I was standing in line with my daughter, checking out today. I had given in, possibly foolishly, and bought her a new book. I say foolishly for two reasons, a) I have this book on my kindle, but am disinclined to hand over my ipad after seeing how she treats her own electronics and b) she has a lot of studying to do and I know that book will sing its siren call to her. But, whether it is foolish or not, I bought her the book. She told afterward that a good friend had read the same book recently and an adult was shocked that someone their age would want to read said book, because they couldn't possibly understand it at their age. Katie asked me, knowing I had already read this book, whether or not this was true. I answered as truthfully as I could:
Read this book now, and you'll enjoy it, and you'll get a lot out of it. Read it again in ten years, and you'll get a lot more out of it.
I find this to be true over and over in my own life. Rereading the books of my childhood is a great pleasure, because it's getting to know an old friend all over again, and finding out new and fascinating things they had never revealed to you before. Reading books means bringing in your own life experiences, and the older I get, the more experiences I can bring to the table.
My brother is fond of saying that I was born an old lady, and have learned to embrace childhood as an adult. He's probably right. I was too busy learning Algebra at six to have much time left for making childhood memories. My parents did what they thought was right for me, and they embraced the old lady they'd been given, never realizing the value in the rites of childhood and all the life experiences they bring to the party going on in the brain. But the memories I do have of doing foolish children's activities are some of my best memories ever. Books were my window to the wider world, and inspired some of my best adventures.
After reading Huckleberry Finn, a friend and I once built a raft and floated it down part of the Cahaba River. Wish I'd remembered I couldn't swim before we pushed off from shore. But I lived through it. I started my own Pickwick Portfolio after reading Jo's adventures in Little Women. Encyclopedia Brown taught me that there wasn't a mystery that I couldn't solve with a little ingenuity and some dusting powder. Too bad the powder from my mom's make-up drawer wasn't such a good substitute. I ran away from home once with clothes tied to a stick. Yeah, that was pretty stupid. It might have been related to the dusting powder incident, come to think of it.
Yet, all of those misadventures contributed to the person I am today. So did the less planned adventures: friends who died, my first drinking binge, my first disastrous relationship, moving thirteen times in sixteen years, parties on the lake and smoking in a friend's basement, getting married, falling in love and falling out of love, having children, manning up and fixing my own problems, and a whole lot of sobbing in between.
So, I revisit a favorite childhood book, and all of the baggage, all that messy crap, it comes with me and crawls back into the pages of the story with me. I see more of the characters, and I understand them a little better. Sometimes I think now, "god you're such an idiot, don't be nice, just chop his freaking head off!" Altruistic acts often seem a lot less romantic to me these days, because they seem to come back to bite more than just storybook characters in the butt.
I can't say it's because I'm crawling through the fourth decade of my life that I have these experiences - I learned some pretty difficult lessons pretty early on. And I don't think much of chronological age these days - I can have a great conversation with my teenage daughter, or my septuagenarian friend. Sometimes what we have in common is an experience, and sometimes that's what we admire about one another.
I encourage my kids to read what they can, whenever they can (well, as long as they keep up their school work). Get what they can from the books now, plan to visit again later. But keep their eyes open for the real experiences happening outside the pages of a book as well. It's the miles we put on that really make the stories worthwhile.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Sunday, January 1, 2012
2012: Not as Ominous as it Sounds
So, it's a brand-new year. 2012. Foretold by some as the year the world will end. Not going to worry about that, as the world will end when it ends, and nothing I do will change that in one way or another. Yes, I'm all about saving our planet, but I meant by recycling. Giant catastrophe? All I've got to offer is prayer. So, moving on to celebrate a new year, and not to worry about what might or might not happen. Disaster can strike ANY year. And no one can predict what will happen with any degree of certainty. 2011 was full of enough tragedy, thank you very much, all around the world. It was full of moments of loss, and full of moments of joy. Just the way that life is meant to be. Without the one, we can't appreciate the true beauty of the other.
2011, when I lost old friends and said goodbye to some people I loved. The year I reminded myself that sometimes doing the right thing means hurting someone you care about, and then forced myself to do it anyway. The year I started to realize how painful the letting go part of parenting can be - and how badly I suck at that part. The year I reminded myself that I'm not as smart as I think I am, about 99.9% of the time.
It was also the year I realized how right my grandmother was - the older you get, the faster time flies by. When I was younger, I wished time to fly. I wished away hours, days and months. Now I just wish for them to stretch out a little longer, to enjoy just a few more hours every day of having children at home, a job that I generally enjoy, a memory that hasn't failed completely yet, nor eyesight that plays tricks on me.
Time. As the New Year begins, I know some of what lies ahead. Katie will leave St. Francis, where she has spent her entire life, and move on to high school. No longer riding in with me every day, but more independent and growing up, just as is intended. Elizabeth will move into Middle School life - sports, dances, parties and social heartbreak. My work has changed, and I stand on the precipice of creating something new - it's exciting and scary all at the same time. I've spent three years laying the groundwork, and I'm about to watch it all start to unfold. Success or failure - it will all fall on me. Scares the crap out of me sometimes. Time will fly by faster and faster.
I'll watch another 8th grade class graduate, and this year when I cry, it will be all the more for my own child and for the first class I taught full-time. Sixteen of those 84 kids started in my preschool classroom. Sometimes I want to smack some of them, because I've known them their entire lives and they're acting like idiots. Most of the time, I'm so incredibly proud of the people they have become.
As one group exits, I'll watch another group start school for the first time. New faces to learn, new smiles to know and same old problems every year, that all kids have in common. I will apply bandaids, break up fights, chase down crying girls in bathrooms, and at some point will threaten to glue at least one little boy to a chair if he doesn't sit down and leave his neighbor alone. The familiar comfort of knowing that children are the same no matter what else happens and changes in this fast-paced world.
It will be conflicting as I watch my children grow older and wiser, and my parents grow another year older and well...just older and smaller.
What does a year hold? Oh, about 220 days of work. About 330 dinners cooked. 50 dance classes. 100 runs to gymnastics class. Soccer games, volleyball matches, dance recitals, plays, choir performances, parties, sleepovers, and last minute study sessions. Weekly bouts of tears, from both the kids and from me.
I will hire new part-time employees, and watch others move on to better options. It'll irritate me for a moment, because I'm left in the lurch, and then I'm satisfied knowing I helped a young teacher find a promising position or a new graduate find their place in a bigger world. I don't just nurture the students, but also my part-time instructors. It's nice to know I've helped some of them find the right path. I've probably helped a few of them onto the wrong path as well, but they're nice enough not to come back and point that out.
I will clean my house too many times to count, but it'll never be often (or thorough) enough. C'est la vie. I will put 10,000 miles on my car. I will drink over 10,000 ounces of diet coke, and I will say that I should break this addiction, but probably won't. And I'm not too worried about it. I will see at least 20 movies, and will have at least 30 more I never made the time to see. I will TeeVo hours of television I never make time to watch.
I don't make resolutions - the above are just observations based on past history. What I will promise to myself is that I will try harder, laugh more, and really, really, really try to hold my criticism when talking to my irrational adolescent children. I will love with complete abandon, because those I love can be gone from my life for myriad reasons, with no warning. 2011 showed me that. I will try to praise those around me more - the hardest thing of all. I don't like being praised, so it's hard for me to remember that other people DO like it. And I will learn at least three new things this year. They don't have to be big things, just three new things. Because the day I stop learning, is the day I stop living.
Time will continue to march on - what I make of it is my responsibility. Joy or disaster, it's up to me to make the most of what I get.
Happy New Year.
2011, when I lost old friends and said goodbye to some people I loved. The year I reminded myself that sometimes doing the right thing means hurting someone you care about, and then forced myself to do it anyway. The year I started to realize how painful the letting go part of parenting can be - and how badly I suck at that part. The year I reminded myself that I'm not as smart as I think I am, about 99.9% of the time.
It was also the year I realized how right my grandmother was - the older you get, the faster time flies by. When I was younger, I wished time to fly. I wished away hours, days and months. Now I just wish for them to stretch out a little longer, to enjoy just a few more hours every day of having children at home, a job that I generally enjoy, a memory that hasn't failed completely yet, nor eyesight that plays tricks on me.
Time. As the New Year begins, I know some of what lies ahead. Katie will leave St. Francis, where she has spent her entire life, and move on to high school. No longer riding in with me every day, but more independent and growing up, just as is intended. Elizabeth will move into Middle School life - sports, dances, parties and social heartbreak. My work has changed, and I stand on the precipice of creating something new - it's exciting and scary all at the same time. I've spent three years laying the groundwork, and I'm about to watch it all start to unfold. Success or failure - it will all fall on me. Scares the crap out of me sometimes. Time will fly by faster and faster.
I'll watch another 8th grade class graduate, and this year when I cry, it will be all the more for my own child and for the first class I taught full-time. Sixteen of those 84 kids started in my preschool classroom. Sometimes I want to smack some of them, because I've known them their entire lives and they're acting like idiots. Most of the time, I'm so incredibly proud of the people they have become.
As one group exits, I'll watch another group start school for the first time. New faces to learn, new smiles to know and same old problems every year, that all kids have in common. I will apply bandaids, break up fights, chase down crying girls in bathrooms, and at some point will threaten to glue at least one little boy to a chair if he doesn't sit down and leave his neighbor alone. The familiar comfort of knowing that children are the same no matter what else happens and changes in this fast-paced world.
It will be conflicting as I watch my children grow older and wiser, and my parents grow another year older and well...just older and smaller.
What does a year hold? Oh, about 220 days of work. About 330 dinners cooked. 50 dance classes. 100 runs to gymnastics class. Soccer games, volleyball matches, dance recitals, plays, choir performances, parties, sleepovers, and last minute study sessions. Weekly bouts of tears, from both the kids and from me.
I will hire new part-time employees, and watch others move on to better options. It'll irritate me for a moment, because I'm left in the lurch, and then I'm satisfied knowing I helped a young teacher find a promising position or a new graduate find their place in a bigger world. I don't just nurture the students, but also my part-time instructors. It's nice to know I've helped some of them find the right path. I've probably helped a few of them onto the wrong path as well, but they're nice enough not to come back and point that out.
I will clean my house too many times to count, but it'll never be often (or thorough) enough. C'est la vie. I will put 10,000 miles on my car. I will drink over 10,000 ounces of diet coke, and I will say that I should break this addiction, but probably won't. And I'm not too worried about it. I will see at least 20 movies, and will have at least 30 more I never made the time to see. I will TeeVo hours of television I never make time to watch.
I don't make resolutions - the above are just observations based on past history. What I will promise to myself is that I will try harder, laugh more, and really, really, really try to hold my criticism when talking to my irrational adolescent children. I will love with complete abandon, because those I love can be gone from my life for myriad reasons, with no warning. 2011 showed me that. I will try to praise those around me more - the hardest thing of all. I don't like being praised, so it's hard for me to remember that other people DO like it. And I will learn at least three new things this year. They don't have to be big things, just three new things. Because the day I stop learning, is the day I stop living.
Time will continue to march on - what I make of it is my responsibility. Joy or disaster, it's up to me to make the most of what I get.
Happy New Year.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Small Town
I grew up moving a lot, and many of those years were spent in small towns. But I was born in Washington D.C., and I've lived the last twenty years in Houston. Sometimes I forget what small town is like. I reminded myself today.
It started two days ago when Katie came into my room asking - with absolutely no expectation I would say yes - if I would drive her to Cleburne, TX for a theatre workshop being taught by someone from Glee. With the world reduced to everyone being virtual neighbors, I find she is chatting with people all over the world through Twitter and other social networks. It's both frightening and fascinating to me. I spend so much time telling my kids "no" that it felt good to say, "why not." I'm on vacation, and I used to do spur of the moment things all the time. Being a mom who works, I rarely get to have unplanned fun.
So, we hit the road yesterday afternoon, just the three of us. Elizabeth had her copy of The Hunger Games and her itouch - we barely heard from her all four hours of the ride. I had forgotten how nice it can be to drive through the hill country when you're not in a hurry. Night fell as we rolled down a small state highway, and each town had a central square with a big Christmas tree still lit.
We got to Cleburne late last night, and spent the night in a Comfort Inn - much like every other Comfort Inn I've stayed in over the years. The owner was friendly, so friendly my girls wondered why it took me so long to check in. It was a recurrent theme - everywhere we stopped, things seemed to take longer, and everyone wanted to stop and talk. The exception was last night's dinner, in a small Mexican restaurant recommended by the hotel clerk. At 9:05 we were still eating and we were the only patrons left - Katie said that the waitress and host were chatting in Spanish about how long they thought we'd be, and whether or not they would get home by ten. Oops. I forgot about that part of not being in the city as well - things close down earlier.
After dropping Katie off at her workshop, I was even a little more confused. As thrilled as I was for her, that she was - well, not singing on Glee, but singing with a Warbler, from Glee; about as close as she was going to get - well, I was a little confused. This was a theatre academy for a tiny town, and a miniscule theatre. This was a television and Broadway performer and his wife whose latest project was with Brad Pitt. Why in Cleburne for about 18 kids? I found out later the guy's mom was part owner...ah, it begins to make more sense. And he got his start in that theatre. More sense again. And he'd grown up there - even more. I forgot, if you grow up in a small town, you can't wait to get out. But for most, it's still home and there's a sense of loyalty as well. A good thing, especially in the world we inhabit.
So, Elizabeth and I had a good chunk of the day to kill. I didn't want to get involved in the pre-New Year's traffic around Dallas, so we stuck with Cleburne. Drove the length of it...didn't take long. Got out and walked the length...didn't take much longer. I found there was a historical museum in the old library, so we went. First floor of the old library is filled with one man's private collection. He must have had QUITE a life, if that was his personal collection - dinosaur footprint, mammoth tusk, Kachina dolls, Kit Carson's saddle, General Cleburne's gun, turn of the century clothing, Civil War luggage - you name it, it was crammed on this one floor. Now those who know me know that I'm a history geek, and all it takes are a few artifacts and I'm content just reading and looking. I couldn't speak for hours after I left the tower of London, I had walked on so many pieces of history. This was...well...not the Tower of London, but still full of the history of lives. And there were photographs of the lives represented, letters that had been saved. In one case, there was a letter from a woman in World War 1, saying her son was missing in action and asking her cousins to pray, next to it was the notice of his death, his service photo, and a picture from his funeral. See, you can read all about wars, but until you see the lives touched by war, no one really gets it. The most touching piece was a Civil War Confederate uniform - with a picture of the local man who had worn it, as well as a picture of his wife who had spun, woven and sewn that uniform. He wore it home, only to die from his wounds two days later. I could still see the bullet hole in his jacket. Absolutely amazing.
And more amazing were the two older ladies working in the museum. They're volunteers, not paid, and have lived in Cleburne their entire lives. They hold the true history of the museum, and of the town. They were more than happy to talk - about the museum, the Layland family who donated all the items, about Christmas and Cleburne, and how hard it is to keep up with all the grant paperwork that was due by January 1st. They were in no hurry and happy to talk, to have visitors from outside of town.
After the museum, Elizabeth walked with me into a large antique store. We were greeted at the door by a growling and yipping dog the size of a large hamster. He went from growling to begging when he saw Elizabeth - she has this affect on animals. We were greeted by the owner, who asked us to excuse her son - who had just blown past us - as he wasn't much help and who knew where he thought he was going now (her words, not mine). Linda, who I felt I should have called Miss Linda out of respect, was a good deal older than my mother. She told me she had bought this business in 1981, when her husband passed of the cancer, because she needed something to keep her busy. Now she spends her days, one more piece of the past, crammed in among thousands of other items. What I managed to check out brought back many pieces of the past to me - dishes with the same pattern my grandmother had had, a travel case from the 1960's like my cousin, who was a stewardess, used to carry. Hairdryers from the 1960's, glassware like everyone's grandmother has at home, brassware, baby grand pianos, collector Coca Cola glasses, quilts. It was all thrown into the shop together, with no rhyme or reason. Linda came and found me digging through a pile of coasters, to ask me to fasten a chain of a necklace for her, because her fingers couldn't manage anymore. I did so and she told me that she'd meant to put some of her old jewelry out for sale, but decided to keep this fun piece. It was a beautiful necklace, worthy of a debutante, but didn't go so well with her turtleneck. I kept that thought to myself. Linda repeated herself a lot, and by her own admission was having trouble remembering things these days. She also said how tax laws had changed and she didn't understand all of it, but that she was going to lose half her business this coming year, because she owed money she didn't know she owed. I didn't get to look through even half of the interesting items in Linda's store, because - really - she just wanted someone she could talk with.
We crossed the street and looked through a tiny boutique that boasted salon as well, which turned out to be in the back. It was truly a full-service stop - they sell jewelry, do hair and nails, give pedicures, and have a full massage program. Elizabeth got her nails done while she was there - black with blue glitter. Me, I felt somewhat like I had drifted into an upscale version of Truvy's in Steel Magnolias. I was offered a drink, which I turned down the first time, but accepted a diet Dr. Pepper the second time through. They also offered us food, as the owner also owns two of the restaurants in town. As one of the stylists said, "no one leaves us hungry." Their regular customers sat in upscale chairs looking into wrought iron edged mirrors, sipping cokes and gossiping. One older lady was trying to walk one of the stylists through finding a picture in google, so they could style her hair to match. No lie, it was from the cover of 1952 movie. Another customer walked in and asked if the ipad being used was the stylist's Christmas present, and she replied, "oh, heck no, I got a leaf blower." Another one said, "that's better than me." Through it all, the ladies in the salon asked Elizabeth about her school, and asked both of us why we were in town. I felt like a novelty.
No one was in a hurry. Everyone had time to talk, on this day before a holiday. Everyone was still in a Christmas spirit, and there was a pace of life that just felt different. Now, don't think this means I'm ready to throw away where I live and move to small town Texas. Not even close, but it's good to visit, to find things that are out of the way, and remind myself of the parts of other lives I do like. Some qualities I need to nurture in my own life. Leaving the planned path and doing something different is good for all of us. Katie was ecstatic when I picked her up, and Elizabeth and I had an adventure of our own in the small town. Still, it's good to be home in my own bed tonight....
It started two days ago when Katie came into my room asking - with absolutely no expectation I would say yes - if I would drive her to Cleburne, TX for a theatre workshop being taught by someone from Glee. With the world reduced to everyone being virtual neighbors, I find she is chatting with people all over the world through Twitter and other social networks. It's both frightening and fascinating to me. I spend so much time telling my kids "no" that it felt good to say, "why not." I'm on vacation, and I used to do spur of the moment things all the time. Being a mom who works, I rarely get to have unplanned fun.
So, we hit the road yesterday afternoon, just the three of us. Elizabeth had her copy of The Hunger Games and her itouch - we barely heard from her all four hours of the ride. I had forgotten how nice it can be to drive through the hill country when you're not in a hurry. Night fell as we rolled down a small state highway, and each town had a central square with a big Christmas tree still lit.
We got to Cleburne late last night, and spent the night in a Comfort Inn - much like every other Comfort Inn I've stayed in over the years. The owner was friendly, so friendly my girls wondered why it took me so long to check in. It was a recurrent theme - everywhere we stopped, things seemed to take longer, and everyone wanted to stop and talk. The exception was last night's dinner, in a small Mexican restaurant recommended by the hotel clerk. At 9:05 we were still eating and we were the only patrons left - Katie said that the waitress and host were chatting in Spanish about how long they thought we'd be, and whether or not they would get home by ten. Oops. I forgot about that part of not being in the city as well - things close down earlier.
After dropping Katie off at her workshop, I was even a little more confused. As thrilled as I was for her, that she was - well, not singing on Glee, but singing with a Warbler, from Glee; about as close as she was going to get - well, I was a little confused. This was a theatre academy for a tiny town, and a miniscule theatre. This was a television and Broadway performer and his wife whose latest project was with Brad Pitt. Why in Cleburne for about 18 kids? I found out later the guy's mom was part owner...ah, it begins to make more sense. And he got his start in that theatre. More sense again. And he'd grown up there - even more. I forgot, if you grow up in a small town, you can't wait to get out. But for most, it's still home and there's a sense of loyalty as well. A good thing, especially in the world we inhabit.
So, Elizabeth and I had a good chunk of the day to kill. I didn't want to get involved in the pre-New Year's traffic around Dallas, so we stuck with Cleburne. Drove the length of it...didn't take long. Got out and walked the length...didn't take much longer. I found there was a historical museum in the old library, so we went. First floor of the old library is filled with one man's private collection. He must have had QUITE a life, if that was his personal collection - dinosaur footprint, mammoth tusk, Kachina dolls, Kit Carson's saddle, General Cleburne's gun, turn of the century clothing, Civil War luggage - you name it, it was crammed on this one floor. Now those who know me know that I'm a history geek, and all it takes are a few artifacts and I'm content just reading and looking. I couldn't speak for hours after I left the tower of London, I had walked on so many pieces of history. This was...well...not the Tower of London, but still full of the history of lives. And there were photographs of the lives represented, letters that had been saved. In one case, there was a letter from a woman in World War 1, saying her son was missing in action and asking her cousins to pray, next to it was the notice of his death, his service photo, and a picture from his funeral. See, you can read all about wars, but until you see the lives touched by war, no one really gets it. The most touching piece was a Civil War Confederate uniform - with a picture of the local man who had worn it, as well as a picture of his wife who had spun, woven and sewn that uniform. He wore it home, only to die from his wounds two days later. I could still see the bullet hole in his jacket. Absolutely amazing.
And more amazing were the two older ladies working in the museum. They're volunteers, not paid, and have lived in Cleburne their entire lives. They hold the true history of the museum, and of the town. They were more than happy to talk - about the museum, the Layland family who donated all the items, about Christmas and Cleburne, and how hard it is to keep up with all the grant paperwork that was due by January 1st. They were in no hurry and happy to talk, to have visitors from outside of town.
After the museum, Elizabeth walked with me into a large antique store. We were greeted at the door by a growling and yipping dog the size of a large hamster. He went from growling to begging when he saw Elizabeth - she has this affect on animals. We were greeted by the owner, who asked us to excuse her son - who had just blown past us - as he wasn't much help and who knew where he thought he was going now (her words, not mine). Linda, who I felt I should have called Miss Linda out of respect, was a good deal older than my mother. She told me she had bought this business in 1981, when her husband passed of the cancer, because she needed something to keep her busy. Now she spends her days, one more piece of the past, crammed in among thousands of other items. What I managed to check out brought back many pieces of the past to me - dishes with the same pattern my grandmother had had, a travel case from the 1960's like my cousin, who was a stewardess, used to carry. Hairdryers from the 1960's, glassware like everyone's grandmother has at home, brassware, baby grand pianos, collector Coca Cola glasses, quilts. It was all thrown into the shop together, with no rhyme or reason. Linda came and found me digging through a pile of coasters, to ask me to fasten a chain of a necklace for her, because her fingers couldn't manage anymore. I did so and she told me that she'd meant to put some of her old jewelry out for sale, but decided to keep this fun piece. It was a beautiful necklace, worthy of a debutante, but didn't go so well with her turtleneck. I kept that thought to myself. Linda repeated herself a lot, and by her own admission was having trouble remembering things these days. She also said how tax laws had changed and she didn't understand all of it, but that she was going to lose half her business this coming year, because she owed money she didn't know she owed. I didn't get to look through even half of the interesting items in Linda's store, because - really - she just wanted someone she could talk with.
We crossed the street and looked through a tiny boutique that boasted salon as well, which turned out to be in the back. It was truly a full-service stop - they sell jewelry, do hair and nails, give pedicures, and have a full massage program. Elizabeth got her nails done while she was there - black with blue glitter. Me, I felt somewhat like I had drifted into an upscale version of Truvy's in Steel Magnolias. I was offered a drink, which I turned down the first time, but accepted a diet Dr. Pepper the second time through. They also offered us food, as the owner also owns two of the restaurants in town. As one of the stylists said, "no one leaves us hungry." Their regular customers sat in upscale chairs looking into wrought iron edged mirrors, sipping cokes and gossiping. One older lady was trying to walk one of the stylists through finding a picture in google, so they could style her hair to match. No lie, it was from the cover of 1952 movie. Another customer walked in and asked if the ipad being used was the stylist's Christmas present, and she replied, "oh, heck no, I got a leaf blower." Another one said, "that's better than me." Through it all, the ladies in the salon asked Elizabeth about her school, and asked both of us why we were in town. I felt like a novelty.
No one was in a hurry. Everyone had time to talk, on this day before a holiday. Everyone was still in a Christmas spirit, and there was a pace of life that just felt different. Now, don't think this means I'm ready to throw away where I live and move to small town Texas. Not even close, but it's good to visit, to find things that are out of the way, and remind myself of the parts of other lives I do like. Some qualities I need to nurture in my own life. Leaving the planned path and doing something different is good for all of us. Katie was ecstatic when I picked her up, and Elizabeth and I had an adventure of our own in the small town. Still, it's good to be home in my own bed tonight....
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Geekdom and Other Reasons My Kids Need Counseling
Spring Break is drawing to a close, and it's been a nice week. I was overjoyed to start the week celebrating 3.14 - Pi Day to those who don't recognize it. It's a double celebration, because that day also happens to be Albert Einstein's birthday. I feel it is my duty to celebrate all things round and brilliant on that day. My kids humor me, because the torture is just that much worse if they fight the tide. Katie got into the spirit by making a festive "Happy Pi Day" banner for the dining room. Elizabeth drew circles on the driveway and blew bubbles. We had quiche and chocolate pie for dinner - which we didn't eat until the area and volume had been calculated. It was good fun.
So, it was just a couple of days later when they asked me if I had always been this big of a geek. Sadly, the answer is, "no." I was a closet geek in high school. I balanced the A+ test grades by not doing homework. I pretended to be irritated when my boyfriend wanted to watch Star Trek: The Next Generation, instead of making out, and told him I only tolerated it because Wesley Crusher was cute. But, in truth, I enjoyed it. I partied with my friends, and told no one that I liked writing poetry and enjoyed playing Dungeons and Dragons. Serious closet geek. I was much older before I realized the true joy in my geeky friends - they knew what they liked and didn't give a darn how other people felt about it. I married a geek. Every guy I dated before him was a geek. I should have realized when I spent Halloween my 17th year, in a graveyard, taking pictures with infrared film. Cute classmate was just an excuse - the pictures were awesome. Photoshop has nothing on properly handled infrared film.
So, if I have advice to my daughter, who worries sometimes about being on the outs, it would be to let the "geek flag" fly...everyone her age is floundering for who they are. At least embracing your differences frees you up to enjoy the moment. Second word of advice - embrace the inner geek, but dress the outer geek with style and grace. People still form opinions based on what they see in the first few minutes. Third piece of advice, whether you are solving complex equations, writing poetry, beating a high score on xbox, tap dancing, or singing opera - OWN your art...geek and all. Whatever your interest, embrace and and find what makes you passionate. Oh yeah, and back to advice #2 - try to look nice while you do it. Really, there's a fine line between geek at heart and geek with pocket protector. Don't cross the line.
So, my kids are going back to school on Monday. They'll embrace history papers and Shakespeare, and well...maybe they won't embrace Shakespeare, but they'll accept it as a fact of life. Pi Day is behind us for another 360 days, and already I'm planning ahead. The good news - Katie told me that we can celebrate 22/7 day on July 22nd....22/7 is a nome de plume for Pi, you know. And she cared enough to point it out to me.
Embrace your inner geek. And hug the geeks closest to your heart.
So, it was just a couple of days later when they asked me if I had always been this big of a geek. Sadly, the answer is, "no." I was a closet geek in high school. I balanced the A+ test grades by not doing homework. I pretended to be irritated when my boyfriend wanted to watch Star Trek: The Next Generation, instead of making out, and told him I only tolerated it because Wesley Crusher was cute. But, in truth, I enjoyed it. I partied with my friends, and told no one that I liked writing poetry and enjoyed playing Dungeons and Dragons. Serious closet geek. I was much older before I realized the true joy in my geeky friends - they knew what they liked and didn't give a darn how other people felt about it. I married a geek. Every guy I dated before him was a geek. I should have realized when I spent Halloween my 17th year, in a graveyard, taking pictures with infrared film. Cute classmate was just an excuse - the pictures were awesome. Photoshop has nothing on properly handled infrared film.
So, if I have advice to my daughter, who worries sometimes about being on the outs, it would be to let the "geek flag" fly...everyone her age is floundering for who they are. At least embracing your differences frees you up to enjoy the moment. Second word of advice - embrace the inner geek, but dress the outer geek with style and grace. People still form opinions based on what they see in the first few minutes. Third piece of advice, whether you are solving complex equations, writing poetry, beating a high score on xbox, tap dancing, or singing opera - OWN your art...geek and all. Whatever your interest, embrace and and find what makes you passionate. Oh yeah, and back to advice #2 - try to look nice while you do it. Really, there's a fine line between geek at heart and geek with pocket protector. Don't cross the line.
So, my kids are going back to school on Monday. They'll embrace history papers and Shakespeare, and well...maybe they won't embrace Shakespeare, but they'll accept it as a fact of life. Pi Day is behind us for another 360 days, and already I'm planning ahead. The good news - Katie told me that we can celebrate 22/7 day on July 22nd....22/7 is a nome de plume for Pi, you know. And she cared enough to point it out to me.
Embrace your inner geek. And hug the geeks closest to your heart.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
If At First You Don't Succeed....Pick Your Butt Up Off the Floor and Do It Again
Tonight I watched my oldest daughter struggle through something new. Her regular dance class was canceled, so she tried out an adult contemporary class down the street. She's never danced contemporary. She is twelve - the youngest age allowed in the studio in the evenings. And somehow she was shocked that it wasn't an automatic success. I didn't stay for the whole class, because I knew she was self-conscious enough, but what I saw didn't look so bad to me. She mostly kept up, and some of her lines looked quite nice. Contemporary is nothing like ballet, nothing like jazz, and on a different planet from tap. She was learning new lingo, new combinations, and new ways of holding her body - to an eight count that moved at a speed faster than middle school gossip. In other words, it was hard. Katie doesn't like hard. Or rather, she doesn't like hard when anyone else is watching.
One of my daughter's teachers recently told me that she thinks Katie might be afraid to make mistakes. Hmm...noticed that, did she? Well, not so much afraid to make them, but afraid that someone else might notice. I'm not a soft-sell kind of mom - I'm not afraid to say, "you're not perfect, big deal, move on." But really, how DO you teach persistence? I worry that, because so many things have come quickly and easily to my eldest child, she won't see the value in working for the things that don't come as easy.
I admit that I am guilty of the same so many times in my life. But it's gotten easier since I've had my girls - for once, I am held accountable, because their eyes notice everything. When I was thirty years old, I had an expired driver's license. I had to retake my driver's test, in my own car, with my own kids in tow. And I failed. Miserably failed, at parallel parking. I was absolutely horrified. I wanted nothing so much as to go home and get into bed, pulling the covers up over my head. As an adult, I had failed at a basic life skill, and my kids had seen me do it. One of the hardest things I've done in my adult life was to go back to the DPS office that next morning, and do it all over again. I passed...barely...I think they felt sorry for me. Now I drive an SUV...and I really can't parallel park the thing. I get through life just fine without that skill. Admitting that I'm bad at it hasn't killed me.
Growing up, I had a love/hate relationship with my piano. I loved the idea of playing, and I was pretty good at what I knew....but I didn't much care for the time and the learning curve. No way to learn to play an instrument without making a whole lot of mistakes.
Making mistakes is an art. Learning from them is real intelligence. See, I figure if I make a mistake once, I'm pretty smart - because I have an opportunity to learn something. If I keep making the same mistake, however, then I must be pretty dumb. Sometimes I'm dumber than dirt, because I repeat those mistakes again and again.
And some of the proudest moments in my life have come from the little things that were hard won, after lots of mistakes, and picking myself up painfully and doing it all over again. Generally these were things that were worthwhile.
So, Katie tried two new things this week. She took a self-defense course last night, and she kicked some serious butt (and I have the bruises to prove it). And she tried a new style of dance, and she's not sure that she wants to go back. But I've seen how happy she is when she dances, and I think it's worth a little pain and maybe some embarrassment on her part, if she gets half as excited about it as she did the first time she got the hang of sweeps or twelve-steps in tap (yeah, I don't really know what those are either, but it sounded neat).
When my kids tell me something is hard, I say, "awesome." Something to view as a goal. Something to sweat over, and a sense of accomplishment looming in their future. You can sit on your butt and watch the world go by, or you can get up and dance again. I prefer to dance. Well...figuratively, anyway.
One of my daughter's teachers recently told me that she thinks Katie might be afraid to make mistakes. Hmm...noticed that, did she? Well, not so much afraid to make them, but afraid that someone else might notice. I'm not a soft-sell kind of mom - I'm not afraid to say, "you're not perfect, big deal, move on." But really, how DO you teach persistence? I worry that, because so many things have come quickly and easily to my eldest child, she won't see the value in working for the things that don't come as easy.
I admit that I am guilty of the same so many times in my life. But it's gotten easier since I've had my girls - for once, I am held accountable, because their eyes notice everything. When I was thirty years old, I had an expired driver's license. I had to retake my driver's test, in my own car, with my own kids in tow. And I failed. Miserably failed, at parallel parking. I was absolutely horrified. I wanted nothing so much as to go home and get into bed, pulling the covers up over my head. As an adult, I had failed at a basic life skill, and my kids had seen me do it. One of the hardest things I've done in my adult life was to go back to the DPS office that next morning, and do it all over again. I passed...barely...I think they felt sorry for me. Now I drive an SUV...and I really can't parallel park the thing. I get through life just fine without that skill. Admitting that I'm bad at it hasn't killed me.
Growing up, I had a love/hate relationship with my piano. I loved the idea of playing, and I was pretty good at what I knew....but I didn't much care for the time and the learning curve. No way to learn to play an instrument without making a whole lot of mistakes.
Making mistakes is an art. Learning from them is real intelligence. See, I figure if I make a mistake once, I'm pretty smart - because I have an opportunity to learn something. If I keep making the same mistake, however, then I must be pretty dumb. Sometimes I'm dumber than dirt, because I repeat those mistakes again and again.
And some of the proudest moments in my life have come from the little things that were hard won, after lots of mistakes, and picking myself up painfully and doing it all over again. Generally these were things that were worthwhile.
- riding a bike
- rollerblading
- knitting
- playing instruments
- swing dancing
- baking a souffle
- casting clay on a wheel
So, Katie tried two new things this week. She took a self-defense course last night, and she kicked some serious butt (and I have the bruises to prove it). And she tried a new style of dance, and she's not sure that she wants to go back. But I've seen how happy she is when she dances, and I think it's worth a little pain and maybe some embarrassment on her part, if she gets half as excited about it as she did the first time she got the hang of sweeps or twelve-steps in tap (yeah, I don't really know what those are either, but it sounded neat).
When my kids tell me something is hard, I say, "awesome." Something to view as a goal. Something to sweat over, and a sense of accomplishment looming in their future. You can sit on your butt and watch the world go by, or you can get up and dance again. I prefer to dance. Well...figuratively, anyway.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Barbie's Dream House, Perky Plastic Boobs, and Other Fantasies
My quick run to the grocery store tonight turned into an hour - fifteen minutes to find what I wanted, and more than thirty minutes waiting in line. I had plenty of time to look through my purse, people watch, file my nails, rotate my tires, whatever....and I ended up reading the covers on the magazines at the check out stand. I never buy those, because, well....they're too fluffy even for me. But I like to read the headlines...who are these articles addressing? All of them are aimed women, or at least at the women we're supposed to want to be. Sixteen different magazines, and all the featured articles were aimed at four basic female interest groups: weight loss, how to be better in bed, what celebrity was breaking up/getting together/having kids/adopting kids/buying a house/selling a house, and how to get rid of cellulite. According to the newstand, cellulite is the new cold war era Russia - quietly creeping into our society in droves, and preparing to wreck homes and marriages across the country if we don't all fight it with beauty products and Thighmasters.
The so-called women's magazines at the checkout had hints for matching my haircut to my face, how to buy fashion shoes on a budget, and a million and one low-fat recipes for lasagna (which is not meant to be low-fat, just save it for special occasions...). Or, maybe if I just stay away from the lasagna, I wouldn't NEED the Thighmaster. Not one of the magazine covers elaborated on why I spent nearly $60 to fill up my gas tank this morning, or what's going on in the world of astralphysics, or about cancer research, the troops in the Gulf, or any one of a million questions that would cross my mind before I'd worry about what fashion don't Vanessa Hudgins committed last week.
Now, I'm not saying that all magazines are fluff, but that's what is sitting at the check out stand. Because women do most of the grocery shopping, and fluff is what is sitting there waiting for us to make our impulse purchases. I never see Mensa puzzles at the check out stand.
Again, who buys this crap? I'm sure in the perfect world of Barbie and Ken, this is all a women needs to feel fulfilled. Me, I'm a little more pessimistic. First of all, my dream house doesn't clean itself, and unlike the Barbie version, mine has a toilet. That doesn't clean itself either. My thighs aren't plastic perfection, and ok, yes, they've got a little bit of cellulite. In fact, according to a three year old, I should work out more because my leg tops are getting just a little bit jiggly. Wait, I'm pretty sure I saw an article on that this evening....
See, I'm raising two girls of my own, and I don't want them to grow up in a world where they think that thirty days to thinner thighs is a high reaching goal, or that they should care too much about what the plastic people in Hollywood are doing in their dream house lives. Barbie never had kids to worry about influencing. Of course she didn't, since Ken was never anatomically correct. Maybe she should have hooked up with GI Joe instead, but of course, in the Barbie world, war doesn't fit one of women's four basic areas of interest. So, no soldier boys for Barbie the Banal.
Don't get me wrong, I grew up on Barbie, and I loved her little plastic world. I loved her dreamhouse, and loved playing dress up - especially the little pink, impossibly high heels. But I knew the difference - I wanted to play with Barbie, not be her. Well, OK, I might have wanted the pink convertible. There's a reason why they named it her DREAM house, and her DREAM wedding, and her DREAM yacht....they're fantasies.
In my fantasy, Barbie has a kick-ass career and Ken stays home with the kids. The back rooms in the dream house are looking a little worn, because Ken can never manage to get the crayon off the walls or the bubble gum off the pink sofa. My fantasy Barbie likes walking barefoot and finally manages to walk on flat feet, instead of on her tip toes.
In my fantasy magazine rack, I find helpful information, and things that women really want to know. The top ten places to vacation with kids, without scary sized cartoon characters, gimmicky theme rides or exploited animals. How to talk tech with your auto mechanic, so you don't get fleeced. How to juggle kids, a job, and grad school. How about why you should keep in touch with friends, and how sad you'll be in later life if you don't. How about real issues for women - forget fad diets, how about someone writing about what it's like to try and maintain a healthy lifestyle with no time, no money and no energy.
In my fantasy, those marketing at our impulse to buy shiny magazines will look beyond the two dimensional people on the pages, and realize we're real human beings with complex thoughts and better ways to spend our time - even in an endless check out line. Next time, I'm bringing a book.
The so-called women's magazines at the checkout had hints for matching my haircut to my face, how to buy fashion shoes on a budget, and a million and one low-fat recipes for lasagna (which is not meant to be low-fat, just save it for special occasions...). Or, maybe if I just stay away from the lasagna, I wouldn't NEED the Thighmaster. Not one of the magazine covers elaborated on why I spent nearly $60 to fill up my gas tank this morning, or what's going on in the world of astralphysics, or about cancer research, the troops in the Gulf, or any one of a million questions that would cross my mind before I'd worry about what fashion don't Vanessa Hudgins committed last week.
Now, I'm not saying that all magazines are fluff, but that's what is sitting at the check out stand. Because women do most of the grocery shopping, and fluff is what is sitting there waiting for us to make our impulse purchases. I never see Mensa puzzles at the check out stand.
Again, who buys this crap? I'm sure in the perfect world of Barbie and Ken, this is all a women needs to feel fulfilled. Me, I'm a little more pessimistic. First of all, my dream house doesn't clean itself, and unlike the Barbie version, mine has a toilet. That doesn't clean itself either. My thighs aren't plastic perfection, and ok, yes, they've got a little bit of cellulite. In fact, according to a three year old, I should work out more because my leg tops are getting just a little bit jiggly. Wait, I'm pretty sure I saw an article on that this evening....
See, I'm raising two girls of my own, and I don't want them to grow up in a world where they think that thirty days to thinner thighs is a high reaching goal, or that they should care too much about what the plastic people in Hollywood are doing in their dream house lives. Barbie never had kids to worry about influencing. Of course she didn't, since Ken was never anatomically correct. Maybe she should have hooked up with GI Joe instead, but of course, in the Barbie world, war doesn't fit one of women's four basic areas of interest. So, no soldier boys for Barbie the Banal.
Don't get me wrong, I grew up on Barbie, and I loved her little plastic world. I loved her dreamhouse, and loved playing dress up - especially the little pink, impossibly high heels. But I knew the difference - I wanted to play with Barbie, not be her. Well, OK, I might have wanted the pink convertible. There's a reason why they named it her DREAM house, and her DREAM wedding, and her DREAM yacht....they're fantasies.
In my fantasy, Barbie has a kick-ass career and Ken stays home with the kids. The back rooms in the dream house are looking a little worn, because Ken can never manage to get the crayon off the walls or the bubble gum off the pink sofa. My fantasy Barbie likes walking barefoot and finally manages to walk on flat feet, instead of on her tip toes.
In my fantasy magazine rack, I find helpful information, and things that women really want to know. The top ten places to vacation with kids, without scary sized cartoon characters, gimmicky theme rides or exploited animals. How to talk tech with your auto mechanic, so you don't get fleeced. How to juggle kids, a job, and grad school. How about why you should keep in touch with friends, and how sad you'll be in later life if you don't. How about real issues for women - forget fad diets, how about someone writing about what it's like to try and maintain a healthy lifestyle with no time, no money and no energy.
In my fantasy, those marketing at our impulse to buy shiny magazines will look beyond the two dimensional people on the pages, and realize we're real human beings with complex thoughts and better ways to spend our time - even in an endless check out line. Next time, I'm bringing a book.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Feels Like Home
I spent the whole day at home today, in my pajamas, and I'm not even sick. Try that on for size. I read once that, "home is the place they have to take you back, when you have nowhere else to go." Right now, home is the place where (generally) I go to shower and collapse for a few hours before the next flurry of activity. My particular home is small and messy, and when I'm not in it for long periods of time, I tend to not notice just how messy it really is. I prefer to blame the cats partying while I'm out than to think I'm just careless when I'm tired.
When I first married and moved to Houston, "home" was still back East. Home was still my parents' home. Home growing up was often wherever I was at the time - because we never stayed there for very long. Home base was Washington DC, because my family inevitably moved back to that area, like homing pigeons coming back to roost, before venturing out again. Home might have been a house, an apartment, a hotel room, or a townhouse. Within our dwelling, home was my bedroom - no matter where it was at the time. Home was where I kept my stuff. Home base was the old brown, oversized couch covered in plushy velour. Home smelled like my mom's burned cooking and my dad's Aquavelva.
Going home to visit after I moved out of my parents' house had mixed feelings. Nostalgic senses enjoyed that the same smells were there, the same throw pillows on the couch, the same figurines on the shelves. But the same tension and fighting were there at home, so it felt good to return to my new home and my new life, just the same.
Home now is the house where we live, but it's also wherever my children might be. Just as always, home is rooted to my family. I started to say it wouldn't matter if we lived in a cardboard box, but I'm not quite that altruistic. It would matter. But, yeah, it doesn't matter where we call home so much, as that home is when we are together. Home is supposed to equal safe, comfortable, warm.
So, what is home now? I've spent the whole day here, doing nothing but small chores and enjoying not getting in my car. So, home:
When I first married and moved to Houston, "home" was still back East. Home was still my parents' home. Home growing up was often wherever I was at the time - because we never stayed there for very long. Home base was Washington DC, because my family inevitably moved back to that area, like homing pigeons coming back to roost, before venturing out again. Home might have been a house, an apartment, a hotel room, or a townhouse. Within our dwelling, home was my bedroom - no matter where it was at the time. Home was where I kept my stuff. Home base was the old brown, oversized couch covered in plushy velour. Home smelled like my mom's burned cooking and my dad's Aquavelva.
Going home to visit after I moved out of my parents' house had mixed feelings. Nostalgic senses enjoyed that the same smells were there, the same throw pillows on the couch, the same figurines on the shelves. But the same tension and fighting were there at home, so it felt good to return to my new home and my new life, just the same.
Home now is the house where we live, but it's also wherever my children might be. Just as always, home is rooted to my family. I started to say it wouldn't matter if we lived in a cardboard box, but I'm not quite that altruistic. It would matter. But, yeah, it doesn't matter where we call home so much, as that home is when we are together. Home is supposed to equal safe, comfortable, warm.
So, what is home now? I've spent the whole day here, doing nothing but small chores and enjoying not getting in my car. So, home:
- Home is where I can go barefoot all the time
- Home is where I can sing outloud and not worry what anyone thinks (oh, Katie comments, but I don't pay attention to her)
- Home is where I can drop polite at the door and generally say exactly what I'm thinking
- Home is where I can wear the ratty old nightgown that feels so nice
- Home is where I can take long baths
- Home is where I keep my kitties
- Home is where I can lie in bed and do absolutely nothing for a while
- Home is where I can rollerblade in the driveway
- Home is where my family can roll around in the grass
- Home is where I can shriek like a girl when a Texas size roach gets inside
- Home is where I can have my hissy fits
- Home is where I can cry
- Home is where my children still hug me without checking to see who might be looking
- Home is where we still read outloud and snuggle after dinner
- Home is where I can play my harp and no one pays any attention
- Home is where I can leave my stuff in a heap and know it'll be there in the morning, without recriminations
- Home is where I can cuss while I'm cleaning the bathroom
- Home is where I can cuss pretty much any time I feel like it
- Home is where I can drink a second glass of wine and not worry about who is driving home
- Home is where I feel a sense of pride when I DO have the bathroom clean and neat
- Home is where I can ignore the phone, my e-mail, and any knocks at the door
- Home is better than Calgon. Better than any vacation. Home is better than chocolate.
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