sometimes, even that fails to prevent mayheim, especially because my son feeds off activity, and if the place is crowded and loud, he becomes incredibly... all over the place. <br />
<br />
I honestly prefer to pay extra for a true sit-down meal, but I tend to save those for really special days. So, one Sunday not so long ago, the kids and I had brunch at a delightful place where college girls took our order from us at the table and charmed the kids with Shirley Temples, coloring pages, and toys. I sipped a Mimosa and sent the kids to play with paper airplanes between the restaurant's patio and a neighboring garden. I had a perfect view of them from the open windows of the enclosed patio where I sat. When our meal was delivered, complete with more waitresses fawning over the children, the kids sat up and ate with good manners. We told silly stories and relaxed as plates came and went, drinks were adjusted, and so forth. There was one brief episode where my son complained because he wanted his sister's toy. I nipped this quickly in the bud, distracted him with the crafting of a paper plane, and life went smoothly forward.<br />
<br />
The bill? About 48 dollars for three of us. Worth every cent. I strolled away from there as mellow as a mom can be on a Sunday afternoon with two short-stacks in hand. I wish we could do that every week.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Catichehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05813866931373096957noreply@blogger.com0