So, it's Day One of the elves. Ben is, of course, beside himself with excitement, checking on Mikey all day. When he awakens at 1:15am (yes, you read that right), he's laughing, pointing, jumping up and down. Finally, FINALLY, the day he's been waiting for. Keep in mind--we have been crossing off days on the calendar for this. It is big time stuff. Somehow, we get him to go back to bed (Eric and I hadn't even been to bed yet; that's a cleaning story for another time), and we smile, "Awww, he still loves the elves..."
5:00am. Listen, we're on vacation here, dude. Plus, your dad and I decided to clean out 35 years worth of hoarding last night. "Mom, why aren't the girls up? We should get the girls. They want to see the elves, too." I magically convince him that waking Sleeping Beauty 1 and 2 would NOT be a good idea and that maybe he should just crawl into our bed for a bit. Thankfully, it's still dark out, so he does go back to sleep for a little while, but not much.
Enter Thanksgiving dinner into the picture, and I realize why. Dinner Rolls. Plain old dinner rolls. You've had them every year at Thanksgiving, right? Everybody does. Yeah, everybody except little boys who have two personalities: one-a sweet, excitable kid on an all natural diet (Dr. Jekyl); two-an evil, vulgar maniac who has inadvertently eaten an artificial additive (Mr. Hyde). We had been sharing a lovely Thanksgiving dinner at my parents' home, the kids excited and playing with everything in my parents' house, the Lions actually winning the ball game, my mom's turkey and stuffing a moist delight. Before we ate, I even joked to my parents' priest (a calm, quiet 65-year-old woman who never had children), "Yup, this is my son on an all natural diet," because his normal voice is still quite loud (just not evil or vulgar). As we ate, Ben asked for another roll and--because it was Thanksgiving and we never have rolls because I am now gluten intolerant and he loves rolls and never gets them--we said sure. Picture that giant red X that comes up on "Family Feud" when somebody gives a dumb answer (but the family still tells them "Good answer, good answer!).
Before we left, the squabbling had begun, Ben was stealing books from Becca and giving Emma's name several syllables. In the car, he screamed when Emma looked at him, and said he was going to pee on his elf. Dinner rolls. Damn.
So, today. Well, yesterday, now. He has some fights with Emma, a massive temper tantrum in his room (wanted a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, not grilled cheese), throws some toys, tells me "You are a very, very, very, very, VERY mean mom," and gives me a jab when I squirt him with water from the sink (because he wouldn't wait for me to stop scrubbing dishes to open the box of Annie's Organic Cheddar Bunnies-kind of ironic when you think about it). Anyway, not his best day. Not his worst, but definitely not his best.
Enter 3:00am. Our elf hunt begins. As we enter the kitchen hand-in-hand (Dr. Jekyl is back), he mentions, "I might be stuck," remembering his transgressions of the day. We turn on the light and he stops in his tracks. "Yup," he says, bottom lip quivering, "I'm stuck." He literally lies himself face first down on the kitchen floor and sobs. Great, heaving, a-loved-one-has-just-died sobs. I try to pick him up and console him, but he says, "No, Mom, we've got to go find the other elves," a brave solider in the line of battle. We hunt the living room, the bathroom, his room. He stops every so often, cries a little, wipes his tears (and blows his nose, since I have also shared this lovely cold with him), and keeps hunting. We find Bernard and The-Elf-Yet-to-Be-Named (Becca's) cuddled together in the laundry room on the shelf with the cookie jars, tucked in between Batman ("Because you're a friend, and you like Batman, and, as of today you're off the team.") and Mickey Mouse. Again, my sweet baby hits the floor.
This time, he lets me pick him up, pour him into my arms, and rock him. We fit together like puzzle pieces, and I am reminded of the time he spent in my womb, crammed into any empty spaces he could find, as our blood flowed in unison. We rock and rock, I wipe the tears from his face, and I repeat over and over, "What are you thinking, Bubba? Hhmmm? Can you tell Mom what you're thinking about?" He really can't. There aren't words.
After a while, he goes solemnly into the kitchen, turns the light back on, and faces his elf. "Mikey," he says, his voice breaking with emotion, "I'm just so sorry. So very, very sorry." He wipes his face with his sleeve, and starts to trek back to bed. "Hey, Mom," he stops, "remember how last night he flipped over [when we couldn't get him to go back to bed Eric flipped the elf over to make him look tired] and then when we got up he had flipped back up? Maybe if I'm good now--really, really good--he'll be able to move a little. Like, fly to over there. You think so, Mom?"
I "#!$?ing" know so! "Maybe, Buddy. I know Mikey knows you're really sorry, and that today's going to be a great day."
"Yea." He stands and nods, staring at his elf, a footie-pajamaed Rodin's The Thinker, pondering how to make this right. "I'm sorry, Mikey," he whispers again, and retraces his steps toward his bedroom.
As I tuck him in, heartbroken, I think about all the stupid mistakes I make in the day, and I'm on anti-depressants. I say snotty remarks that come off way more mean that I intended. I bark at the kids, push the dog out of the way with my foot. I envy other people their seemingly perfect lives and ignore the little hiccups in life that come their way. I spray my son a squirt with the dish sprayer instead of taking the box of crackers and putting them back in the cupboard. Nobody's perfect, even on a great day. I want to be the tough mom, the one who makes him stick out this lesson, but I can't help but think as I tuck his Spiderman sheets around him that, maybe, he's gotten what he should've out of this, and somehow, I want to make it better.
As miracles would happen, he had fallen asleep on the couch last night, and we hadn't given him a sippy cup of water to put in his bed. "Mom, can you get me a water?" I consider it a sign from the angels.
I saunter into the kitchen, make a big play of noisily getting the cup, the lid, the water--and I move that damn elf over to the other shelf in the kitchen. Then, I run into Ben's room.
"Ben-Ben, Ben-Ben, you're not going to believe this!"
"What?" he is upright in bed, straight as a rocketship, ready to blast off. "Is it my elf?"
I grab him and we run together into the kitchen. He turns on the light and--SHAZAM!--he sees the empty shelf. "Ahh!" he screams (somehow no one else is awakened) and he turns. It is just as he thought, Mikey has moved--just a little, just across to the other shelf--but he has moved all the same. "Oh, Mikey! Thank you!" he says, and moves toward his elf. "I love you, so so so so much, Mikey." He turns and the light behind his eyes is blinding.
As I tuck him in for the second time, he is beaming, wiggling, gleeful and hopeful and full of the knowledge that he really can do the right thing. We talk about how everybody makes mistakes, and that sometimes you just have to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and try again. Maybe it's lost on him, maybe he gets it. Maybe some people will think I cheated him out of an important lesson. But, as I kiss his cheeks, I know that I will sleep well, having taught my son the TRUE meaning of Christmas: God's unconditional love.
I am a wife, mother of three, elementary teacher, daughter, and friend. I have been a writer for a long time, now I'm just willing to let people be the readers!
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Monday, November 25, 2013
"Mom, did my elf move?"
When my husband was growing up, his parents bought two little toy elves, and used them to con their children into behaving through the holidays. Apparently, they should have patented the idea, as "Elf on the Shelf" has now taken off like wildfire. When our oldest daughter was young, we bought her a little elf--to whom she gave the name "Bernard" like the head elf off of the movie "The Santa Clause"--and we would move him about the house each night if she was good, keep him in his place if she made bad choices. We'd catch her staring at him for long amounts of time, hoping to catch a blink or a slight shift of an arm, but she never touched him. Em knew that, if he got touched, Bernard would lose his magic and have to go back to the North Pole.
My niece, eternally the bold one, touched her elf (poked is actually a better word, I believe), which sent not only her elf but those of her brother and sister off to Santa's workshop. I think the other two stopped talking to her for a while--not that Gracie cared--and eventually they were all given a second chance.
Emma once asked, after having a lengthy conversation at school with a child who did NOT have an elf, why we were so lucky. "Grandpa used to do Santa's taxes," Eric told her, and that satisfied any curiosity she may have had about whether this elf stuff was real or not. She would still stare for long periods of time, and sometimes I would even catch her whispering to Bernard, perhaps trying to justify any deeds for the day. Yes, Emma deeply believed in her elf, and in the magic of Christmas. I thought I had really seen what it looked like to fall in love with Christmas hook-line-and-sinker when I watched Em with that elf. Until Ben had his fourth Christmas.
When Ben was a toddler, then two and three years old, he didn't really get the elf thing. Not that it was his fault; he didn't really get the whole "walking on two legs" thing then, either. But his fourth year, shortly before he turned four, Ben's world exploded. The morning after Thanksgiving, Emma got him up and pointed out the elves (one each for her, him, and Becca). The previous year, Ben had been into "Toy Story," and had named his elf Woody. Upon seeing the elf this fourth year, he immediately decided that Woody would like to be called Mikey, after the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle (because what cowboy doesn't have a Ninja Turtle hiding deep inside him somewhere?). Ben watched Mikey all day, waiting for him to move. He brought him toys to see, told him stories, sang him little songs. He didn't want Mikey being bored, sitting there in the same spot all day.
That night, I was awakened by a little hand shaking my face. "Mom, did my elf move?" It was Ben. Now, my kids do not get up in the night. I mean, maybe they wake up in the night, but they are just plain not allowed to come in our room and mess with us. Momma likes her sleep. If Momma don't sleep, well, it's ugly. So, Ben may occasionally have a nightmare or a bathroom incident, but he is quickly scuttled back into his room. It's always an "emergency" if you come into our room. It is not, I repeat, NOT to pull me out of bed to go look for some stupid stuffed toy.
"What?" I replied, groggy, and certain that I had heard him incorrectly.
"C'mon, Mom, get up. Did my elf move? We gotta look." He was pulling on my arm now, and heading out the bedroom door. He is freakishly strong in the night when I am still half-asleep.
"Dude, we are not-- Benjamin, seriously. It's 2:36am, Buddy. We are not looking for that elf!"
But we did look. We looked in the kitchen, the laundry room, and the bathroom. The elves, per tradition, had started out in the kids' stockings, so we knew they had moved. The search was on. That first night, they were in the kids' bathroom, hanging upside down from the shower curtain.
"Mom," Ben was gasping with laughter, "look at Mikey! He's so funny!"
Yeah, so funny I want to punch him in the throat.
But, then I did look. I looked at my son, at the glow behind his eyes, at the way his cheeks filled up when he laughed, at the pure joy in him. It was the joy of Christmas. Sure, it was the joy of Christmas at 2:36am, but it was the joy of Christmas just the same.
When Ben and Becca were infants, one of my favorite times with them was nursing in the middle of the night. It was special when I fed Emma then, too, but I was a single mom so Emma and I were always alone, and it wasn't quite the same. When I was up with Ben and Becca, the whole rest of the house was asleep. It was like a secret club to which only we belonged. We would rock, watch bad TV, and I would tell them about what the world be like as they got bigger. It was nothing short of magical.
By waking me up and bringing me on his elf quest, Ben had brought that magic back to me. I so remember being a young child, wiggling under my covers, hoping that I at least looked asleep so that Santa wouldn't pass by our house. I remember hearing my Grandpa McCord playing a tape (of course, I didn't know it was a tape at the time), of the reindeers' hooves on the rooftop and the jingle of the bells on their harness and thinking, "We have GOT to get home!" I remember writing letters, making wishes, thanking Santa when I opened that special gift Christmas morning. I remember believing so hard, loving the magic, feeling "in love" with Christmas.
So, each night last year between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, I got up at whatever godforsaken hour Ben came in, and we would hunt down the elves. Occasionally, someone's elf hadn't moved, and we'd discuss what the person had done to cause that. He would always, always remind me, "Mom, you don't touch the elves. It makes them lose their magic." We would creep through the house, sometimes just using a flashlight, and hunt those little guys down. Every time we'd find them, we'd laugh. "Mikey's so silly, Mom," Ben would say every time, and my brain would record it to play back someday when he was 16, and too old for silliness.
Thanksgiving is this Thursday, and I've been waiting. We actually had to cross off days on the calendar for Ben and make a little box around "elf day," he's been anticipating it so eagerly. I don't know who's looking forward to it more, Ben or me. Will my little boy still be in love with the magic of Christmas? Will he still include me in his gleeful elf hunt? I'll have to wait until 2:36am Friday to see.
My niece, eternally the bold one, touched her elf (poked is actually a better word, I believe), which sent not only her elf but those of her brother and sister off to Santa's workshop. I think the other two stopped talking to her for a while--not that Gracie cared--and eventually they were all given a second chance.
Emma once asked, after having a lengthy conversation at school with a child who did NOT have an elf, why we were so lucky. "Grandpa used to do Santa's taxes," Eric told her, and that satisfied any curiosity she may have had about whether this elf stuff was real or not. She would still stare for long periods of time, and sometimes I would even catch her whispering to Bernard, perhaps trying to justify any deeds for the day. Yes, Emma deeply believed in her elf, and in the magic of Christmas. I thought I had really seen what it looked like to fall in love with Christmas hook-line-and-sinker when I watched Em with that elf. Until Ben had his fourth Christmas.
When Ben was a toddler, then two and three years old, he didn't really get the elf thing. Not that it was his fault; he didn't really get the whole "walking on two legs" thing then, either. But his fourth year, shortly before he turned four, Ben's world exploded. The morning after Thanksgiving, Emma got him up and pointed out the elves (one each for her, him, and Becca). The previous year, Ben had been into "Toy Story," and had named his elf Woody. Upon seeing the elf this fourth year, he immediately decided that Woody would like to be called Mikey, after the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle (because what cowboy doesn't have a Ninja Turtle hiding deep inside him somewhere?). Ben watched Mikey all day, waiting for him to move. He brought him toys to see, told him stories, sang him little songs. He didn't want Mikey being bored, sitting there in the same spot all day.
That night, I was awakened by a little hand shaking my face. "Mom, did my elf move?" It was Ben. Now, my kids do not get up in the night. I mean, maybe they wake up in the night, but they are just plain not allowed to come in our room and mess with us. Momma likes her sleep. If Momma don't sleep, well, it's ugly. So, Ben may occasionally have a nightmare or a bathroom incident, but he is quickly scuttled back into his room. It's always an "emergency" if you come into our room. It is not, I repeat, NOT to pull me out of bed to go look for some stupid stuffed toy.
"What?" I replied, groggy, and certain that I had heard him incorrectly.
"C'mon, Mom, get up. Did my elf move? We gotta look." He was pulling on my arm now, and heading out the bedroom door. He is freakishly strong in the night when I am still half-asleep.
"Dude, we are not-- Benjamin, seriously. It's 2:36am, Buddy. We are not looking for that elf!"
But we did look. We looked in the kitchen, the laundry room, and the bathroom. The elves, per tradition, had started out in the kids' stockings, so we knew they had moved. The search was on. That first night, they were in the kids' bathroom, hanging upside down from the shower curtain.
"Mom," Ben was gasping with laughter, "look at Mikey! He's so funny!"
Yeah, so funny I want to punch him in the throat.
But, then I did look. I looked at my son, at the glow behind his eyes, at the way his cheeks filled up when he laughed, at the pure joy in him. It was the joy of Christmas. Sure, it was the joy of Christmas at 2:36am, but it was the joy of Christmas just the same.
When Ben and Becca were infants, one of my favorite times with them was nursing in the middle of the night. It was special when I fed Emma then, too, but I was a single mom so Emma and I were always alone, and it wasn't quite the same. When I was up with Ben and Becca, the whole rest of the house was asleep. It was like a secret club to which only we belonged. We would rock, watch bad TV, and I would tell them about what the world be like as they got bigger. It was nothing short of magical.
By waking me up and bringing me on his elf quest, Ben had brought that magic back to me. I so remember being a young child, wiggling under my covers, hoping that I at least looked asleep so that Santa wouldn't pass by our house. I remember hearing my Grandpa McCord playing a tape (of course, I didn't know it was a tape at the time), of the reindeers' hooves on the rooftop and the jingle of the bells on their harness and thinking, "We have GOT to get home!" I remember writing letters, making wishes, thanking Santa when I opened that special gift Christmas morning. I remember believing so hard, loving the magic, feeling "in love" with Christmas.
So, each night last year between Thanksgiving and Christmas Eve, I got up at whatever godforsaken hour Ben came in, and we would hunt down the elves. Occasionally, someone's elf hadn't moved, and we'd discuss what the person had done to cause that. He would always, always remind me, "Mom, you don't touch the elves. It makes them lose their magic." We would creep through the house, sometimes just using a flashlight, and hunt those little guys down. Every time we'd find them, we'd laugh. "Mikey's so silly, Mom," Ben would say every time, and my brain would record it to play back someday when he was 16, and too old for silliness.
Thanksgiving is this Thursday, and I've been waiting. We actually had to cross off days on the calendar for Ben and make a little box around "elf day," he's been anticipating it so eagerly. I don't know who's looking forward to it more, Ben or me. Will my little boy still be in love with the magic of Christmas? Will he still include me in his gleeful elf hunt? I'll have to wait until 2:36am Friday to see.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
"Hey, Mrs. Hall, look!"
This past summer, to be totally honest with you, I did everything in my power to quit my day job. I just plain did not want to go back to work. It was a combination of things, not any one thing in particular; but I really, really, didn't want to do it.
First, I'd had a rough couple of years in the classroom. I mean like screamers, criers, throw-a-pencil-at-my-eye kind of kids. I'd get up every day and think, "Hey, maybe today I'll get in a wreck and not have to go to work for a few months." I tried every trick up my sleeve, but some years are just like that. Some combinations of kids are just, well, tiring. So, there was that.
Also, I don't teach with Jill anymore. In fact, I don't even teach near Jill anymore. After 11 years of team teaching, 14 years of planning together, I don't have Jill to bounce all my ideas off of. And that has been so strange, so life altering, that I'm not even sure I could accurately describe what it's been like. And, since I kind of still teach the same thing, and she's moved to kindergarten, it's really felt a lot like we divorced-- and she left me. So, you know, there's that, too.
Then there's the fact that, in June, I went to this awesome writing retreat (props, Wade), and got some serious work done on my novel. The novel that has been in my head for six years, but only ebbs onto paper in tiny increments, and then is put down for months (or years) at a time. Working on the novel, reading other writers' writing, it really made me feel ready for the next chapter of my life. The one where I am a full time writer. Where I plan out what part of my day I'm going to write, where I travel and do book tours at little independent book sellers like Saturn in Gaylord, where I have time to research what I want to say and do. I even tried desperately to get editing jobs (because editing is such a part of me that I often want to stop and change stores' signs or mail back edited versions of letters businesses have sent us), and I couldn't get it off the ground. Apparently, you have to have editing experience in order to get hired (and get some experience). So, then, there was that.
Put it all together, and I was one reluctant puppy come August. In fact, I don't think I even went into my classroom until LATE August. Normally, the whole room would be set up, I'd have cute boards up and new nameplates and arranged it all... This year I was lucky it got done by the time their little toes stepped through the door. But, step through the door they did and so, I'm back being employed as a teacher.
Every morning, at what I like to refer to as "the crap of dawn" or "five-freakin'-thirty" Eric turns off the alarm, turns on the light, stands up, and says, "Come on. Get up," in this just-this-side-of-mean voice. I really hate him then. I stay firm in the covers, wish him leprosy or a severed limb or something, and eventually get out of bed. It's still dark, very dark, at five-freakin' thirty, for those of you who are still slumbering, blissfully unaware. As I pull on my stinky work-out clothes and trudge down the steps to ride the exercise bike, I think, "I hate my life. This sucks," and I am not a teacher. No, I am a lump who moves the pedals, stares straight ahead, waits for the timer to go off.
After a quick shower, I dress my own kids for day care, eat a granola bar, make my coffee, chase my teenager around the house, and get ready to start the day. Still, I am mindless, hollow, aching for the other life, the one where my fingers are flying across the keyboard and my every idea is a masterpiece. I think about clothes I would wear to book signings, ideas I have for new stories, witty comments I would make to publishers. Then Em and I pull into the parking lot, we face the school, and reality sets in. I am not a full time writer. I am not home for the day or flying off to New York (though that part's probably good because planes scare the shit out of me). I am teaching a room full of 6-year-olds, and I better get ready.
At 8:05, my world completely changes. They come in. "Mrs. Hall, look at my new shirt." "I made this for you!" "Mrs. Hall, did you know that sharks don't have any bones? They're all just carnage!" (You mean cartilage, sweetie.) Hug. Hug. Love note. Funny story. Hug.
Yeah, they actually pay me to do this. I get to spend my whole DAY with these people. Now, don't get me wrong, sometimes they can really get under my skin. But, man, they are the cutest. Show them a new song? They'll dance it. Drop a marker on the floor purposefully? They'll laugh like you're an A-list comedian. Teach them a new reading strategy? They'll mimic you until they've got it right. Say words like "close to the moment," "schema," and "number sentence"? They'll use those terms like pros.
See, the great thing about teaching is that you always get a do-over. Maybe you start off with a bad attitude, but you can try again. Every fall, a new batch comes in, even if you're looping, and you get to start fresh. So, these people will laugh at my bad jokes and try out my tricks like they're brand new ideas. Because, to them, it's all new. They are little sprouts of what they'll someday become, and I get a chance to be the sun and water in their lives for a little while. Honestly, it just doesn't get much better than that.
First, I'd had a rough couple of years in the classroom. I mean like screamers, criers, throw-a-pencil-at-my-eye kind of kids. I'd get up every day and think, "Hey, maybe today I'll get in a wreck and not have to go to work for a few months." I tried every trick up my sleeve, but some years are just like that. Some combinations of kids are just, well, tiring. So, there was that.
Also, I don't teach with Jill anymore. In fact, I don't even teach near Jill anymore. After 11 years of team teaching, 14 years of planning together, I don't have Jill to bounce all my ideas off of. And that has been so strange, so life altering, that I'm not even sure I could accurately describe what it's been like. And, since I kind of still teach the same thing, and she's moved to kindergarten, it's really felt a lot like we divorced-- and she left me. So, you know, there's that, too.
Then there's the fact that, in June, I went to this awesome writing retreat (props, Wade), and got some serious work done on my novel. The novel that has been in my head for six years, but only ebbs onto paper in tiny increments, and then is put down for months (or years) at a time. Working on the novel, reading other writers' writing, it really made me feel ready for the next chapter of my life. The one where I am a full time writer. Where I plan out what part of my day I'm going to write, where I travel and do book tours at little independent book sellers like Saturn in Gaylord, where I have time to research what I want to say and do. I even tried desperately to get editing jobs (because editing is such a part of me that I often want to stop and change stores' signs or mail back edited versions of letters businesses have sent us), and I couldn't get it off the ground. Apparently, you have to have editing experience in order to get hired (and get some experience). So, then, there was that.
Put it all together, and I was one reluctant puppy come August. In fact, I don't think I even went into my classroom until LATE August. Normally, the whole room would be set up, I'd have cute boards up and new nameplates and arranged it all... This year I was lucky it got done by the time their little toes stepped through the door. But, step through the door they did and so, I'm back being employed as a teacher.
Every morning, at what I like to refer to as "the crap of dawn" or "five-freakin'-thirty" Eric turns off the alarm, turns on the light, stands up, and says, "Come on. Get up," in this just-this-side-of-mean voice. I really hate him then. I stay firm in the covers, wish him leprosy or a severed limb or something, and eventually get out of bed. It's still dark, very dark, at five-freakin' thirty, for those of you who are still slumbering, blissfully unaware. As I pull on my stinky work-out clothes and trudge down the steps to ride the exercise bike, I think, "I hate my life. This sucks," and I am not a teacher. No, I am a lump who moves the pedals, stares straight ahead, waits for the timer to go off.
After a quick shower, I dress my own kids for day care, eat a granola bar, make my coffee, chase my teenager around the house, and get ready to start the day. Still, I am mindless, hollow, aching for the other life, the one where my fingers are flying across the keyboard and my every idea is a masterpiece. I think about clothes I would wear to book signings, ideas I have for new stories, witty comments I would make to publishers. Then Em and I pull into the parking lot, we face the school, and reality sets in. I am not a full time writer. I am not home for the day or flying off to New York (though that part's probably good because planes scare the shit out of me). I am teaching a room full of 6-year-olds, and I better get ready.
At 8:05, my world completely changes. They come in. "Mrs. Hall, look at my new shirt." "I made this for you!" "Mrs. Hall, did you know that sharks don't have any bones? They're all just carnage!" (You mean cartilage, sweetie.) Hug. Hug. Love note. Funny story. Hug.
Yeah, they actually pay me to do this. I get to spend my whole DAY with these people. Now, don't get me wrong, sometimes they can really get under my skin. But, man, they are the cutest. Show them a new song? They'll dance it. Drop a marker on the floor purposefully? They'll laugh like you're an A-list comedian. Teach them a new reading strategy? They'll mimic you until they've got it right. Say words like "close to the moment," "schema," and "number sentence"? They'll use those terms like pros.
See, the great thing about teaching is that you always get a do-over. Maybe you start off with a bad attitude, but you can try again. Every fall, a new batch comes in, even if you're looping, and you get to start fresh. So, these people will laugh at my bad jokes and try out my tricks like they're brand new ideas. Because, to them, it's all new. They are little sprouts of what they'll someday become, and I get a chance to be the sun and water in their lives for a little while. Honestly, it just doesn't get much better than that.
Monday, August 19, 2013
A Clean Slate
I painted one of our bathrooms today. Just a little bathroom, not even a powder bath (no sink); it barely took two hours. But I still feel accomplished, excited, renewed.
I love to paint. You can take a place that looks drab, old, murky, and turn it into something completely new. I love starting with just the vision of what it could be--this new place. You think about colors, patterns, maybe what decorations you could add. Then, after taping (I really hate taping), you start to transform. To me, half the fun is stopping in the middle, checking my progress; like watching a sunset slowly slide into the horizon, I can watch the old walls slowly disappear and the new room begin to take form.
Sure, some of it is the high from the paint fumes. And some of it is the zen-like groove I get: dip the roller, make some Xs, roll to blend sideways, then finish it all with a vertical sweep to smooth the wall. Repeat. But, mostly, it's the possibility. I can turn this place into anything I want. And, hey, if I don't like it, I can just start again!
I think part of me likes this about teaching, as well. Each new school year is like a room I've just painted. It's bright, fresh, new; now, what do I want to do with it? Each school year starts out with the possibilities of a great class, of hilarious moments, of teaching kids something that didn't think they would ever learn. Each year I have new techniques, new ideas, different plans for how I want to change things up. I can't imagine looking around at the same, boring walls each year, saying the same speeches, doing lessons the same way. Each year I have to pick out a bright color, a bolder way of looking at things, a different game plan that will fit with this group of kids. Like painting, teaching has a way of making the old new, of wiping out the bad or out-of-style decor from before, and giving me hope of what could be.
Sometimes, a project requires sanding, spackle, sanding some more, maybe even replacing some of the wood. Sometimes, a class requires breaking bad habits, molding better behaviors, maybe even completely changing a kid's perspective on his/her own way of maneuvering through life. But when you see the finished product, when you hear someone else say, "Oh, my, what a change," it's always worth the extra elbow grease in the end.
My father-in-law just got me a really cool present (a Miguel Cabrera plaque!), as a thank you for work I've done on the family cabin--painting being one of the jobs I've personally enjoyed the most. I also just got a thank you note from a former student, a girl I've followed from the time she entered my classroom at age 6 until her graduation, this past June. The plaque and the thank you note are sitting together, front and center on my desk in the living room, a reminder of how others can be affected by what I do. But in both cases, the thanks aren't necessary. The reward is sitting back and looking with pride at a job well done, at how a little paint can make a difference one stroke at a time.
I love to paint. You can take a place that looks drab, old, murky, and turn it into something completely new. I love starting with just the vision of what it could be--this new place. You think about colors, patterns, maybe what decorations you could add. Then, after taping (I really hate taping), you start to transform. To me, half the fun is stopping in the middle, checking my progress; like watching a sunset slowly slide into the horizon, I can watch the old walls slowly disappear and the new room begin to take form.
Sure, some of it is the high from the paint fumes. And some of it is the zen-like groove I get: dip the roller, make some Xs, roll to blend sideways, then finish it all with a vertical sweep to smooth the wall. Repeat. But, mostly, it's the possibility. I can turn this place into anything I want. And, hey, if I don't like it, I can just start again!
I think part of me likes this about teaching, as well. Each new school year is like a room I've just painted. It's bright, fresh, new; now, what do I want to do with it? Each school year starts out with the possibilities of a great class, of hilarious moments, of teaching kids something that didn't think they would ever learn. Each year I have new techniques, new ideas, different plans for how I want to change things up. I can't imagine looking around at the same, boring walls each year, saying the same speeches, doing lessons the same way. Each year I have to pick out a bright color, a bolder way of looking at things, a different game plan that will fit with this group of kids. Like painting, teaching has a way of making the old new, of wiping out the bad or out-of-style decor from before, and giving me hope of what could be.
Sometimes, a project requires sanding, spackle, sanding some more, maybe even replacing some of the wood. Sometimes, a class requires breaking bad habits, molding better behaviors, maybe even completely changing a kid's perspective on his/her own way of maneuvering through life. But when you see the finished product, when you hear someone else say, "Oh, my, what a change," it's always worth the extra elbow grease in the end.
My father-in-law just got me a really cool present (a Miguel Cabrera plaque!), as a thank you for work I've done on the family cabin--painting being one of the jobs I've personally enjoyed the most. I also just got a thank you note from a former student, a girl I've followed from the time she entered my classroom at age 6 until her graduation, this past June. The plaque and the thank you note are sitting together, front and center on my desk in the living room, a reminder of how others can be affected by what I do. But in both cases, the thanks aren't necessary. The reward is sitting back and looking with pride at a job well done, at how a little paint can make a difference one stroke at a time.
Wednesday, August 7, 2013
Breaking Up is Hard to Do
Depression can feel like an old, comfortable lover. You don't want to see this guy. But he comes around and--as much as you avert your eyes, walk in the opposite direction, try to put obstacles in his way--you can feel him coming for you.
He follows close behind you for days; he whispers into your neck, "You know, it will feel so good."
And it can. Depression can lay upon you, cover you with its dark, fleecy blanket, pull you deep into its nothingness. If you've never had true depression--that deep pit of sadness for no particular reason--then you may not know how cozy it can be.
Like the old lover, depression calls to you, "Come back to bed. Just one more hour won't hurt anyone." The curve of the pillow beneath your head, the softness of the covers around your neck. The mattress swallows all that ails you: that list that never gets finished, the extra bit of work you brought home, that frustrating behavior you can't cure for your children, the laundry, the bills, the little snippy words that people have said that settled upon your heart.
In your life, you can make a commitment to stay away from depression, just like you would avoid that old lover in your marriage. You take your medication, practice positive thoughts, list all the reasons to be happy; the way you would delete the old lover's emails, walk away from him in a store, tell him "Not interested," and try to move on.
But the draw is always there. Depression is like the old lover who lurks behind corners; you can see his eye peering at you from behind a cupboard, the reflection of his face in the corner of the bathroom mirror. You open a book, and there's a picture of the two of you together, snuggled, joined as one. But the next page has your beautiful family, your husband, your children, and you know I will not go there. I will not let you pull me in; I will not fall into your chasm.
Sometimes, though, you cannot resist. Your shoulders get heavy, your feet are made of lead, your legs won't move; your body is working against you, pushing you into the bed. The lover folds his arms around you, and all you can remember is the sweet taste in your mouth, the satiny feel of his skin against yours, how you fit against one another like two pieces of the same puzzle. You relish in the gloom, look at the world through gray colored glasses, carry depression in your pocket to take out and rub between your fingers until you can get back into your bed. The whole world seems different--the opposite of when you're falling in love--as though each person, each encounter, is specifically designed against you. Song lyrics have new meaning; your children's actions, your husband's words, your boss's agendas--they're all meant to push you farther into the hole. You sink down, down, feeling it press upon you, and nothing about you wants to fight it anymore.
There are people for whom depression wins. Suicide. Accidental overdose. Divorce. Child abuse. Grumpy bitches who bite your head off for the least little thing.
I, however, will not be one of those people. I will turn around, confront the old lover face-to-face. I will tell him off, remind him of all the reasons he is wrong for me. I'll punch him if I need to. I will climb from the tomb of sadness, dig my fingers deep into the mud and pull myself up the sides. I will hug my children, read them stories, play games with them. I will tease my teenager and listen to her stories of what middle school is really like. I will slide my arm across the bed in the night and find my husband's arm--hold tight--and stay afloat. I will do ridiculous dances with my students in my classroom, and find ways to put my own spin on the top-down directions for how I'm supposed to teach. I will find the joy in the day.
Depression, you had your chance with me. We are never, ever, ever getting back together. Like, ever.
He follows close behind you for days; he whispers into your neck, "You know, it will feel so good."
And it can. Depression can lay upon you, cover you with its dark, fleecy blanket, pull you deep into its nothingness. If you've never had true depression--that deep pit of sadness for no particular reason--then you may not know how cozy it can be.
Like the old lover, depression calls to you, "Come back to bed. Just one more hour won't hurt anyone." The curve of the pillow beneath your head, the softness of the covers around your neck. The mattress swallows all that ails you: that list that never gets finished, the extra bit of work you brought home, that frustrating behavior you can't cure for your children, the laundry, the bills, the little snippy words that people have said that settled upon your heart.
In your life, you can make a commitment to stay away from depression, just like you would avoid that old lover in your marriage. You take your medication, practice positive thoughts, list all the reasons to be happy; the way you would delete the old lover's emails, walk away from him in a store, tell him "Not interested," and try to move on.
But the draw is always there. Depression is like the old lover who lurks behind corners; you can see his eye peering at you from behind a cupboard, the reflection of his face in the corner of the bathroom mirror. You open a book, and there's a picture of the two of you together, snuggled, joined as one. But the next page has your beautiful family, your husband, your children, and you know I will not go there. I will not let you pull me in; I will not fall into your chasm.
Sometimes, though, you cannot resist. Your shoulders get heavy, your feet are made of lead, your legs won't move; your body is working against you, pushing you into the bed. The lover folds his arms around you, and all you can remember is the sweet taste in your mouth, the satiny feel of his skin against yours, how you fit against one another like two pieces of the same puzzle. You relish in the gloom, look at the world through gray colored glasses, carry depression in your pocket to take out and rub between your fingers until you can get back into your bed. The whole world seems different--the opposite of when you're falling in love--as though each person, each encounter, is specifically designed against you. Song lyrics have new meaning; your children's actions, your husband's words, your boss's agendas--they're all meant to push you farther into the hole. You sink down, down, feeling it press upon you, and nothing about you wants to fight it anymore.
There are people for whom depression wins. Suicide. Accidental overdose. Divorce. Child abuse. Grumpy bitches who bite your head off for the least little thing.
I, however, will not be one of those people. I will turn around, confront the old lover face-to-face. I will tell him off, remind him of all the reasons he is wrong for me. I'll punch him if I need to. I will climb from the tomb of sadness, dig my fingers deep into the mud and pull myself up the sides. I will hug my children, read them stories, play games with them. I will tease my teenager and listen to her stories of what middle school is really like. I will slide my arm across the bed in the night and find my husband's arm--hold tight--and stay afloat. I will do ridiculous dances with my students in my classroom, and find ways to put my own spin on the top-down directions for how I'm supposed to teach. I will find the joy in the day.
Depression, you had your chance with me. We are never, ever, ever getting back together. Like, ever.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
The Queen
Hello there. To all of you who do not know me (and really, dear, how did you let it go this long?), my name is Carolina, and I am the West Highland White Terrier who owns the Halls. The Halls do refer to me in several other Peopletalk words: Carolina Pine Forest, Piney, Pineapple Snapple, and (this next one is new from the little person, Becca) Kiney. I, on the other hand, prefer to just think of myself as "The Queen." We live together in a lovely home in Indian River, though it is not truly a palace, which would befit a terrier of my grace.
I do not come from humble beginnings--my given name is Green Valley's Miss Molly--but did have a rather rough start to it all. It began with my mother, a highly respectable Westie, and was taken home by a couple who--through no fault of mine--decided that they could no longer reside together. I have been told that, at this point in their relationship, the dastardly duo decided I should be put-down, rather than decide with whom I should reside. As fate was my fortune, a kind, frizzy-haired man rescued me, and brought me to meet Eric (the one the little people refer to as "Daddy").
Eric and I made fine bedfellows, living first in a very small cottage. It had a lovely view, but he had a peculiar habit of putting up a fence for me to climb in order for me to be able to enter the main living area. There was also an unfortunate incident with this odd contraption that would occasionally make rhythmic noise; I believe the word Eric used to refer to it was "music." This machine turned on one day while Eric was away, doing whatever it was that he did in the human world. I had apparently angered the machine, because the noise was louder than usual. I barked, but this machine was not to be trifled with. Barking did not phase it, so I knew I would have to result to brute force. A bump of my nose, and it became more angry, more loud. Again, I barked and nosed; again the machine grew louder. In fact, now it shook the floorboards with its anger. Well, I was no timid puppy, this machine was not going to win. I backed up, set my eyes square on the machine's jowls, and attacked. The machine screamed. It shook the house and wailed until I thought we might both go up in flames. Then, with one final, tremendous blare, the front of the machine blew forward, and the noise stopped. I had won. I believe this taught a lesson to all other contraptions in the house, as nothing else has given me trouble since.
I was pleased when Eric moved us from the cottage into a modest home in Cheboygan, where there were no odd fences or barriers in my path. In the evenings, I would allow Eric to be in the big bed, where he wrapped the covers around me. In the days, I would alert Eric each time danger approached--in the manner of an automobile passing by the home--by using my gift of a fine, shrill bark. And so we passed our time together for four years, waiting for something interesting to come along.
Then came Laura (the one that the little people call "Mommy") and Emma. I am sure, if you are reading this, you have met Laura. You know what a delightful human she is. Well, she loved me at first sight. I made a point to follow her around, sit behind her head when she sat on the couch, give her my bark of approval whenever I could, because I could tell that she adored me. She had clearly been lacking a White Terrier in her life, and I was willing to take that position, for prosperity's sake. I knew, for instance, that she immediately loved me, because she was always speaking to me. She would say things like, "Carolina, get out of my stinking way," or "Would you please shut up? You are driving me nuts!" Now, I do not understand much of Peopletalk, but I could tell from her loving tone that, in Laura, I had found my pet for life.
When Laura became pregnant with the first small person, the one the people refer to as Ben-Ben, I could tell right away. I became more diligent in my watchings of her, following her heels closely with my snout. When she would sit or lie down, I would place myself next to the growing baby, guarding it with my own life. Occasionally, I would get uncomfortable, as I would have to get deep into the covers at night to lie directly between Laura's legs, but I knew it was my duty as the caretaker of the home. I had to protect my people, even before they were born.
If I did have one complaint about Laura, it would be that she is often tardy in attending to my needs. As my pet, it is her function to ensure that I am fed, that I am let out to relieve myself, that I am groomed and coddled as needed, and that my water is refreshened when I deem necessary. There are just many times that Laura is, well, sitting. It really began when that Ben-Ben was taken out of her womb and released into our home. The least little sound from him would require Laura to pick him up and then promptly sit down in the green recliner with him snug close to her. Often, this happened just as I needed one of my duties attended to. If I attempted to climb into the chair with Laura, I would actually be shooed away (I hate to have to admit this about my darling pet; but, it is the truth.). If I barked, signaling my need for fresh water or a trip around the yard, Laura would not put that Ben-Ben down and attend to me. I know it sounds rude and inconsiderate, but I really have to believe it was due to some maternal hormone making Laura act strangely. There are times now, too, when she just does not seem to understand how important my needs are. For example, again in the green chair, Laura will sit with that Ben-Ben and the new one they call Becca, doing nothing but saying some Peopletalk from things the little people call "books." How something from one of these useless looking items could be more important than scratching behind my ears is absolutely beyond me.
In addition, I do have to mention a second complaint. In the night, I have to occasionally make a guard run, where I survey the front porch and yard to make sure that dangers are not approaching us. When I awaken Laura to open the means of entry and exit, I often have to use a mild bark, a more forceful bark, and--embarrassingly--a high-pitched yip before she will exit her bed. Then, as I am performing my survey, she says words that I can only assume are unkind ("Car-o-li-na, would you just go potty?!" or "Hurry your little white butt up!"), as her tone is harsh. I am certain, though, that, if she could only understand the importance of my task, Laura would return to her adoring self, my favorite pet.
All-in-all, it is a good life. I am well fed, I do get to visit Eric's mother (who truly understands the needs of a queen), and I have my pets. I could have done without the last two, those little people, as they often grab my fur or try to get me to chase after ridiculous items. I know that biting these little people is below me, thus a low growl or a well-spaced snap is all I ever use to warn them. This usually gets them to understand that Lily is actually the dog in this family. Lily will chase sticks, fetch toys, chew rawhides, and roll over to have her belly rubbed. No, this is not for me. It is important that all the Halls always understand that I am Carolina and I am The Queen.
I do not come from humble beginnings--my given name is Green Valley's Miss Molly--but did have a rather rough start to it all. It began with my mother, a highly respectable Westie, and was taken home by a couple who--through no fault of mine--decided that they could no longer reside together. I have been told that, at this point in their relationship, the dastardly duo decided I should be put-down, rather than decide with whom I should reside. As fate was my fortune, a kind, frizzy-haired man rescued me, and brought me to meet Eric (the one the little people refer to as "Daddy").
Eric and I made fine bedfellows, living first in a very small cottage. It had a lovely view, but he had a peculiar habit of putting up a fence for me to climb in order for me to be able to enter the main living area. There was also an unfortunate incident with this odd contraption that would occasionally make rhythmic noise; I believe the word Eric used to refer to it was "music." This machine turned on one day while Eric was away, doing whatever it was that he did in the human world. I had apparently angered the machine, because the noise was louder than usual. I barked, but this machine was not to be trifled with. Barking did not phase it, so I knew I would have to result to brute force. A bump of my nose, and it became more angry, more loud. Again, I barked and nosed; again the machine grew louder. In fact, now it shook the floorboards with its anger. Well, I was no timid puppy, this machine was not going to win. I backed up, set my eyes square on the machine's jowls, and attacked. The machine screamed. It shook the house and wailed until I thought we might both go up in flames. Then, with one final, tremendous blare, the front of the machine blew forward, and the noise stopped. I had won. I believe this taught a lesson to all other contraptions in the house, as nothing else has given me trouble since.
I was pleased when Eric moved us from the cottage into a modest home in Cheboygan, where there were no odd fences or barriers in my path. In the evenings, I would allow Eric to be in the big bed, where he wrapped the covers around me. In the days, I would alert Eric each time danger approached--in the manner of an automobile passing by the home--by using my gift of a fine, shrill bark. And so we passed our time together for four years, waiting for something interesting to come along.
Then came Laura (the one that the little people call "Mommy") and Emma. I am sure, if you are reading this, you have met Laura. You know what a delightful human she is. Well, she loved me at first sight. I made a point to follow her around, sit behind her head when she sat on the couch, give her my bark of approval whenever I could, because I could tell that she adored me. She had clearly been lacking a White Terrier in her life, and I was willing to take that position, for prosperity's sake. I knew, for instance, that she immediately loved me, because she was always speaking to me. She would say things like, "Carolina, get out of my stinking way," or "Would you please shut up? You are driving me nuts!" Now, I do not understand much of Peopletalk, but I could tell from her loving tone that, in Laura, I had found my pet for life.
When Laura became pregnant with the first small person, the one the people refer to as Ben-Ben, I could tell right away. I became more diligent in my watchings of her, following her heels closely with my snout. When she would sit or lie down, I would place myself next to the growing baby, guarding it with my own life. Occasionally, I would get uncomfortable, as I would have to get deep into the covers at night to lie directly between Laura's legs, but I knew it was my duty as the caretaker of the home. I had to protect my people, even before they were born.
If I did have one complaint about Laura, it would be that she is often tardy in attending to my needs. As my pet, it is her function to ensure that I am fed, that I am let out to relieve myself, that I am groomed and coddled as needed, and that my water is refreshened when I deem necessary. There are just many times that Laura is, well, sitting. It really began when that Ben-Ben was taken out of her womb and released into our home. The least little sound from him would require Laura to pick him up and then promptly sit down in the green recliner with him snug close to her. Often, this happened just as I needed one of my duties attended to. If I attempted to climb into the chair with Laura, I would actually be shooed away (I hate to have to admit this about my darling pet; but, it is the truth.). If I barked, signaling my need for fresh water or a trip around the yard, Laura would not put that Ben-Ben down and attend to me. I know it sounds rude and inconsiderate, but I really have to believe it was due to some maternal hormone making Laura act strangely. There are times now, too, when she just does not seem to understand how important my needs are. For example, again in the green chair, Laura will sit with that Ben-Ben and the new one they call Becca, doing nothing but saying some Peopletalk from things the little people call "books." How something from one of these useless looking items could be more important than scratching behind my ears is absolutely beyond me.
In addition, I do have to mention a second complaint. In the night, I have to occasionally make a guard run, where I survey the front porch and yard to make sure that dangers are not approaching us. When I awaken Laura to open the means of entry and exit, I often have to use a mild bark, a more forceful bark, and--embarrassingly--a high-pitched yip before she will exit her bed. Then, as I am performing my survey, she says words that I can only assume are unkind ("Car-o-li-na, would you just go potty?!" or "Hurry your little white butt up!"), as her tone is harsh. I am certain, though, that, if she could only understand the importance of my task, Laura would return to her adoring self, my favorite pet.
All-in-all, it is a good life. I am well fed, I do get to visit Eric's mother (who truly understands the needs of a queen), and I have my pets. I could have done without the last two, those little people, as they often grab my fur or try to get me to chase after ridiculous items. I know that biting these little people is below me, thus a low growl or a well-spaced snap is all I ever use to warn them. This usually gets them to understand that Lily is actually the dog in this family. Lily will chase sticks, fetch toys, chew rawhides, and roll over to have her belly rubbed. No, this is not for me. It is important that all the Halls always understand that I am Carolina and I am The Queen.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
There's No Place Like Homes
A day at the cabin begins with a sunrise and ends with a smile.
I don't know who wrote it. Eric bought me one of those cute little wooden-box knick-knacks that has that saying on it. I am one of the lucky people in the world to know the truth in that statement. Some people have to camp in tents or trailers. Some people live in apartments or "the projects" or a hut somewhere in the world and never even get the chance to stay in a cabin. Some people--gasp!--don't particularly care for "Mother Nature" and all she has to offer. But me, I am one of the lucky few... and I am even lucky enough to have had two cabins in my life.
The Promised Land
When I was twelve, my parents and I went to look at a place on the Jordan River, in East Jordan. While I was exploring its mosquito infested yard, checking out what there was to do (not much, in my twelve-year-old opinion), my dad was floating down the river in a camouflage inner-tube, checking out the fish. He passed by a different cabin on this float, a brown log place with a little sign out front that said, "The Promised Land" over the screened-in porch. This place was also for sale, so our realtor took us to this new "cabin in the woods."
We walked in the back door to see knotty pine walls, a giant wrap around fireplace, and wooden stairs leading to a loft. Despite the velvet tiger painting above the fireplace mantel, the orange macrame curtains, and the olive green cupboards, my mom turned to my dad behind the realtor's back and mouthed, "I want this." We all did.
The loft upstairs came with two log twin beds, one of which had a mattress so old that I was swallowed into its softness as soon as I laid down. There was a little half wall, so that I could peek out to the kitchen below, but feel like I was in my own world. My best friend, Sheri, and I would play Pictionary, do puzzles, read books, talk, giggle, play darts from bed (it was a pretty small loft), spy on my parents, listen to music, and just be up there throughout my teen years. In the winter, the loft was the warmest spot, and there was nothing more comfortable than getting into my bed, layering on blankets, and hunkering down. I have never slept better any place in the world.
In the summer, we'd canoe, tube down to the bridge (a 15 minute trip), take hikes, walk the dogs in the nearby field, and occasionally fight the mosquitoes to sit in the hammock and read. Swimming in the river was RARELY an option, as the water was frigid.
One summer, we re-stained the outside of the cabin, but lost water from the pump. Since we couldn't shower--and, boy, did we need it--we decided a dip in the river was warranted. My dad went in first, the shock on his face almost enough to keep me out. As we stood together in the icy flow, Dad whispered, "Don't tell your mother. She'll never get in--and she stinks!"
So, when Mom came out into the front yard and asked, "How's the water?" we both lied.
"It's great," we said, "come on in!" We made a big play of bouncing around, splashing a little with our blue-tinged arms.
Mom ran and jumped--and screamed! "Charles Daniel, you are a LIAR!" She didn't stay in very long.
In the winter, we'd cross country ski, snowshoe, play board games, do crosswords, watch bad TV, read books, and sleep the sleep of the dead. Sometimes, the road would be so blown-over with drifts that we'd have to load the toboggan with our bags and plod through the snow down the private road.
Most times, when we would get there, it would be so cold inside the cabin that the temperature would not even register on the old-fashioned thermometer. Dad would start up the hot water register heat, make a fire in the fireplace, and celebrate with a beer when we could finally see the red needle rise in the thermometer's window (forty degrees!). I would be up in my bed, snuggled under my covers, book in hand, and smile when I heard the tell-tale crack of the can.
One New Year's Eve, my parents got sick and went to bed--their bedroom being the space next to the "living room" area. I remember calling out to them from my papasan chair (there were two, they were bamboo, and, yes, they came with the cabin, too) "Happy New Year, guys!" Our dog wagged her tail from my lap and licked my face.
A muffled reply came from under the covers, "Happy New Year, sweetie. Sorry you're out there alone!" Honestly, I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else.
To this day, when I pull down Thorsen River Drive, I can hear our dog begin to whine in my mind (and my dad smacking him with a ball cap to get him to knock it off). As I drive down the wooded driveway, trees dragging against my windows, I feel like I am driving into a magical tunnel. When I open the front door, I smell that woody, slightly musty smell, and I feel that cabin feeling. I am thirteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty. I hear my dad laugh, I feel the warmth of the fire on my feet, I see my mom doing cross-stitch in front of the television, I see canoers passing by the porch--I am home.
Clear Lake
As an adult, I waited around and did a grand search for the perfect guy for me. Eric proved to me that he was, indeed, THE ONE, by taking me away for any evening to his grandparents' cabin. Now, don't be thinking all hanky-panky here. At this point, Eric and I were just "frietentials" (friends with potential). We were not dating; he was not my boyfriend; we had never kissed.
Eric invited me to come on a mystery evening. Bring a sleeping bag, a bathroom bag, a sweatshirt, (a used q-tip, an eldelry person, a half-marked BINGO card, and a vial of deer urine) and prepare for fun. At this point, I didn't know whether or not Eric was even interested in me. We went out to dinner, took a four-wheeler ride past Joe Louis' old cabin, played cribbage, took a rowboat ride. And then, heck ya, I kissed him in the rowboat under the stars.
We were married at that very same cabin, down at the waterfront, the sun shining, the Beach Boys playing, the loon swimming around in the background.
In the spring, the first thing I want to do is go clean the cabin, and stay the night. Ben gets a little crazy--When are we staying at the cabin? When can we swim?--and I swear I do, too.
In the fall, when the leaves are changing, I love sleeping on the porch, heater going, snuggled under the blankets with my hubby. But in that same moment, I am sad, because I know that, soon, we will close things down, and we'll have to wait until spring again to come back.
Time stands still for my family when we are at the Clear Lake cabin. We take boat rides, we fish, we swim, we make fires in the fireplace, we snuggle on the couch, eating popcorn and watching old Disney movies. We catch frogs and read books and eat cereal out of those fun little boxes. We stay away from the rest of the world, and we hang together--us Halls--soaking up fun that we cannot seem to capture at home.
I have nursed two babies in the rocking chair on the front porch, watching the sunrise through the fog over the crystal glass lake. I have read wonderful novels, played countless games of cards, watched my babies go from toddlers who sat in the sand to swimmers who sprint off the dock, written blogs and portions of my novel there. I have learned to row a boat, drive a pontoon, play Hand and Foot, and become a wife--all on the tiniest lake you've ever seen.
Our dog, Lily, loves Clear Lake as much as any of us. She leaps from the car, runs to the shore, waits for someone to throw a stick. When we're all in the water, she'll come and swim past us--checking on us--making loops around all of us. She'll run and jump off the dock to fetch countless sticks, and, when we go on a boat ride, we have to take her with us or she'll just keep swimming after us. The dog can swim forever. Then, at night, she curls up in a little wet ball, and sleeps a deep sleep, dreaming of another day in the lake.
When we drive down Old State Road, my heart beats faster when I see "two trees" (or is it three?). As we drive down the driveway, I can physically feel myself begin the process of letting go of all the stress of real life--school work, the bills, the housework--and the magic of the cabin taking over. Once we have all of our stuff put away--the fridge stocked, the beds made, the toys laid out--I go out onto the porch and I look through the trees at the lake, our lake, and I am home.
I don't know who wrote it. Eric bought me one of those cute little wooden-box knick-knacks that has that saying on it. I am one of the lucky people in the world to know the truth in that statement. Some people have to camp in tents or trailers. Some people live in apartments or "the projects" or a hut somewhere in the world and never even get the chance to stay in a cabin. Some people--gasp!--don't particularly care for "Mother Nature" and all she has to offer. But me, I am one of the lucky few... and I am even lucky enough to have had two cabins in my life.
The Promised Land
When I was twelve, my parents and I went to look at a place on the Jordan River, in East Jordan. While I was exploring its mosquito infested yard, checking out what there was to do (not much, in my twelve-year-old opinion), my dad was floating down the river in a camouflage inner-tube, checking out the fish. He passed by a different cabin on this float, a brown log place with a little sign out front that said, "The Promised Land" over the screened-in porch. This place was also for sale, so our realtor took us to this new "cabin in the woods."
We walked in the back door to see knotty pine walls, a giant wrap around fireplace, and wooden stairs leading to a loft. Despite the velvet tiger painting above the fireplace mantel, the orange macrame curtains, and the olive green cupboards, my mom turned to my dad behind the realtor's back and mouthed, "I want this." We all did.
The loft upstairs came with two log twin beds, one of which had a mattress so old that I was swallowed into its softness as soon as I laid down. There was a little half wall, so that I could peek out to the kitchen below, but feel like I was in my own world. My best friend, Sheri, and I would play Pictionary, do puzzles, read books, talk, giggle, play darts from bed (it was a pretty small loft), spy on my parents, listen to music, and just be up there throughout my teen years. In the winter, the loft was the warmest spot, and there was nothing more comfortable than getting into my bed, layering on blankets, and hunkering down. I have never slept better any place in the world.
In the summer, we'd canoe, tube down to the bridge (a 15 minute trip), take hikes, walk the dogs in the nearby field, and occasionally fight the mosquitoes to sit in the hammock and read. Swimming in the river was RARELY an option, as the water was frigid.
One summer, we re-stained the outside of the cabin, but lost water from the pump. Since we couldn't shower--and, boy, did we need it--we decided a dip in the river was warranted. My dad went in first, the shock on his face almost enough to keep me out. As we stood together in the icy flow, Dad whispered, "Don't tell your mother. She'll never get in--and she stinks!"
So, when Mom came out into the front yard and asked, "How's the water?" we both lied.
"It's great," we said, "come on in!" We made a big play of bouncing around, splashing a little with our blue-tinged arms.
Mom ran and jumped--and screamed! "Charles Daniel, you are a LIAR!" She didn't stay in very long.
In the winter, we'd cross country ski, snowshoe, play board games, do crosswords, watch bad TV, read books, and sleep the sleep of the dead. Sometimes, the road would be so blown-over with drifts that we'd have to load the toboggan with our bags and plod through the snow down the private road.
Most times, when we would get there, it would be so cold inside the cabin that the temperature would not even register on the old-fashioned thermometer. Dad would start up the hot water register heat, make a fire in the fireplace, and celebrate with a beer when we could finally see the red needle rise in the thermometer's window (forty degrees!). I would be up in my bed, snuggled under my covers, book in hand, and smile when I heard the tell-tale crack of the can.
One New Year's Eve, my parents got sick and went to bed--their bedroom being the space next to the "living room" area. I remember calling out to them from my papasan chair (there were two, they were bamboo, and, yes, they came with the cabin, too) "Happy New Year, guys!" Our dog wagged her tail from my lap and licked my face.
A muffled reply came from under the covers, "Happy New Year, sweetie. Sorry you're out there alone!" Honestly, I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else.
To this day, when I pull down Thorsen River Drive, I can hear our dog begin to whine in my mind (and my dad smacking him with a ball cap to get him to knock it off). As I drive down the wooded driveway, trees dragging against my windows, I feel like I am driving into a magical tunnel. When I open the front door, I smell that woody, slightly musty smell, and I feel that cabin feeling. I am thirteen, sixteen, eighteen, twenty. I hear my dad laugh, I feel the warmth of the fire on my feet, I see my mom doing cross-stitch in front of the television, I see canoers passing by the porch--I am home.
Clear Lake
As an adult, I waited around and did a grand search for the perfect guy for me. Eric proved to me that he was, indeed, THE ONE, by taking me away for any evening to his grandparents' cabin. Now, don't be thinking all hanky-panky here. At this point, Eric and I were just "frietentials" (friends with potential). We were not dating; he was not my boyfriend; we had never kissed.
Eric invited me to come on a mystery evening. Bring a sleeping bag, a bathroom bag, a sweatshirt, (a used q-tip, an eldelry person, a half-marked BINGO card, and a vial of deer urine) and prepare for fun. At this point, I didn't know whether or not Eric was even interested in me. We went out to dinner, took a four-wheeler ride past Joe Louis' old cabin, played cribbage, took a rowboat ride. And then, heck ya, I kissed him in the rowboat under the stars.
We were married at that very same cabin, down at the waterfront, the sun shining, the Beach Boys playing, the loon swimming around in the background.
In the spring, the first thing I want to do is go clean the cabin, and stay the night. Ben gets a little crazy--When are we staying at the cabin? When can we swim?--and I swear I do, too.
In the fall, when the leaves are changing, I love sleeping on the porch, heater going, snuggled under the blankets with my hubby. But in that same moment, I am sad, because I know that, soon, we will close things down, and we'll have to wait until spring again to come back.
Time stands still for my family when we are at the Clear Lake cabin. We take boat rides, we fish, we swim, we make fires in the fireplace, we snuggle on the couch, eating popcorn and watching old Disney movies. We catch frogs and read books and eat cereal out of those fun little boxes. We stay away from the rest of the world, and we hang together--us Halls--soaking up fun that we cannot seem to capture at home.
I have nursed two babies in the rocking chair on the front porch, watching the sunrise through the fog over the crystal glass lake. I have read wonderful novels, played countless games of cards, watched my babies go from toddlers who sat in the sand to swimmers who sprint off the dock, written blogs and portions of my novel there. I have learned to row a boat, drive a pontoon, play Hand and Foot, and become a wife--all on the tiniest lake you've ever seen.
Our dog, Lily, loves Clear Lake as much as any of us. She leaps from the car, runs to the shore, waits for someone to throw a stick. When we're all in the water, she'll come and swim past us--checking on us--making loops around all of us. She'll run and jump off the dock to fetch countless sticks, and, when we go on a boat ride, we have to take her with us or she'll just keep swimming after us. The dog can swim forever. Then, at night, she curls up in a little wet ball, and sleeps a deep sleep, dreaming of another day in the lake.
When we drive down Old State Road, my heart beats faster when I see "two trees" (or is it three?). As we drive down the driveway, I can physically feel myself begin the process of letting go of all the stress of real life--school work, the bills, the housework--and the magic of the cabin taking over. Once we have all of our stuff put away--the fridge stocked, the beds made, the toys laid out--I go out onto the porch and I look through the trees at the lake, our lake, and I am home.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
I Prefer to Stand By My Man
My husband left today to go on a trip with his dad and brother. And, as much as I hate to be one of "those girls," I must admit--I am. I--a woman who bought and sold TWO homes, who adopted a baby on my own, who lived alone solving all the problems a household entails for many years--am now one of those cheesey, lovey, mush-mush chicks who can't spend a night away from her man.
First of all, I cried when he left. Not sobbing (not until he was out of the driveway, anyway), but enough to get his shirt wet. Yeah, part of it was because I am terrified of airplanes and he has to go in an airplane "there and back." But mostly it was because my heart already hurt at the thought of him being gone for four days.
Second of all, I don't know what I'll do with myself. Okay, yes, I'll be busy, because I'm staying at the family cottage with not just our three kids, but Chad's three as well. (And, praise God, my mother-in-law will be coming to help during the days.) I will be surrounded by children aged 13, 10, 9, 7, 4, 2. One of whom is potty training. One of whom could start menstruating at the drop of a hat. Three of whom will be missing their actual parents. So, yes--anyway, anyway--I will be busy. But, who will read me useless fascinating information off the Internet news? Who will laugh at my jokes? Who will back me up when I say, "You kids are driving me to drink large quantities of kerosene!"? Who will sit with me in the swing? Who will listen to the loon, and take a moonlight boat cruise, and give me a smooch in the middle of the lake?
Third of all, I'm not going to get a lick of sleep. Sure, I'll be exhausted. But, after attending a writers' retreat for three nights, I can tell you that I am physically unable to sleep without my husband's back available for me to push my tush against. I won't be able to fall asleep without talking about my day, laughing, sighing, planning for future days when these children finally get out of our house! In the middle of the night, I will reach for Eric, to lock my arm through his, or grab just the edge of his shirtsleeve, or to hold hands. In the morning, I'll wish for him to turn over, lay his arm across me, and go, "Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhg! YOU wanted all these children!" (It's true, I did. But so did he.)
And last of all, I'm going to be one of those sappy chicks who sprints when she hears the phone rings, checks her cell phone for emails or text messages every five minutes, who'll break off a conversation with you in a moment's notice if my man calls. Eric said, "You don't think you'll have fun with the kids?" Honestly, I really don't. Being with Eric makes everything real in my life, makes me grounded in the "dream-come-true" that my life actually is. If I can't share it with him, it's just not the same. Given all the scenarios in the world, I would always choose the one where I am standing right next to my man.
Sorry to be "that girl," but I am.
First of all, I cried when he left. Not sobbing (not until he was out of the driveway, anyway), but enough to get his shirt wet. Yeah, part of it was because I am terrified of airplanes and he has to go in an airplane "there and back." But mostly it was because my heart already hurt at the thought of him being gone for four days.
Second of all, I don't know what I'll do with myself. Okay, yes, I'll be busy, because I'm staying at the family cottage with not just our three kids, but Chad's three as well. (And, praise God, my mother-in-law will be coming to help during the days.) I will be surrounded by children aged 13, 10, 9, 7, 4, 2. One of whom is potty training. One of whom could start menstruating at the drop of a hat. Three of whom will be missing their actual parents. So, yes--anyway, anyway--I will be busy. But, who will read me useless fascinating information off the Internet news? Who will laugh at my jokes? Who will back me up when I say, "You kids are driving me to drink large quantities of kerosene!"? Who will sit with me in the swing? Who will listen to the loon, and take a moonlight boat cruise, and give me a smooch in the middle of the lake?
Third of all, I'm not going to get a lick of sleep. Sure, I'll be exhausted. But, after attending a writers' retreat for three nights, I can tell you that I am physically unable to sleep without my husband's back available for me to push my tush against. I won't be able to fall asleep without talking about my day, laughing, sighing, planning for future days when these children finally get out of our house! In the middle of the night, I will reach for Eric, to lock my arm through his, or grab just the edge of his shirtsleeve, or to hold hands. In the morning, I'll wish for him to turn over, lay his arm across me, and go, "Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhg! YOU wanted all these children!" (It's true, I did. But so did he.)
And last of all, I'm going to be one of those sappy chicks who sprints when she hears the phone rings, checks her cell phone for emails or text messages every five minutes, who'll break off a conversation with you in a moment's notice if my man calls. Eric said, "You don't think you'll have fun with the kids?" Honestly, I really don't. Being with Eric makes everything real in my life, makes me grounded in the "dream-come-true" that my life actually is. If I can't share it with him, it's just not the same. Given all the scenarios in the world, I would always choose the one where I am standing right next to my man.
Sorry to be "that girl," but I am.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
Excerpt from "His Little Hand in Mine": Why Lucy Hates Pregnant Chicks
So I am writing a novel about a couple who is experiencing infertility. I've decided I want to occasionally include an excerpt I've written and see what people think.
The following is from the middle. Lucy and Phil have decided to adopt. Lucy's best friend, Meredith, is pregnant.
“So, have you heard anything from the adoption people,” Mark asks Phil one Sunday when we meet at T Meldrum’s for breakfast.
“Nah,” Phil says, “they like to keep us guessing. We put together these crazy magazine things,” he gestures to Meredith, “you’ve seen them--and then we have to mail them, like, 25 at a time or so. They say they don’t tell us when somebody asks to look at them, so we don’t get our hopes up. So, we’re keeping our hopes down, right, Lu?” Phil puts his arm around my back, lays his hand on my neck under my hair, squeezes.
“It’s all ridiculous,” I continue where Phil’s left off. “We have to sell ourselves; it’s worse than dating. Honestly, I think I put less work into my portfolio for work than I have into this thing. Lied less, too.” Phil and I smile and raise our eyebrows at each other.
“Whaddya mean, ‘lied less’?” Meredith asks through a piece of muskmelon. “You two are the Barbie and Ken of adoption, aren’t you? Why would you have to lie?” She sets the rind back on her plate, cleaned of all fruit.
“Well, not so much lied as, I guess, stretched, I should say. We have to say the things that the profile coordinators say the birth parents want to hear. You know, it’s like memorizing your philosophy of education when you’re interviewing for teaching jobs. It’s just one of the hoops we have to jump through.”
“Well, I think they should have to jump through hoops to get to you,” Meredith says, picking up the piece of muskmelon on Mark’s plate and starting in on it. “You’ll be fantastic parents. They should be fighting each other trying to get your attention.” She nods, takes a bite, and lets the juice run down her chin a bit. “God, I love melon right now. Lu, I’m sorry you never get to enjoy how good some food tastes when you’re pregnant.”
Phil squeezes my leg under the table. Sometimes Meredith just doesn’t know what she’s saying, or that it hurts. I know she’d be horrified if she knew she hurt me.
“You about ready to head out?” Phil asks. We have to clean the house, trim the yard, get everything Martha Stewart special at the house, because our home study lady is coming tomorrow.
“Yup, just need to use the restroom,” I say.
“I’ll join you, hang on,” Meredith says as she scoots her butt forward in the chair, pushes with her hands, and resembles a Weeble as she comes to a stand.
“I’ll never get why women do that,” Mark says as we start walking away.
“Duh, so they can talk about us,” Phil says and laughs. True, so true.
We’re washing our hands when Meredith launches into her inquisition about the home study. “So, what all is she asking you about? Why’s she gotta check the house? Like, are you supposed to have a nursery ready or something? Is it supposed to be all safety cleared and stuff? Geez, I have half a human being hanging out of me and Mark and I haven’t even started the nursery yet. I just think this whole stupid thing is some kind of government power trip. Somebody’s knocked up somewhere, you need a baby, I don’t see what the freaking big deal is.”
A little wave moves across her belly, starting on the right and flowing across. She’s so used to it--the baby must be shifting its legs—she doesn’t even look down, but I am transfixed. Now on the left, the ripple moves up, then down again, and still Meredith doesn’t even notice. I can’t pull my eyes away. My heart stops beating, my tongue goes dry, my eyes sting. The ripple moves back now, from the left back to the right.
Meredith’s eyes follow mine down to her belly. She takes a step toward me. “Wanna feel?” she asks quietly.
I nod. I’ve never felt it, never known that touch of life before it breathes its own breath. Meredith takes my hand, lays it flat across her belly, slides it with the movement of the ripple. I can feel something hard—is it a knee?—and then the shift, the movement, and now there’s a big flat area.
“That’s the baby’s back,” Meredith says. “Boo-boo likes to lie against my side, but those legs and feet are going all the time.” She smiles at her belly and the light behind her eyes is blinding. I feel as though I may shatter into a thousand pieces at her feet. “Oh, that’s a good one!” Meredith says, and pulls my whole arm over to feel a kick on her right side.
I have to get away. “That was cool, Mere, thanks,” I say, trying not to sound funny, trying not to look at her, trying not to scream. I walk out of the bathroom, hold the door for her, walk toward Phil. I put my hand in his back pocket, stand near him, smell his sweet, Philly smell. It’s comforting. I know that he feels this too, this grief, though we don’t talk about it. I know he doesn’t think I’m selfish or a bad friend or a nasty person, when I hate Meredith—just a little bit—for being pregnant.
But, I do. I hate her. I hate them all. I hate their round, taut bellies. I hate their protruding belly buttons. I hate their full, saggy boobs. I hate the way it takes them a year to sit down, and a decade to get up. I hate the way they constantly rub their bellies, without even realizing they’re doing it. I hate when I see their babies move beneath their skin.
I hate them, because I will never be them. I will never, ever feel a baby move within me. I will never watch a foot go from the left side of my body to the right. I will never rub my belly, and know my child is in there. I will never feel the kick. I will never deliver a baby, be sweaty and joyous, and feel that amazing sense of accomplishment. I will never hold a baby to my breast, feel milk come to the surface, and watch my child nurse. I will not be the first person to see my baby on the ultrasound screen. I won’t be able to decide whether or not I want to know the gender of the baby before it’s born, because it won’t be my baby yet. I will not be the first person to hold my child.
When the baby is born, I won’t be able to speculate whether he has Phil’s dad’s chin or my grandmother’s eyes, because all of these physical characteristics will come from some other family, from strangers, from a whole generation of people who have nothing to do with me. After the baby is born, he will not recognize my voice, because he will have heard someone else speaking for nine months. In his first days, my baby will strain to hear that voice, his birth mother’s voice, when he seeks the comforts of home. The fact of the matter is, my baby won’t be my baby, not at first, and it is this more than anything that makes me hate Meredith, hate pregnant women, hate them all.
The following is from the middle. Lucy and Phil have decided to adopt. Lucy's best friend, Meredith, is pregnant.
“So, have you heard anything from the adoption people,” Mark asks Phil one Sunday when we meet at T Meldrum’s for breakfast.
“Nah,” Phil says, “they like to keep us guessing. We put together these crazy magazine things,” he gestures to Meredith, “you’ve seen them--and then we have to mail them, like, 25 at a time or so. They say they don’t tell us when somebody asks to look at them, so we don’t get our hopes up. So, we’re keeping our hopes down, right, Lu?” Phil puts his arm around my back, lays his hand on my neck under my hair, squeezes.
“It’s all ridiculous,” I continue where Phil’s left off. “We have to sell ourselves; it’s worse than dating. Honestly, I think I put less work into my portfolio for work than I have into this thing. Lied less, too.” Phil and I smile and raise our eyebrows at each other.
“Whaddya mean, ‘lied less’?” Meredith asks through a piece of muskmelon. “You two are the Barbie and Ken of adoption, aren’t you? Why would you have to lie?” She sets the rind back on her plate, cleaned of all fruit.
“Well, not so much lied as, I guess, stretched, I should say. We have to say the things that the profile coordinators say the birth parents want to hear. You know, it’s like memorizing your philosophy of education when you’re interviewing for teaching jobs. It’s just one of the hoops we have to jump through.”
“Well, I think they should have to jump through hoops to get to you,” Meredith says, picking up the piece of muskmelon on Mark’s plate and starting in on it. “You’ll be fantastic parents. They should be fighting each other trying to get your attention.” She nods, takes a bite, and lets the juice run down her chin a bit. “God, I love melon right now. Lu, I’m sorry you never get to enjoy how good some food tastes when you’re pregnant.”
Phil squeezes my leg under the table. Sometimes Meredith just doesn’t know what she’s saying, or that it hurts. I know she’d be horrified if she knew she hurt me.
“You about ready to head out?” Phil asks. We have to clean the house, trim the yard, get everything Martha Stewart special at the house, because our home study lady is coming tomorrow.
“Yup, just need to use the restroom,” I say.
“I’ll join you, hang on,” Meredith says as she scoots her butt forward in the chair, pushes with her hands, and resembles a Weeble as she comes to a stand.
“I’ll never get why women do that,” Mark says as we start walking away.
“Duh, so they can talk about us,” Phil says and laughs. True, so true.
We’re washing our hands when Meredith launches into her inquisition about the home study. “So, what all is she asking you about? Why’s she gotta check the house? Like, are you supposed to have a nursery ready or something? Is it supposed to be all safety cleared and stuff? Geez, I have half a human being hanging out of me and Mark and I haven’t even started the nursery yet. I just think this whole stupid thing is some kind of government power trip. Somebody’s knocked up somewhere, you need a baby, I don’t see what the freaking big deal is.”
A little wave moves across her belly, starting on the right and flowing across. She’s so used to it--the baby must be shifting its legs—she doesn’t even look down, but I am transfixed. Now on the left, the ripple moves up, then down again, and still Meredith doesn’t even notice. I can’t pull my eyes away. My heart stops beating, my tongue goes dry, my eyes sting. The ripple moves back now, from the left back to the right.
Meredith’s eyes follow mine down to her belly. She takes a step toward me. “Wanna feel?” she asks quietly.
I nod. I’ve never felt it, never known that touch of life before it breathes its own breath. Meredith takes my hand, lays it flat across her belly, slides it with the movement of the ripple. I can feel something hard—is it a knee?—and then the shift, the movement, and now there’s a big flat area.
“That’s the baby’s back,” Meredith says. “Boo-boo likes to lie against my side, but those legs and feet are going all the time.” She smiles at her belly and the light behind her eyes is blinding. I feel as though I may shatter into a thousand pieces at her feet. “Oh, that’s a good one!” Meredith says, and pulls my whole arm over to feel a kick on her right side.
I have to get away. “That was cool, Mere, thanks,” I say, trying not to sound funny, trying not to look at her, trying not to scream. I walk out of the bathroom, hold the door for her, walk toward Phil. I put my hand in his back pocket, stand near him, smell his sweet, Philly smell. It’s comforting. I know that he feels this too, this grief, though we don’t talk about it. I know he doesn’t think I’m selfish or a bad friend or a nasty person, when I hate Meredith—just a little bit—for being pregnant.
But, I do. I hate her. I hate them all. I hate their round, taut bellies. I hate their protruding belly buttons. I hate their full, saggy boobs. I hate the way it takes them a year to sit down, and a decade to get up. I hate the way they constantly rub their bellies, without even realizing they’re doing it. I hate when I see their babies move beneath their skin.
I hate them, because I will never be them. I will never, ever feel a baby move within me. I will never watch a foot go from the left side of my body to the right. I will never rub my belly, and know my child is in there. I will never feel the kick. I will never deliver a baby, be sweaty and joyous, and feel that amazing sense of accomplishment. I will never hold a baby to my breast, feel milk come to the surface, and watch my child nurse. I will not be the first person to see my baby on the ultrasound screen. I won’t be able to decide whether or not I want to know the gender of the baby before it’s born, because it won’t be my baby yet. I will not be the first person to hold my child.
When the baby is born, I won’t be able to speculate whether he has Phil’s dad’s chin or my grandmother’s eyes, because all of these physical characteristics will come from some other family, from strangers, from a whole generation of people who have nothing to do with me. After the baby is born, he will not recognize my voice, because he will have heard someone else speaking for nine months. In his first days, my baby will strain to hear that voice, his birth mother’s voice, when he seeks the comforts of home. The fact of the matter is, my baby won’t be my baby, not at first, and it is this more than anything that makes me hate Meredith, hate pregnant women, hate them all.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Why I Want to Be Khaled Hosseini When I Grow Up
Apparently, my whole life, I have wanted to be an Afghan born man who moved to France, and then became a citizen of the United States. I say this, because, apparently, I have always wanted to be Khaled Hosseini.
I have just finished reading--no, devouring-- Hosseini's latest novel, And The Mountains Echoed. Wow. That is just about all I can say. Wow.
You see, I have never been to Afghanistan, well, not in real life. But Hosseini has taken me there, shown me around, made me smell and breathe and feel everything around me. How does he DO THAT? It's amazing.
And his characters! Now, logically, I know that these people do not exist. But, to me, they DO. They really do. I care about them. I hurt for them. I want to know what motivates them, what drives them, what they are feeling. When his books end, I want to know what his characters (the ones still around) are doing. When Hosseini's characters have tragedies in their lives (and, oh boy, do they have tragedies), I am in pain for them. I cry. No, I weep, for these people.
This, this passion for people who are not actually real, this is what I want to incite in others. This is how I want people to feel about my characters.
I am currently working on a novel about Lucy and Phil. I want you to love them. I love them. I want you to cry for them, laugh with them, pound your fists in agony when things don't go their way. When the book is finished, I want you to think about them later. I want you to hear a song and think, "Oh, this reminds me of Lucy." I want them to be real, to you.
So, kudos to you, Khaled. I know that, once upon a time, you were a young man, and you started with ideas in your mind, a few words on paper. You put that together and created three fantastic novels. You have done it. You have lived the writers' dream. Thank you, as a reader and fan, for your hard work. Now get busy, because I'm ready for the next one.
There are many other authors who have done this for me, but today I happened to finish this book and I am missing these characters. Maybe tomorrow I will read your book, dear reader, and miss your characters. Most of all, it is my dream that someday you will read about Lucy and Phil, and welcome them into your heart. It is the greatest compliment a writer can ever get.
You see, I have never been to Afghanistan, well, not in real life. But Hosseini has taken me there, shown me around, made me smell and breathe and feel everything around me. How does he DO THAT? It's amazing.
And his characters! Now, logically, I know that these people do not exist. But, to me, they DO. They really do. I care about them. I hurt for them. I want to know what motivates them, what drives them, what they are feeling. When his books end, I want to know what his characters (the ones still around) are doing. When Hosseini's characters have tragedies in their lives (and, oh boy, do they have tragedies), I am in pain for them. I cry. No, I weep, for these people.
This, this passion for people who are not actually real, this is what I want to incite in others. This is how I want people to feel about my characters.
I am currently working on a novel about Lucy and Phil. I want you to love them. I love them. I want you to cry for them, laugh with them, pound your fists in agony when things don't go their way. When the book is finished, I want you to think about them later. I want you to hear a song and think, "Oh, this reminds me of Lucy." I want them to be real, to you.
So, kudos to you, Khaled. I know that, once upon a time, you were a young man, and you started with ideas in your mind, a few words on paper. You put that together and created three fantastic novels. You have done it. You have lived the writers' dream. Thank you, as a reader and fan, for your hard work. Now get busy, because I'm ready for the next one.
There are many other authors who have done this for me, but today I happened to finish this book and I am missing these characters. Maybe tomorrow I will read your book, dear reader, and miss your characters. Most of all, it is my dream that someday you will read about Lucy and Phil, and welcome them into your heart. It is the greatest compliment a writer can ever get.
Tuesday, July 2, 2013
Motherhood in Summer, 2013
Mommy: Becca, tell me when you need to go potty, okay? Bec, okay? Tell me when you need to go potty and Mommy will run you right in there!
Two-year-old: (No response. Ignores mother. Continues playing.)
Mommy: Hey, Bec, tell Mommy when you need to pee, okay? We'll run right in there!
(Mother leaves the room for a maximum of 3.5 seconds to take laundry into laundry room.)
Two-year-old: Pee! I peeing! (Stands and pees on the carpet.)
Mommy: (Running back into the room.) Oh, it's okay, sweetie. Tell your pee to wait, okay? Can you say, "Wait, pee!" (Picks up Two-year-old, who continues to pee, and carries her to the bathroom.) Do you have more pee, Boo? Do you think you need to pee some more? No? Okay, Mommy will clean you up. When you feel that pee coming, you tell Mommy, "Mommy, pee!" and I'll come running, okay?
Two-year-old: I want deese princess unerpanses.
Mommy: Those are pretty. (Wipes Two-year-old with baby wipe, reapplies clean underpants.) Okay, let's wash our hands.
(Mommy and Two-year-old wash hands.)
Mommy: Becca, tell me when you need to go potty, okay? Bec, okay? Tell me when you need to go potty and Mommy will run you right in there!
(Mommy takes wet underpants to the laundry room, cleans up carpet with dry paper towel, then scrubs carpet with cleaner, rinses carpet, then pats it with more dry paper towel.)
Mommy: Becca, tell me when you need to go potty, okay? You don't want to go in your pretty princess pants! Tell me when you need to go potty and Mommy will run you right in there!
Two-year-old: (No response. Ignores mother. Continues playing.)
Mommy: Hey, Bec, tell Mommy when you need to pee, okay? We'll run right in there!
Mommy: Bec, if you need to pee, you let Mommy know, okay? Just say, "Mommy, pee!" and we'll go on the potty. Then you can get a princess tattoo, okay?
Two-year-old: (No response. Ignores Mommy. Continues playing.)
Mommy: Hey, Booboo, if you feel that pee coming, you let me know, okay?
Two-year-old: (No response. Ignores Mommy. Continues playing.)
(Mommy leaves the room for a maximum of 3.5 seconds to put away a book.)
Two-year-old: Pee! I peeing! (Stands and pees on the carpet.)
Mommy: (Running back into the room.) Oh, it's okay, sweetie. Tell your pee to wait, okay? Can you say, "Wait, pee!" (Picks up Two-year-old, who continues to pee, and carries her to the bathroom.) Do you have more pee, Boo? Do you think you need to pee some more? No? Okay, Mommy will clean you up. When you feel that pee coming, you tell Mommy, "Mommy, pee!" and I'll come running, okay?
And... repeat.
Two-year-old: (No response. Ignores mother. Continues playing.)
Mommy: Hey, Bec, tell Mommy when you need to pee, okay? We'll run right in there!
(Mother leaves the room for a maximum of 3.5 seconds to take laundry into laundry room.)
Two-year-old: Pee! I peeing! (Stands and pees on the carpet.)
Mommy: (Running back into the room.) Oh, it's okay, sweetie. Tell your pee to wait, okay? Can you say, "Wait, pee!" (Picks up Two-year-old, who continues to pee, and carries her to the bathroom.) Do you have more pee, Boo? Do you think you need to pee some more? No? Okay, Mommy will clean you up. When you feel that pee coming, you tell Mommy, "Mommy, pee!" and I'll come running, okay?
Two-year-old: I want deese princess unerpanses.
Mommy: Those are pretty. (Wipes Two-year-old with baby wipe, reapplies clean underpants.) Okay, let's wash our hands.
(Mommy and Two-year-old wash hands.)
Mommy: Becca, tell me when you need to go potty, okay? Bec, okay? Tell me when you need to go potty and Mommy will run you right in there!
(Mommy takes wet underpants to the laundry room, cleans up carpet with dry paper towel, then scrubs carpet with cleaner, rinses carpet, then pats it with more dry paper towel.)
Mommy: Becca, tell me when you need to go potty, okay? You don't want to go in your pretty princess pants! Tell me when you need to go potty and Mommy will run you right in there!
Two-year-old: (No response. Ignores mother. Continues playing.)
Mommy: Hey, Bec, tell Mommy when you need to pee, okay? We'll run right in there!
Mommy: Bec, if you need to pee, you let Mommy know, okay? Just say, "Mommy, pee!" and we'll go on the potty. Then you can get a princess tattoo, okay?
Two-year-old: (No response. Ignores Mommy. Continues playing.)
Mommy: Hey, Booboo, if you feel that pee coming, you let me know, okay?
Two-year-old: (No response. Ignores Mommy. Continues playing.)
(Mommy leaves the room for a maximum of 3.5 seconds to put away a book.)
Two-year-old: Pee! I peeing! (Stands and pees on the carpet.)
Mommy: (Running back into the room.) Oh, it's okay, sweetie. Tell your pee to wait, okay? Can you say, "Wait, pee!" (Picks up Two-year-old, who continues to pee, and carries her to the bathroom.) Do you have more pee, Boo? Do you think you need to pee some more? No? Okay, Mommy will clean you up. When you feel that pee coming, you tell Mommy, "Mommy, pee!" and I'll come running, okay?
And... repeat.
I Love You, Man
You know that feeling when you get just a little too tipsy and you start telling all your friends, "I love you, man. No, I mean, I reeeally love you."? That is how I feel, all the time, when I am with my Burs.
The Burs are just, well, they're great people. That's the first reason. They are really and truly those kind of genuine, caring, good hearted, conscientious people who take good care of their kids, work hard at their jobs, and do the right things. We have deep discussions as a group about education, child rearing, work ethic, local politics. As I am fond of saying, the Burs are "good eggs."
But it's not just that. They make me laugh. Not just a little bit. Not a chuckle here and there, a laugh or two when we get together. No, no. I mean deep in the belly, "stop-stop-I'm-going-to-pee" laughing. We have now been friends long enough (once Brian had finally decided that we, The Halls, could be his two new friends) that we have ridiculous stories to tell and get ourselves going. Like the time we went to a Tigers' game and, when Bri caught a ball, he yelled out, "I have four kids!" We can talk about Brian having a hard time picking out a shell at Becca's baptism, about Doniel needing toothpicks to hold her eyes open if she's been drinking, about the time "we" went karaoking (but I was the only one dumb enough to sing), about happening upon live wrestling in Mackinaw City, about the girls always beating the boys at cards, about Brian looking naked in our pictures at the cabin.
We also have made quite a few traditions. Annual events, we say. New Year's Eve (even though Eric can no longer do an impression of Dick Clark). Going to the Mackinaw City Memorial Day parade lets me know that, yes, it's true, summer is coming. Walking across the State Street Bridge on Labor Day lets me know that, yes, it's true, summer has come to an end. On Halloween, we get together to trick-or-treat downtown, then hit BC Pizza together. One weekend in November, we go to Traverse City (although, maybe someday it'll be Saginaw?) and go Christmas shopping. We eat out, stay in a hotel, christen the meeting room, pretend to play cards, buy stuff for the kids, and return home rejuvenated for the holidays to begin. Usually, on these trips, Bri comes up with some sort of music trivia, that even he himself cannot answer. The Marshall Tucker Band, really, Bri? The first Saturday in December, we stand together, FREEZING, and watch the Cheboygan Christmas parade. Just this past weekend, we went on a boat ride down the Cheboygan River and Black River. Doniel said, "Let's make it an annual event!" I think it'll have to be a little more often than that!
And then there's the fact that, well, they just feel like family to me. When we're on a trip, Eric and I see souvenirs we'd like to get the Burs (Bri, I almost bought you squirrel underwear when I was in Saugatuck, to go with your "Helllllo, Ladies!" sign!). When Eric and I have a fight, I want to talk to Doniel about it. When there were crises in the Bur family, Doniel told me. I've never had a sister, but I feel like I can rely on Doniel like one: even if she doesn't agree with me, she'll support me and still love me in the end.
I have been blessed, in my life, to have many exceptional friendships. Doniel and I once talked about how, as your life changes and you grow, your friendships change. Friends drift apart, friends grow closer. I told her how much I seem to always get hurt, when my frirends and I drift apart. "It's not you," she said. "It's just how friendships work. Who your friends are depends on where you are in your life. It's just that you always love so intensely, Laura Hall."
It's true. I am a heart on my sleeve kind of gal. Perhaps someday, the Burs and Halls will have different needs, and will have to drift apart. But, for now, we're close, and in that, I am so very blessed. Burs, I hope you know, even when I'm not drinking, I love you, man. No, I mean I really, reeeeeeally love you. Both. Are my eyes all the way open?
The Burs are just, well, they're great people. That's the first reason. They are really and truly those kind of genuine, caring, good hearted, conscientious people who take good care of their kids, work hard at their jobs, and do the right things. We have deep discussions as a group about education, child rearing, work ethic, local politics. As I am fond of saying, the Burs are "good eggs."
But it's not just that. They make me laugh. Not just a little bit. Not a chuckle here and there, a laugh or two when we get together. No, no. I mean deep in the belly, "stop-stop-I'm-going-to-pee" laughing. We have now been friends long enough (once Brian had finally decided that we, The Halls, could be his two new friends) that we have ridiculous stories to tell and get ourselves going. Like the time we went to a Tigers' game and, when Bri caught a ball, he yelled out, "I have four kids!" We can talk about Brian having a hard time picking out a shell at Becca's baptism, about Doniel needing toothpicks to hold her eyes open if she's been drinking, about the time "we" went karaoking (but I was the only one dumb enough to sing), about happening upon live wrestling in Mackinaw City, about the girls always beating the boys at cards, about Brian looking naked in our pictures at the cabin.
We also have made quite a few traditions. Annual events, we say. New Year's Eve (even though Eric can no longer do an impression of Dick Clark). Going to the Mackinaw City Memorial Day parade lets me know that, yes, it's true, summer is coming. Walking across the State Street Bridge on Labor Day lets me know that, yes, it's true, summer has come to an end. On Halloween, we get together to trick-or-treat downtown, then hit BC Pizza together. One weekend in November, we go to Traverse City (although, maybe someday it'll be Saginaw?) and go Christmas shopping. We eat out, stay in a hotel, christen the meeting room, pretend to play cards, buy stuff for the kids, and return home rejuvenated for the holidays to begin. Usually, on these trips, Bri comes up with some sort of music trivia, that even he himself cannot answer. The Marshall Tucker Band, really, Bri? The first Saturday in December, we stand together, FREEZING, and watch the Cheboygan Christmas parade. Just this past weekend, we went on a boat ride down the Cheboygan River and Black River. Doniel said, "Let's make it an annual event!" I think it'll have to be a little more often than that!
And then there's the fact that, well, they just feel like family to me. When we're on a trip, Eric and I see souvenirs we'd like to get the Burs (Bri, I almost bought you squirrel underwear when I was in Saugatuck, to go with your "Helllllo, Ladies!" sign!). When Eric and I have a fight, I want to talk to Doniel about it. When there were crises in the Bur family, Doniel told me. I've never had a sister, but I feel like I can rely on Doniel like one: even if she doesn't agree with me, she'll support me and still love me in the end.
I have been blessed, in my life, to have many exceptional friendships. Doniel and I once talked about how, as your life changes and you grow, your friendships change. Friends drift apart, friends grow closer. I told her how much I seem to always get hurt, when my frirends and I drift apart. "It's not you," she said. "It's just how friendships work. Who your friends are depends on where you are in your life. It's just that you always love so intensely, Laura Hall."
It's true. I am a heart on my sleeve kind of gal. Perhaps someday, the Burs and Halls will have different needs, and will have to drift apart. But, for now, we're close, and in that, I am so very blessed. Burs, I hope you know, even when I'm not drinking, I love you, man. No, I mean I really, reeeeeeally love you. Both. Are my eyes all the way open?
Monday, July 1, 2013
Tootin' for Gluten
Jay Baruchel "You don't even know what gluten is."
Seth Rogen "Well, no one does, man. Gluten is just a broad term to classify bad things you put in your body. Carbs: that's a gluten. Calories: that's another gluten. That shit's everywhere!"
-Jay Baruchel and Seth Rogen in "This Is The End"
And so, in my constant need to be part of "the cool kids," I have joined the group of weirdos across the world who are "gluten free." My nurse practitioner says that, most likely, I have "celiac disease," but to me it doesn't really matter what you call it. The fact of the matter is that cookies, cake, doughnuts, garlic bread, BLTs, Texas Toast grilled cheese sandwiches, french toast, chocolate chip pancakes, Bosco Sticks, and pizza dough are off the table. As you can see, I've given this quite a bit of thought.
It all began when I was a teenager, and my mom turned 40. It seemed so old. Foooooorty. So, right around her fortieth birthday, my mom started having all kinds of stomach problems. She went to doctors, who tried to prescribe her Xanax for anxiety. I said her only anxiety was that the doctors wouldn't listen to her about her belly trouble. Anyway, Mom took action (after having both an upper and a lower GI, which she does not recommend), and put herself on some kind of Jane Brody-Good Health-Food Elimination diet. We ate lovely things like barley soup, tabbouleh, veggie lasagna, homemade yogurt, and fish. I hate fish. Eventually, Mom determined that she had Lactose Intolerance and, if she mostly avoided dairy products, she could do fine. At some point since then, someone invented Lactaid, which helps her a little, but it is not the miracle cure for her that the commercials advertise. And, truly, there is nothing more embarrassing (or hilarious), than my mother saying to the waitstaff at a restaurant, "Now, does that come with cheese? I'd like no cheese please. I can't have any dairy products. They give me terrible gas and diarrhea, or sometimes I get so backed up I can't poop for months." If we see my mom starting to launch into one of these talks, my dad and I really try to distract the waitstaff, knock over Mom's chair, start a table fire, something less painful than listening to her story. (Love you, Mom.)
So, that being said, I've known it was coming. You know, like you know death is coming. Every once in a while, you joke about it with somebody, "Ha, yeah, 'cause we're all gonna die," but you really don't ponder it a whole lot. As the digits on my birthday cake continued to climb, I began to cram in the milk, the cheese, the sour cream, and, ooooh, the ice cream. I made sure that I got my fair share of ice cream, in case 40 hit and that was the end.
About a year and a half ago, around Halloween, I got this weird pain in my side. I thought, "Hhmmm, either my appendix is going to burst, or the movie Alien is true." Eric and I met our friends, the Burs, and their kids to go trick-or-treating downtown.
Doniel Bur said to me, "Laura Hall, you're walking 'gimpy'!"
And I was. I told everyone I was the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and we have all these pictures of me humped over, pretending that I'm helping the kids with their pumpkins, but really I'm just trying to keep the pain at bay. After we got home that night, I met my mom at the emergency room.
Diverticulitis. That was my diagnosis. Which, according to my nursing-student sister-in-law, is an "old person disease." So, I stopped eating seeds, corn, nuts, I even got a little goofy about nacho chips (sharp edges, ya know). But, despite avoiding strawberries, blueberries, every tiny little seed-like food, I still had a few more episodes. A colonoscopy showed nothing. Forty was approaching... Could it be?
I turned 39 in December, and decided to take the bull by the horns. In January, I started my own version of my mom's 1987 food elimination diet. (Of course, I didn't make my family eat anything nasty, except Quinoa, which I do not recommend, and Lentils, which I feel could be used to elicit war secrets from determined spies.) The results... GLUTEN.
Wha? I was not prepared for this. I did not eat enough pizza or breadsticks. My husband makes the world's best chocolate chip cookies. I can't go THE REST OF MY LIFE without them, can I? Eric and I bought some gluten-free flour mix, which had the consistency of Ben and Becca's sand box. Mmm. I've tried some of the gluten free cookie mixes. Crumbly, gritty, with a touch of chocolate thrown in. My girlfriend, Kim, has been gluten free for a few years, so she gives me advice, support, tells me to stay away from the evil wheat. However, her alter-ego is acting as my Gluten-Dealer, since she is constantly pinning delicious looking desserts on Pinterest, "Now with TWICE the gluten!" I think she's secretly out to get me, so she can raise Ben and Becca. They are pretty cute.
And, did I mention, that now as I avoid gluten like the plague (at a recent retreat, the host asked, "Can I have gluten in the house?" No, it's airborne! Aaah, don't pass the wheat field, my head'll pop off!), I have discovered that LACTOSE is also no longer my friend?
So, basically, I am turning into a 40-year-old rabbit. I can have celery, apples, the occasional lettuce. My menu's getting limited because, as Seth Rogen said, "That shit's everywhere."
Seth Rogen "Well, no one does, man. Gluten is just a broad term to classify bad things you put in your body. Carbs: that's a gluten. Calories: that's another gluten. That shit's everywhere!"
-Jay Baruchel and Seth Rogen in "This Is The End"
And so, in my constant need to be part of "the cool kids," I have joined the group of weirdos across the world who are "gluten free." My nurse practitioner says that, most likely, I have "celiac disease," but to me it doesn't really matter what you call it. The fact of the matter is that cookies, cake, doughnuts, garlic bread, BLTs, Texas Toast grilled cheese sandwiches, french toast, chocolate chip pancakes, Bosco Sticks, and pizza dough are off the table. As you can see, I've given this quite a bit of thought.
It all began when I was a teenager, and my mom turned 40. It seemed so old. Foooooorty. So, right around her fortieth birthday, my mom started having all kinds of stomach problems. She went to doctors, who tried to prescribe her Xanax for anxiety. I said her only anxiety was that the doctors wouldn't listen to her about her belly trouble. Anyway, Mom took action (after having both an upper and a lower GI, which she does not recommend), and put herself on some kind of Jane Brody-Good Health-Food Elimination diet. We ate lovely things like barley soup, tabbouleh, veggie lasagna, homemade yogurt, and fish. I hate fish. Eventually, Mom determined that she had Lactose Intolerance and, if she mostly avoided dairy products, she could do fine. At some point since then, someone invented Lactaid, which helps her a little, but it is not the miracle cure for her that the commercials advertise. And, truly, there is nothing more embarrassing (or hilarious), than my mother saying to the waitstaff at a restaurant, "Now, does that come with cheese? I'd like no cheese please. I can't have any dairy products. They give me terrible gas and diarrhea, or sometimes I get so backed up I can't poop for months." If we see my mom starting to launch into one of these talks, my dad and I really try to distract the waitstaff, knock over Mom's chair, start a table fire, something less painful than listening to her story. (Love you, Mom.)
So, that being said, I've known it was coming. You know, like you know death is coming. Every once in a while, you joke about it with somebody, "Ha, yeah, 'cause we're all gonna die," but you really don't ponder it a whole lot. As the digits on my birthday cake continued to climb, I began to cram in the milk, the cheese, the sour cream, and, ooooh, the ice cream. I made sure that I got my fair share of ice cream, in case 40 hit and that was the end.
About a year and a half ago, around Halloween, I got this weird pain in my side. I thought, "Hhmmm, either my appendix is going to burst, or the movie Alien is true." Eric and I met our friends, the Burs, and their kids to go trick-or-treating downtown.
Doniel Bur said to me, "Laura Hall, you're walking 'gimpy'!"
And I was. I told everyone I was the Hunchback of Notre Dame, and we have all these pictures of me humped over, pretending that I'm helping the kids with their pumpkins, but really I'm just trying to keep the pain at bay. After we got home that night, I met my mom at the emergency room.
Diverticulitis. That was my diagnosis. Which, according to my nursing-student sister-in-law, is an "old person disease." So, I stopped eating seeds, corn, nuts, I even got a little goofy about nacho chips (sharp edges, ya know). But, despite avoiding strawberries, blueberries, every tiny little seed-like food, I still had a few more episodes. A colonoscopy showed nothing. Forty was approaching... Could it be?
I turned 39 in December, and decided to take the bull by the horns. In January, I started my own version of my mom's 1987 food elimination diet. (Of course, I didn't make my family eat anything nasty, except Quinoa, which I do not recommend, and Lentils, which I feel could be used to elicit war secrets from determined spies.) The results... GLUTEN.
Wha? I was not prepared for this. I did not eat enough pizza or breadsticks. My husband makes the world's best chocolate chip cookies. I can't go THE REST OF MY LIFE without them, can I? Eric and I bought some gluten-free flour mix, which had the consistency of Ben and Becca's sand box. Mmm. I've tried some of the gluten free cookie mixes. Crumbly, gritty, with a touch of chocolate thrown in. My girlfriend, Kim, has been gluten free for a few years, so she gives me advice, support, tells me to stay away from the evil wheat. However, her alter-ego is acting as my Gluten-Dealer, since she is constantly pinning delicious looking desserts on Pinterest, "Now with TWICE the gluten!" I think she's secretly out to get me, so she can raise Ben and Becca. They are pretty cute.
And, did I mention, that now as I avoid gluten like the plague (at a recent retreat, the host asked, "Can I have gluten in the house?" No, it's airborne! Aaah, don't pass the wheat field, my head'll pop off!), I have discovered that LACTOSE is also no longer my friend?
So, basically, I am turning into a 40-year-old rabbit. I can have celery, apples, the occasional lettuce. My menu's getting limited because, as Seth Rogen said, "That shit's everywhere."
Friday, June 28, 2013
Dr. Jeckyl and Mr. Hyde
I am no stranger to the symptoms of ADHD in young boys. I have experience in babysitting, day care, teaching preschool, teaching kindergarten, teaching first and second grade. I know all about the hyperactivity, the skittering from one activity to the next, the absolute need to balance on one toe while rotating an arm at the shoulder, in order to be able to complete a paper. I know that ADHD makes every moment new, so that you can't remember what happened last time, let alone stop and think about what might happen this time. I've had student upon student upon student experience this. So, yes, I get ADHD. I really do.
But, then, we got Ben.
Aahh, Ben-Ben Hall. Mr. B. Bud. I am not sure I have ever met a human being with such enthusiasm ("Grammy got me pantses! Yes! Pantses! I love pantses!"), energy, and zest for life. Ben attacks every task with all the confidence a four-year-old can muster, knowing in his heart-of-hearts that, truly, he will be awesome at anything he tries. He loves to be the Helper Boy: washing dishes, holding tools for a project, picking up toys (though not necessarily toys he has left out), folding laundry, fetching items around the house. He loves to "read" words, to practice writing his letters, to hear books read aloud, to sing and dance in the kitchen. Ben will sit very still for a hair cut, telling cute stories and entertaining the hairdresser. He's an excellent patient when ill, allowing nurses and doctors to check his ears, swab his throat, even give him a shot. Above all things, he adores his baby sister. He wants to sleep in her room, hug her and kiss her non-stop, comfort her when she's hurt, play with her 24/7. Actually, he vehemently loves all of his family. When his older sister was gone for two days, he sat in his top bunk and sang for twenty minutes, "I miss my Sissy, she is my friend. I love my big Sissy. I wish she was here." Recently, he asked, "Mom, when I live with you when I'm a big boy, can I have my own cat? I will keep all of its poop in the closet under the stairs." He is adament that, when he is grown, he will still live with me. He'd like to marry me (yes, this does absolutely melt my heart), but he's accepted that this is not possible. He says he'll settle for just "livin' with ya" for the rest of his life. He was horrified when I once implied that he might want to live with someone else when he was grown. He is a lovey, sweet, wonderful human being who brings joy into everything he does.
But, then, we got Ben.
Aahh, Ben-Ben Hall. Mr. B. Bud. I am not sure I have ever met a human being with such enthusiasm ("Grammy got me pantses! Yes! Pantses! I love pantses!"), energy, and zest for life. Ben attacks every task with all the confidence a four-year-old can muster, knowing in his heart-of-hearts that, truly, he will be awesome at anything he tries. He loves to be the Helper Boy: washing dishes, holding tools for a project, picking up toys (though not necessarily toys he has left out), folding laundry, fetching items around the house. He loves to "read" words, to practice writing his letters, to hear books read aloud, to sing and dance in the kitchen. Ben will sit very still for a hair cut, telling cute stories and entertaining the hairdresser. He's an excellent patient when ill, allowing nurses and doctors to check his ears, swab his throat, even give him a shot. Above all things, he adores his baby sister. He wants to sleep in her room, hug her and kiss her non-stop, comfort her when she's hurt, play with her 24/7. Actually, he vehemently loves all of his family. When his older sister was gone for two days, he sat in his top bunk and sang for twenty minutes, "I miss my Sissy, she is my friend. I love my big Sissy. I wish she was here." Recently, he asked, "Mom, when I live with you when I'm a big boy, can I have my own cat? I will keep all of its poop in the closet under the stairs." He is adament that, when he is grown, he will still live with me. He'd like to marry me (yes, this does absolutely melt my heart), but he's accepted that this is not possible. He says he'll settle for just "livin' with ya" for the rest of his life. He was horrified when I once implied that he might want to live with someone else when he was grown. He is a lovey, sweet, wonderful human being who brings joy into everything he does.
Then, there is the one I refer to as "Benjamin Cleveland Hall." Yes, it is often necessary to middle name him. This boy, this devil child, I simply do not know where he comes from.
For a while, we blamed the turtles. Ben went through an obsession with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, who really aren't bad guys when you think about it, but they do kind of wrestle with and tease each other, in addition to fighting the Krang with an arsenal of ninja weapons. So, no more TMNT in our house; well, no more watching them anyway.
This did not have the desired effect. We still have the hitting, tackling, kicking, biting, screaming, throwing... You get the point. He will be doing something mildly annoying-- say, kicking the table leg-- and I will ask him to please stop. He ignores. "Ben, Mommy asked you to please stop kicking the table leg," I say, with a little more force. Now he will look at me, smirk, and kick the table leg two more times, for good measure. Now what the hell is that? "Benjamin, this is what I am talking about when I say you need to be a good listener. If you kick the table leg again, you will have to go for time out." This time, there is no pause, no room left for me to wonder if perhaps he's misunderstood. Oh no. He kicks with abandon, thumps that table leg nice and loud, and yells something like, "Kicking the leg! Kicking the leg! I am kicking the table leeeeeeeeeeg!" Turd. So, then I have to cart him off to his bedroom, give him time out, let him hang until he yells from the room, "Mom, I'm ready to be a nice boy now." What is it in him that needs this "rahr" moment with me?
And, really, that table leg story is nothin'. Once, I took Ben and Becca to Wal-Mart. (Already, moms across the world are audibly moaning.) I got them one of those carts with the double, side-by-side seats, with an entire cart attached to the front. I can't believe a person doesn't need to show a CDL to drive one of those suckers, but that's another story. Anyway, we start out on our venture, and Ben is slightly squishing Bec, just to see how far he can push her. "Ben," I say, "are we getting gummies today?" (Ben's favorite treat, second only to cinnamon graham crackers, are fruit snacks. He finds great joy in selecting which character gummies we will have for the week. He is actually quite fair in making sure Becca gets a choice she enjoys, as well.)
"Of course, Mom, we gotta have gummies," is the reply. So, I try to use the gummies as leverage. We go directly to the gummy aisle, make our selection, and I have him hold the box. I figure that any other off-the-playbook behavior can be curbed with a "Hey, we'll have to put back your gummies" comment. Boy, am I wrong.
The subtle squishing turns to all-out pushing in the dairy aisle. You know, waaaaay at the back of the store, where you're really just starting to knock out the items on your list? I threaten the gummies, tell Ben to knock it off, start moving faster.
By cleaners and paper towels, Ben has pushed Becca to the point that she is trying to bite. I remove her from the side-by-side, and put her in the front cart seat. Unfortunately, she is now facing her nemesis, and his legs are longer.
In the baking aisle, the kicking is in full swing. I am attempting to get in between them, hold his legs down, spit through my teeth, "Don't make me take these gummies back."
Well, in canned goods, I have to do it. I'm just not one of those moms. I can't make a threat, restate it, and then pretend it never happened. Right by the canned asparagus (who really buys that shit, anyway?), Ben smacks Becca over the head with the gummy box, sending her into a fit of hysterics so loud that we are now getting some looks. Just looks at this point, but looks all the same. Three or four more aisles to go, but I have to take back those damn gummies.
So, we backtrack, and I put the (sorry, Wal-Mart) now mangled box of gummies back on the shelf. I also move Becca back to the blue side-by-side, and buckle Ben's 45-pound, 47-inch-tall writhing body into the cart seat. Again, unfortunately, the dude has long legs. He can still kick Becca, and now more like in her face than just her legs or feet.
It is at this time that the screaming begins. Oh, and Ben makes some noise, too.
Ben starts bellowing "I waaaaaaaaant my gummmmmmmies!" at a volume previously reserved for civil war operations without anethesia. I pick up Becca out of the cart, carry her, and drag the cart by the front, so that Ben's fit of grand magnitude is at least not causing anyone else bodily harm. He chooses to bend and contort in ways I've never seen so that he can grab items from the cart and hurl them down the aisle. Did I mention that we just need to hit the produce section and we're done?
Somehow, by the grace of God, by the grandor of Allah, by sheer force of will, take your pick, we make it through the check out line. It is, of course, not without some nosy bitch making a comment to my son about behaving himself in the store (really?), lots of snobby looks from fellow shoppers (parenting in progress people), and running into one of Eric's sugary sweet co-workers whose children probably never even sneezed loudly.
As we head out, it is seventeen degrees in the winter air, and Ben refuses to put on his coat. Thank you, Mother Nature, for helping to drive that point home. I put Becca immediately into her carseat, turn on the heat for her, unload the groceries as slowly as I can into the back of the jeep. Then, I turn to the now-silent, uncontrollably shivering Ben.
"Mom," he says, "what does the moon do when it's cold? Does his mommy rub his hands together like you do for me?"
"I don't know, Bubba," I say, and let it all ekk out of me. Because by the time we get home, he'll have sung me "We Will Rock You" and told me a story about day care where he helped Becca go on the sled, and I won't even remember most of what happened in the store. I'll just be glad to be home, with my sweet little boy.
* Photos courtsey of Digital Story Book, Jamie Trost
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
My Land!
While I was off gallivanting around at Saturn Booksellers, my biological father was leaving a message on my answering machine about my grandmother. "Your grandma's not doing too well," he said. "She's starting to kind of shut down."
Shut down. My grandma's starting to shut down. My grandma, who once rose at 4:00 every day and provided meals and cared for the children and ran the errands and milked the cows and fed the cats and took care of the whole house. My grandma who knew everyone in town and all their stories, who (like me) made friends in line at the gas station, who would talk your ear off until you walked away. My grandma who would play cards until the wee hours of the morning, because she wouldn't let you go to bed until she won. And you couldn't "let" her win, oh no, it had to feel real. How does a person like her begin this process, begin to "shut down"? Well, I'll tell you.
First, you lose your sister. Your only sister. Your older sister, who had been there every moment of your life. Your best friend in the world, the person you went to for every problem, discussion, joy, anything. Your sister who always gave in to you when you were growing up, who pin curled your hair every week, who took care of you, even when you were taking care of others.
Next, you lose your husband of 61 years. Your husband, who always kept life interesting by trying to find a way to contradict your every word, but still love you with every fiber of his being. Your husband, with whom you lived and worked, raised two children, milked hundreds of cows, farmed acre after acre of land. Your best card partner, your musical accompaniment in church (saxophone or clarinet?), the other main character in every story of your adult life.
After you've lost the two of them, you try to find a niche in your new life. You move away from the farm, into town, into the house where your husband's mother lived. You bring some of your things, you take in a cat, you try to feel at home in a new place. But, still, your family worries, and so you move again, after a while, into an apartment in town, where maybe there will be more people to talk to.
You bring your furniture to remind you of home, a chair, a lamp, a mirror, but most things don't fit, and you have to get all new. You start a new hobby, puzzles, and hope that this will help to fill some of the emptiness that you feel. But, already, the shutting down has begun, as you drive less and less, and you feel more and more separate from your little family, your church, and your friends.
Then, as if you have not lost enough, you lose your son. He is your oldest, your firstborn, the one who has lived the closest. He has come to visit often, daily even, and helped to care for animals, your home, for you. It is unexpected, and it is a blow from which you will never really recover. The shutting down is accelerated a little, as another piece of you is buried beneath the ground.
After this, you slowly withdraw. Your remaining son, your daughter-in-law, your grandchildren, they all try to keep you going in this world, but it is the next world that has a stronger call. Your family tells you stories of the here and now, but these are not your children anymore, or even your grandchildren. They are your great-grandchildren, and the distance in generations makes them almost strangers, characters in a book you once read, a special fondness for them is all that you can muster anymore. You lose friends, lifelong friends, and reminisce in your own head about when you were the young ones, caring for the old.
You move to assisted living, where your family knows you'll be well cared for, but where you feel you're being put "out to pasture." After a while, you no longer attend meals, or take walks down the hall, but prefer sitting in your room playing solitaire on your Kindle to pretending to listen to other ladies repeat the same stories of their former lives.
You're not ill, you're not depressed, you're ready. Ready to hang up the hat you've worn on this earth in exchange for your halo.
My grandmother is shutting down. She has been for years. Slowly, at first, but now at a speed that my father just can't take. Selfishly, I want to medicate her. I want her pulled out of this funk and put back into the goofy lady who'd exclaim, "My land!" when I'd trump her ace. I want her to be the grandma who always played dominoes with me, who called me "Lollie," who gave me a red hot at night when she took her pills (so I wouldn't feel left out), who joked with me about everything, who told me point blank "I was pregnant when I got married, you know," even though she'd never spoken about it with another soul.
Grams, remember when you used to slide your seat back and play "low rider" in the yellow car, curlers in your hair, on the way home from Aunt Sylvie's? Remember when we used to mow the lawn at the first farm? Remember when you were so mad at me because I wouldn't take the dead mouse in the bucket out to the barn, and Aunt Sylvie carried the bucket out for me? Remember all the times I came downstairs in my pajamas and socks, and you made me crisp white toast with little slices of real butter? Remember when you taught me to make butterscotch pie, and I just plain couldn't beat the egg whites hard enough into meringue? Remember when you'd tell me stories about when you and Pa first got married, and you kept threatening to go live with your mother? Remember watching "Days of Our Lives" and "Family Feud" (we always wanted to go on as "The Good Family")? Remember tiny milky ways in the freezer, Pa's kettle popcorn, chicken and homemade noodles, cake with caramel frosting? Remember saying "Laurie, your own grandmother?!" when I'd take the deuce of diamonds in Kerseiney (I think it's actually called "Casino," Grams, but I'd never call it anything else)? Remember when we'd go in the camper to the auction and get chicken barbecue and I'd be terrified to go in the barn, but you'd hold my hand, even when I was way too old? Remember, Grams, remember? I do. I always will.
Selfishly, I want you, that Grandma, to stay forever. But, I know. When I go to sleep each night next to my best friend, the love of my life, I know that, if he goes before me, I will begin to shut down, too. I know Pa's got a seat saved for you at the card table, with Ike and Peg, and maybe Aunt Sylvie's learned to play, who knows. Shoot the moon, Grams. Shoot the moon.
Shut down. My grandma's starting to shut down. My grandma, who once rose at 4:00 every day and provided meals and cared for the children and ran the errands and milked the cows and fed the cats and took care of the whole house. My grandma who knew everyone in town and all their stories, who (like me) made friends in line at the gas station, who would talk your ear off until you walked away. My grandma who would play cards until the wee hours of the morning, because she wouldn't let you go to bed until she won. And you couldn't "let" her win, oh no, it had to feel real. How does a person like her begin this process, begin to "shut down"? Well, I'll tell you.
First, you lose your sister. Your only sister. Your older sister, who had been there every moment of your life. Your best friend in the world, the person you went to for every problem, discussion, joy, anything. Your sister who always gave in to you when you were growing up, who pin curled your hair every week, who took care of you, even when you were taking care of others.
Next, you lose your husband of 61 years. Your husband, who always kept life interesting by trying to find a way to contradict your every word, but still love you with every fiber of his being. Your husband, with whom you lived and worked, raised two children, milked hundreds of cows, farmed acre after acre of land. Your best card partner, your musical accompaniment in church (saxophone or clarinet?), the other main character in every story of your adult life.
After you've lost the two of them, you try to find a niche in your new life. You move away from the farm, into town, into the house where your husband's mother lived. You bring some of your things, you take in a cat, you try to feel at home in a new place. But, still, your family worries, and so you move again, after a while, into an apartment in town, where maybe there will be more people to talk to.
You bring your furniture to remind you of home, a chair, a lamp, a mirror, but most things don't fit, and you have to get all new. You start a new hobby, puzzles, and hope that this will help to fill some of the emptiness that you feel. But, already, the shutting down has begun, as you drive less and less, and you feel more and more separate from your little family, your church, and your friends.
Then, as if you have not lost enough, you lose your son. He is your oldest, your firstborn, the one who has lived the closest. He has come to visit often, daily even, and helped to care for animals, your home, for you. It is unexpected, and it is a blow from which you will never really recover. The shutting down is accelerated a little, as another piece of you is buried beneath the ground.
After this, you slowly withdraw. Your remaining son, your daughter-in-law, your grandchildren, they all try to keep you going in this world, but it is the next world that has a stronger call. Your family tells you stories of the here and now, but these are not your children anymore, or even your grandchildren. They are your great-grandchildren, and the distance in generations makes them almost strangers, characters in a book you once read, a special fondness for them is all that you can muster anymore. You lose friends, lifelong friends, and reminisce in your own head about when you were the young ones, caring for the old.
You move to assisted living, where your family knows you'll be well cared for, but where you feel you're being put "out to pasture." After a while, you no longer attend meals, or take walks down the hall, but prefer sitting in your room playing solitaire on your Kindle to pretending to listen to other ladies repeat the same stories of their former lives.
You're not ill, you're not depressed, you're ready. Ready to hang up the hat you've worn on this earth in exchange for your halo.
My grandmother is shutting down. She has been for years. Slowly, at first, but now at a speed that my father just can't take. Selfishly, I want to medicate her. I want her pulled out of this funk and put back into the goofy lady who'd exclaim, "My land!" when I'd trump her ace. I want her to be the grandma who always played dominoes with me, who called me "Lollie," who gave me a red hot at night when she took her pills (so I wouldn't feel left out), who joked with me about everything, who told me point blank "I was pregnant when I got married, you know," even though she'd never spoken about it with another soul.
Grams, remember when you used to slide your seat back and play "low rider" in the yellow car, curlers in your hair, on the way home from Aunt Sylvie's? Remember when we used to mow the lawn at the first farm? Remember when you were so mad at me because I wouldn't take the dead mouse in the bucket out to the barn, and Aunt Sylvie carried the bucket out for me? Remember all the times I came downstairs in my pajamas and socks, and you made me crisp white toast with little slices of real butter? Remember when you taught me to make butterscotch pie, and I just plain couldn't beat the egg whites hard enough into meringue? Remember when you'd tell me stories about when you and Pa first got married, and you kept threatening to go live with your mother? Remember watching "Days of Our Lives" and "Family Feud" (we always wanted to go on as "The Good Family")? Remember tiny milky ways in the freezer, Pa's kettle popcorn, chicken and homemade noodles, cake with caramel frosting? Remember saying "Laurie, your own grandmother?!" when I'd take the deuce of diamonds in Kerseiney (I think it's actually called "Casino," Grams, but I'd never call it anything else)? Remember when we'd go in the camper to the auction and get chicken barbecue and I'd be terrified to go in the barn, but you'd hold my hand, even when I was way too old? Remember, Grams, remember? I do. I always will.
Selfishly, I want you, that Grandma, to stay forever. But, I know. When I go to sleep each night next to my best friend, the love of my life, I know that, if he goes before me, I will begin to shut down, too. I know Pa's got a seat saved for you at the card table, with Ike and Peg, and maybe Aunt Sylvie's learned to play, who knows. Shoot the moon, Grams. Shoot the moon.
Monday, June 24, 2013
Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
Well, it finally happened. I taught Emma how to shave her legs today. My baby girl. Wasn't I just holding her down to force her to let me brush her teeth? Actually, I was, but that's more due to kinesthetic issues than due to age. I guess a better question is, how did time go so fast? I feel like I have been sitting still in time, stuck at 25 or 26 years old, but she and Ben and Becca just keep zipping on past me.
My friend, Molly, told a story the other day of a lady saying to her about Molly's newborn baby, "Oh, how sweet. Time does fly, doesn't it?" The thing is, right at that moment, when you're trying to get through the grocery store and Ben is screaming "I want my gummies!" and Becca is running dangerously close to the endcap of wine bottles and Emma wants to discuss what she can eat for lunches next year and some lady you used to go to church with wants to talk about how your parents are doing... No, it doesn't "fly." Time doesn't fly at all, in the thick of those moments.
But, then again, when I watch Ben and Becca sit next to one another on the floor and "read" books, or see Ben riding his bike down the road, or I teach Em about shaving against the direction of the hair (and NEVER sideways)... Yeah, time does fly. It flies so quickly I'm afraid to blink, for fear they'll leave and I won't have soaked up all the love and joy and laughter and hugs and kisses and hilarious stories that I'll need to keep me satisfied when they're gone on their own journeys.
It's so hard to keep that perspective, when they're bickering, when dinner and dishes need to be done, when I'm confronted with yet another mound of laundry (Seriously, are they changing sets of clothing for each quarter of their day? "This is my mid-day ensemble and I'll be changing at the hour for my stroll along the terrace." One pair of underwear per day, Ben Hall, that's all ya need!). It really is a wonderful life (yes, George) and I really do appreciate my family. I just hope I can keep it all balanced and myself mindful before it's all over.
For now, I will tuck in my mind the picture of Emma, concentrating so hard, trying not to nick herself, going slowly up the shin and over the knee, her literal journey a figurative reminder of climbing the hill to adulthood. Maybe next time we'll even take off the razor guard.
My friend, Molly, told a story the other day of a lady saying to her about Molly's newborn baby, "Oh, how sweet. Time does fly, doesn't it?" The thing is, right at that moment, when you're trying to get through the grocery store and Ben is screaming "I want my gummies!" and Becca is running dangerously close to the endcap of wine bottles and Emma wants to discuss what she can eat for lunches next year and some lady you used to go to church with wants to talk about how your parents are doing... No, it doesn't "fly." Time doesn't fly at all, in the thick of those moments.
But, then again, when I watch Ben and Becca sit next to one another on the floor and "read" books, or see Ben riding his bike down the road, or I teach Em about shaving against the direction of the hair (and NEVER sideways)... Yeah, time does fly. It flies so quickly I'm afraid to blink, for fear they'll leave and I won't have soaked up all the love and joy and laughter and hugs and kisses and hilarious stories that I'll need to keep me satisfied when they're gone on their own journeys.
It's so hard to keep that perspective, when they're bickering, when dinner and dishes need to be done, when I'm confronted with yet another mound of laundry (Seriously, are they changing sets of clothing for each quarter of their day? "This is my mid-day ensemble and I'll be changing at the hour for my stroll along the terrace." One pair of underwear per day, Ben Hall, that's all ya need!). It really is a wonderful life (yes, George) and I really do appreciate my family. I just hope I can keep it all balanced and myself mindful before it's all over.
For now, I will tuck in my mind the picture of Emma, concentrating so hard, trying not to nick herself, going slowly up the shin and over the knee, her literal journey a figurative reminder of climbing the hill to adulthood. Maybe next time we'll even take off the razor guard.
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