These days, a lot of what happens in my life relates to my kids, and as they get older I am less comfortable sharing their stories. I will write a catch-up post one of these days, but there is a story sitting heavy on my heart this Christmas week and I am feeling the urge to write about it as I process.
A few days ago, I was in a Dunkin' Donuts waiting for a coffee. At the front of the pickup line was a woman who was loudly berating the guy behind the counter for messing up her order. Something about whole eggs versus egg whites and then another separate issue relating to the presence or absence of cheese, I forget which. Sure, you want your order to be correct, but the volume and level of hostility emanating from her were far beyond what would ordinarily have been reasonable in that situation. At the time, I thought to myself that she must have already been having a bad day and that the order mixup was the straw that broke the camel's back for her. Unfortunately, I bet it ruined the DD guy's day too.
Later that afternoon, I saw something on Facebook posted by a guidance counselor friend. I paraphrase here, but the gist was that while the end of December is a very special time of year for many people, for others it is the most stressful or depressing or lonely or sad week of the year and that we should try to be patient and compassionate because we don't know what struggles the people we encounter are living through. Thinking about the lady from the morning, I took that post as a valuable reminder from the universe and have been trying to carry it with me as I go about my days.
Then I heard the story that just about brought me to my knees. A couple related to a friend of mine lost their son, their only child, in a car accident on Christmas Eve many years ago. He had just turned 20 a few weeks before he died. Since then, they have not been able to bring themselves to celebrate Christmas and go away alone while the rest of their family is gathering together. As the mother of a son who can drive (one of those things that fell through the cracks of reporting here) I can't even begin to imagine their anguish, or the degree to which I would never be able to bear thinking about or seeing anything relating to Christmas again were it my own son who had been lost.
I don't know this couple, and I'm not sure how good a Christian I am these days (given how much I disagree with virtually everything being espoused by so-called Christians) but I will be praying for that family with my whole heart this Christmas Eve. And for the woman from the coffee shop, just in case this is a time of year to be endured for her too.
Saturday, December 21, 2019
Monday, July 1, 2019
Random
I had a lengthy conversation with a man from Zambia this evening. From his accent when we exchanged greetings, I could tell that he was African, as opposed to African-American, and I soon learned that he had been educated in the U.K. but had lived in the U.S. for many years. I initially guessed that he was from Kenya. He was gracious enough to tell me that I was close! Zambia is just on the other side of Tanzania from Kenya, at least...as my family would say regarding the accuracy of my guess, “right church, wrong pew.”
I was standing at a local park watching Petunia’s soccer practice when he strolled by in the course of his evening constitutional. As a side note, I strongly suspect that I could stand at that park for, oh, another 50 straight years or so without encountering another Zambian (one unrelated to him at any rate), this area not being a hotbed of any sort of diversity, but I digress.
Of course, I had to ask how he ended up in my neck of the woods. He told me that he trained as a chemical engineer, and while in the U.K., received a six month contract to come to the US and help an American contracting firm with their design for a pharmaceutical facility to be built in Ireland. Specifically, they needed him to make sure that the American units of measurement in the design were correctly converted to their metric equivalents for the benefit of the construction crews in Ireland! If the fact that they had to bring in a contractor from the U.K. to do that isn’t a sweeping indictment of the American educational system, I don’t know what is, but regardless, he came to do the job. Two weeks into the six months, he was done. He asked his boss if he could now take a five and a half month vacation, and the boss laughed and gave him a small part of another project to manage. One thing led to another, he was hired on permanently, and his youngest child just graduated from a nearby high school.
It was a lovely conversation, and not for the first time, I was grateful for whatever element in my looks or demeanor makes complete strangers comfortable talking to me.
I was standing at a local park watching Petunia’s soccer practice when he strolled by in the course of his evening constitutional. As a side note, I strongly suspect that I could stand at that park for, oh, another 50 straight years or so without encountering another Zambian (one unrelated to him at any rate), this area not being a hotbed of any sort of diversity, but I digress.
Of course, I had to ask how he ended up in my neck of the woods. He told me that he trained as a chemical engineer, and while in the U.K., received a six month contract to come to the US and help an American contracting firm with their design for a pharmaceutical facility to be built in Ireland. Specifically, they needed him to make sure that the American units of measurement in the design were correctly converted to their metric equivalents for the benefit of the construction crews in Ireland! If the fact that they had to bring in a contractor from the U.K. to do that isn’t a sweeping indictment of the American educational system, I don’t know what is, but regardless, he came to do the job. Two weeks into the six months, he was done. He asked his boss if he could now take a five and a half month vacation, and the boss laughed and gave him a small part of another project to manage. One thing led to another, he was hired on permanently, and his youngest child just graduated from a nearby high school.
It was a lovely conversation, and not for the first time, I was grateful for whatever element in my looks or demeanor makes complete strangers comfortable talking to me.
Wednesday, May 15, 2019
Irony
Thing One and I encountered a behavioral situation in a recent taekwondo class that resulted in me needing to talk to the parent of one of our young students after dismissal. Not a big deal or remarkable in any way, except inasmuch as the parent in question happens to be a teacher at my kids’ school. Finding myself talking to one of the teachers about the behavior of her own child in a class that *I* was teaching was one of those slightly what’s-wrong-with-this-picture? moments that keeps life interesting.
Sunday, May 12, 2019
I Know, It's Been A While
Happy Mother's Day to all the mom-type figures out there! All sorts, no exceptions.
Speaking of which, these days it seems like a lot of the things I might write about have to do with my own kids, and the older they get, the more like it seems like an invasion of their privacy to write about their lives. God knows the three of them have enough going on, but I have to be considerate. So, in honor of Mother's Day, after I give a shout out to my own seriously awesome mom and MIL (honestly, how lucky can one woman be to love and respect both her own mother AND her spouse's??) I have to tell two soccer stories. Because of course I do. I'm a soccer mom. (And because I have spent every %&$#^$ Mother's Day since 2011 at a soccer field somewhere, since the travel soccer powers that be don't respect it as a holiday. Ahem.)
Since the moms of virtually all travel soccer players DO find themselves at a field somewhere at least once on Mother's Day (as opposed, to say, sleeping in, or sipping mimosas at the latest hot brunch spot) the coaches often try to forestall total maternal revolution by bringing a bunch of flowers to the field and giving each child one to present to his or her mom after the game. It's a very nice touch, and at least demonstrates that the coaches appreciate that the moms are spending Mother's Day in a way that might not be their top choice for some strange reason. However, I came across a new twist on that yesterday, and it blew my mind.
Like I said, getting a flower from your own coach to give to your mom is a fairly routine gesture. Enough so that when Thing Two arrived home yesterday afternoon (my FIL had taken him to his game for divide-and-conquer-type reasons) bearing a perfect coral rose, I assumed that was what had happened without specifically asking the question. Then this morning, he offhandedly mentioned that it had not been given to him by his own coach, but by the other team's goalie. Wait, what??
Turns out that the opposing coach brought roses for not only the mothers of his own players, but for the mothers of OUR players as well. My three kids have been playing on Mother's Day weekend for eight, six and five years respectively and I have NEVER seen that happen before. What a classy, thoughtful thing to do. And the game in question was between two teams of thirteen year-old middle school boys...it wasn't like they are in kindergarten. Think about the example that set for them. I was impressed.
***************************************
As it happened, I was not at Thing Two's game because his older brother Thing One had a *Very Important Game* at roughly the same time in a different place. Murphy's Law is a beast.
Thing One's team was not expected to be playing in that game, to start with. The event in question is a sudden death elimination tourney of sorts and in both of the past couple of years, they were knocked out two rounds earlier. To add insult to injury, the opposing team is one of the best in the state, and top 20 in the country. Thing One's team is pretty good, don't get me wrong, but not in the same category as these other boys by any measure. Any objective observer would have rightly predicted a bloodbath going in.
And we looked ugly, I have to tell you. Really ugly. Our game is a passing game, and these other boys were so much bigger and faster and stronger that they kept our guys from connecting passes. Without the ability to get an offense going, our defenders were on their heels for maybe 85% of the game, struggling desperately and valiantly just to keep the ball out of their own net. But they succeeded. They couldn't get any offense going for the first 89 minutes of the game, but at the 89 minute mark, the score was still 0-0 because of the blood and guts left out there by our defense. And with 45 seconds left in regulation, the other team had one defensive breakdown. Just one lapse, but that was all it took. Our center mid drilled the ball into the back of their net, and it was over.
1-0 final. A win for the ages. Epic upset, on the order of David vs. Goliath.
Thing One and the other centerback (central defenders) played every minute of that game. He staggered off the field after the game glassy-eyed, streaks of dried white sweat lining the grooves of his face, too exhausted to even smile. It took everything those boys had to hold the line, but they held.
As he told me later, if they were to play that team a hundred times, they'd lose 99 times. They were better in quite literally every way, but our boys wanted the win more. That was one of the most amazing triumphs of sheer will over adversity that I've ever seen and it was my honor to witness it.
Speaking of which, these days it seems like a lot of the things I might write about have to do with my own kids, and the older they get, the more like it seems like an invasion of their privacy to write about their lives. God knows the three of them have enough going on, but I have to be considerate. So, in honor of Mother's Day, after I give a shout out to my own seriously awesome mom and MIL (honestly, how lucky can one woman be to love and respect both her own mother AND her spouse's??) I have to tell two soccer stories. Because of course I do. I'm a soccer mom. (And because I have spent every %&$#^$ Mother's Day since 2011 at a soccer field somewhere, since the travel soccer powers that be don't respect it as a holiday. Ahem.)
Since the moms of virtually all travel soccer players DO find themselves at a field somewhere at least once on Mother's Day (as opposed, to say, sleeping in, or sipping mimosas at the latest hot brunch spot) the coaches often try to forestall total maternal revolution by bringing a bunch of flowers to the field and giving each child one to present to his or her mom after the game. It's a very nice touch, and at least demonstrates that the coaches appreciate that the moms are spending Mother's Day in a way that might not be their top choice for some strange reason. However, I came across a new twist on that yesterday, and it blew my mind.
Like I said, getting a flower from your own coach to give to your mom is a fairly routine gesture. Enough so that when Thing Two arrived home yesterday afternoon (my FIL had taken him to his game for divide-and-conquer-type reasons) bearing a perfect coral rose, I assumed that was what had happened without specifically asking the question. Then this morning, he offhandedly mentioned that it had not been given to him by his own coach, but by the other team's goalie. Wait, what??
Turns out that the opposing coach brought roses for not only the mothers of his own players, but for the mothers of OUR players as well. My three kids have been playing on Mother's Day weekend for eight, six and five years respectively and I have NEVER seen that happen before. What a classy, thoughtful thing to do. And the game in question was between two teams of thirteen year-old middle school boys...it wasn't like they are in kindergarten. Think about the example that set for them. I was impressed.
***************************************
As it happened, I was not at Thing Two's game because his older brother Thing One had a *Very Important Game* at roughly the same time in a different place. Murphy's Law is a beast.
Thing One's team was not expected to be playing in that game, to start with. The event in question is a sudden death elimination tourney of sorts and in both of the past couple of years, they were knocked out two rounds earlier. To add insult to injury, the opposing team is one of the best in the state, and top 20 in the country. Thing One's team is pretty good, don't get me wrong, but not in the same category as these other boys by any measure. Any objective observer would have rightly predicted a bloodbath going in.
And we looked ugly, I have to tell you. Really ugly. Our game is a passing game, and these other boys were so much bigger and faster and stronger that they kept our guys from connecting passes. Without the ability to get an offense going, our defenders were on their heels for maybe 85% of the game, struggling desperately and valiantly just to keep the ball out of their own net. But they succeeded. They couldn't get any offense going for the first 89 minutes of the game, but at the 89 minute mark, the score was still 0-0 because of the blood and guts left out there by our defense. And with 45 seconds left in regulation, the other team had one defensive breakdown. Just one lapse, but that was all it took. Our center mid drilled the ball into the back of their net, and it was over.
1-0 final. A win for the ages. Epic upset, on the order of David vs. Goliath.
Thing One and the other centerback (central defenders) played every minute of that game. He staggered off the field after the game glassy-eyed, streaks of dried white sweat lining the grooves of his face, too exhausted to even smile. It took everything those boys had to hold the line, but they held.
As he told me later, if they were to play that team a hundred times, they'd lose 99 times. They were better in quite literally every way, but our boys wanted the win more. That was one of the most amazing triumphs of sheer will over adversity that I've ever seen and it was my honor to witness it.
Thursday, March 21, 2019
You Have To Wonder Why Anyone Wants To Be A Teacher Anymore
As a longtime school board member, I have some real, serious issues with the teachers’ union in my state and their slimy, underhanded negotiation tactics, but my experience with rank and file teachers has been good overall. They have legitimately done a solid job (in some cases, outstanding and with effort well beyond the job requirement) of educating my kids. Full props to them.
Scenario the First: I teach two consecutive taekwondo classes every Friday afternoon with another adult instructor and Thing One. We have one class of 5-7 year-olds and the other of 7-11 year-olds (the higher belt kids are older, the first class is the introductory level.) Thing One is now a paid junior instructor (his first official job!) and since he and I are there anyway, I generally bring my other two kids to help as well since both are also older and higher belts than the kids we are teaching. To say the least, it has been an eye opening experience for all of us, particularly the class of younger kids. There are a lot of kids in that class, 25-30 on a normal Friday. I would also say (I’m just guessing, none of the parents have talked to me) that a good four to six of those kids either have something like ADHD or are on the autism spectrum or both. We have them for only 45 minutes, but those 45 minutes are exhausting. Last week it took me and all three of my children to keep a subgroup of 12 kids orderly (luckily we had a third adult in class that day.) And all we were doing was trying to get them to stand in two lines and kick padded targets without injuring each other. As my daughter observed, imagine having to teach kids that age to sit still and read or write, and all day every day, not for only a few minutes a week. It would take a real gift, sincere dedication and probably more patience than I will ever possess.
Scenario the Second: a friend of mine from soccer, who used to be a middle school history teacher, quit her job in frustration this year and has just finished retraining as a flight attendant. She got tired of teaching to standardized tests, dealing with paperwork and the kids not having to think anymore. She says being a flight attendant is much easier and also a whole lot less stressful. (!!)
Scenario the Third: last but not least, the stories I hear from school administrators (they aren’t talking out of turn; as school board members we need to know what’s going on. We aren’t told individuals’ names or other identifiers though.) Some kids can only be released to one parent and not the other because of court custody orders and previous attempts by noncustodial parents to abduct the kids from school. Some kids have parents who abuse or exploit them or seem legitimately mentally ill. Some kids have such chaotic home lives that school is the only safe place they have. And some parents are of sufficient concern to the administration that the topic of having town police at our board meetings has come up more than once.
It’s a crazy crazy world. You have to wonder what kind of person looks at this and says “Yep, that’s for me. Sign me up!”
Scenario the First: I teach two consecutive taekwondo classes every Friday afternoon with another adult instructor and Thing One. We have one class of 5-7 year-olds and the other of 7-11 year-olds (the higher belt kids are older, the first class is the introductory level.) Thing One is now a paid junior instructor (his first official job!) and since he and I are there anyway, I generally bring my other two kids to help as well since both are also older and higher belts than the kids we are teaching. To say the least, it has been an eye opening experience for all of us, particularly the class of younger kids. There are a lot of kids in that class, 25-30 on a normal Friday. I would also say (I’m just guessing, none of the parents have talked to me) that a good four to six of those kids either have something like ADHD or are on the autism spectrum or both. We have them for only 45 minutes, but those 45 minutes are exhausting. Last week it took me and all three of my children to keep a subgroup of 12 kids orderly (luckily we had a third adult in class that day.) And all we were doing was trying to get them to stand in two lines and kick padded targets without injuring each other. As my daughter observed, imagine having to teach kids that age to sit still and read or write, and all day every day, not for only a few minutes a week. It would take a real gift, sincere dedication and probably more patience than I will ever possess.
Scenario the Second: a friend of mine from soccer, who used to be a middle school history teacher, quit her job in frustration this year and has just finished retraining as a flight attendant. She got tired of teaching to standardized tests, dealing with paperwork and the kids not having to think anymore. She says being a flight attendant is much easier and also a whole lot less stressful. (!!)
Scenario the Third: last but not least, the stories I hear from school administrators (they aren’t talking out of turn; as school board members we need to know what’s going on. We aren’t told individuals’ names or other identifiers though.) Some kids can only be released to one parent and not the other because of court custody orders and previous attempts by noncustodial parents to abduct the kids from school. Some kids have parents who abuse or exploit them or seem legitimately mentally ill. Some kids have such chaotic home lives that school is the only safe place they have. And some parents are of sufficient concern to the administration that the topic of having town police at our board meetings has come up more than once.
It’s a crazy crazy world. You have to wonder what kind of person looks at this and says “Yep, that’s for me. Sign me up!”
Friday, March 8, 2019
Not Even Close
If you have a few extra minutes on your hands, go here and take this New York Times quiz. Supposedly, it tells you where in the US you are likely from (i.e., what regional dialect you speak) based on the words you use for certain objects and situations. I took it just now, and while it was very interesting, I’m curious as to whether others find it more accurate than I did.
Although I lived overseas for most of my childhood, I was raised by Midwesterners. I went to college in the Midwest, lived in Texas for the six years of graduate school and have spent most of the last 20 years in either the northern half of the East Coast or Midatlantic regions. So...why this thing says I am likely from Florida is a bit confusing.
Especially since one of the key things they apparently used to make this determination is the fact that I call the shoes one typically would wear to gym class at school “sneakers.” I thought that was a fairly generic term. How in the world does that make me from Florida??
Although I lived overseas for most of my childhood, I was raised by Midwesterners. I went to college in the Midwest, lived in Texas for the six years of graduate school and have spent most of the last 20 years in either the northern half of the East Coast or Midatlantic regions. So...why this thing says I am likely from Florida is a bit confusing.
Especially since one of the key things they apparently used to make this determination is the fact that I call the shoes one typically would wear to gym class at school “sneakers.” I thought that was a fairly generic term. How in the world does that make me from Florida??
Thursday, February 28, 2019
On Weird Cats And Power Outages
Fortunately for my sanity, the power finally came back about 9:30 last night after being out for 2 1/2 days. When I returned to the house, I discovered this surprise waiting for me on the kitchen counter. In case it isn’t clear from the picture, this is a perfectly unoffending loaf of sandwich bread that has been viciously attacked by a cat.
Cats are obligate carnivores. Neither of my two should be remotely interested in bread! Darcy understands that he’s a cat, but we are not nearly so sure about Bingley. He appears to think he’s a dog and begs for everything that our dog wants. I believe I’ve mentioned before that he absolutely loves marshmallows, which has our vet just shaking her head. Unfortunately, unlike the dog, he can jump up on the counters, so I guess we now have to start putting the bread in the refrigerator. *headslap*
Wednesday, February 27, 2019
Why It Rocks To Have Friends When You Live In The Sticks, Part Zillion
Our house has been without power since Monday morning sometime. You may recall that when my house has no electricity, it is basically a nonfunctional shell because the water pump, the heat and air conditioning and the stove all run on electricity. The power company that serves our lines has the distinction of being probably the worst for competence and communication in the entire continental US. If you think yours is worse, you’re wrong. I would bet you. I live on the main county road for our town. Our road has been closed for three straight days because just north of our house, three powerline poles snapped off at the base in high winds on Monday and fell into the road. Local people have been managing to detour around the road closure, even though it’s a pain. However, last night, a house not too far from us burned to the ground partly because fire trucks from other towns couldn’t get around the detours fast enough.
The children and I stayed in hotels the last two nights. My husband, bless his heart, stayed at the house to take care of the pets. It’s cold. It hasn’t been fun for anybody. But this is where the friend thing comes in.
One of my fellow school board members heard me mention at last night’s meeting that I was taking my daughter back to a hotel and offered me his generator on the spot. I mentioned to the three guys we carpool with to Thing One’s soccer that he might not be at practice tonight because he might not be able to shower afterward. All three of them texted me back within five minutes, one offering me a generator and the other two offering their homes to charge devices or shower or get warm, whatever is needed. Two other friends have been texting me for the last couple days offering help with anything necessary. I just dropped a bag of laundry off at my best girlfriend’s house around the corner, because she got her power back today and offered to do laundry for the kids while I’m out running around tonight. I’m not sure what I did to deserve this tribe, but I am one lucky lady and I am grateful.
Oh, and the people who run our power company? You guys can kiss my lily white butt. Your linemen are awesome. They work outside in freezing conditions all night long and they get the job done. Whomever didn’t see the storm coming and plan ahead for it, however, or organize the response once it hit, you’re dead to me.
The children and I stayed in hotels the last two nights. My husband, bless his heart, stayed at the house to take care of the pets. It’s cold. It hasn’t been fun for anybody. But this is where the friend thing comes in.
One of my fellow school board members heard me mention at last night’s meeting that I was taking my daughter back to a hotel and offered me his generator on the spot. I mentioned to the three guys we carpool with to Thing One’s soccer that he might not be at practice tonight because he might not be able to shower afterward. All three of them texted me back within five minutes, one offering me a generator and the other two offering their homes to charge devices or shower or get warm, whatever is needed. Two other friends have been texting me for the last couple days offering help with anything necessary. I just dropped a bag of laundry off at my best girlfriend’s house around the corner, because she got her power back today and offered to do laundry for the kids while I’m out running around tonight. I’m not sure what I did to deserve this tribe, but I am one lucky lady and I am grateful.
Oh, and the people who run our power company? You guys can kiss my lily white butt. Your linemen are awesome. They work outside in freezing conditions all night long and they get the job done. Whomever didn’t see the storm coming and plan ahead for it, however, or organize the response once it hit, you’re dead to me.
Sunday, February 24, 2019
New One On Me
I was in line at the grocery store yesterday and the lady behind me said something to me about her “carriage,” meaning her shopping cart. Then I was talking to a friend on the phone last night, and he said something about a “buggy,” by which he also meant a shopping cart. I have heard the term buggy used that way before, although not often and not around here, but “carriage” was a new one. Wondering if these are regional linguistic things.
So, out of curiosity, anyone reading this: where are you from and what do you call the thing you push around a grocery store to hold the food items you are buying?
Oh, and while you are at it, what do you call the thing that women carry around to hold their wallet, makeup and keys, etc? Purse, pocketbook, handbag, or something else?? I’m not sure if that term is generational or regional or both but I have always called it a purse.
So, out of curiosity, anyone reading this: where are you from and what do you call the thing you push around a grocery store to hold the food items you are buying?
Oh, and while you are at it, what do you call the thing that women carry around to hold their wallet, makeup and keys, etc? Purse, pocketbook, handbag, or something else?? I’m not sure if that term is generational or regional or both but I have always called it a purse.
Saturday, February 23, 2019
From The Mouths of Babes
Or teenagers, at least.
Thing One’s club soccer team played a tournament in Las Vegas last weekend, and he and I made the trip together. My parents were able to meet us there, but the rest of my immediate family had to stay home because the other kids had sports and birthday parties and such going on. Thing One has never been to Vegas before, so the whole experience was mind-blowing for him. We took him to a Cirque de Soleil show and the Hoover Dam while we were out there (kind of like making sure he got to see Niagara Falls when they played in upstate NY last year), but what made the strongest impression on him was the Luxor, the casino in which our team was staying. He was absolutely fascinated by the slot machines, the haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, the people who were visibly drunk at 9 o’clock on Sunday morning while gambling, the clouds of pot everywhere, and the signs on the Strip and in the casino regarding all manner of sex-related stuff.
As he put it, “This building represents everything that’s wrong with America.”
Pretty funny that that was his summary, but I guess it beats him deciding that UNLV is now at the top of his college choice list!
Thing One’s club soccer team played a tournament in Las Vegas last weekend, and he and I made the trip together. My parents were able to meet us there, but the rest of my immediate family had to stay home because the other kids had sports and birthday parties and such going on. Thing One has never been to Vegas before, so the whole experience was mind-blowing for him. We took him to a Cirque de Soleil show and the Hoover Dam while we were out there (kind of like making sure he got to see Niagara Falls when they played in upstate NY last year), but what made the strongest impression on him was the Luxor, the casino in which our team was staying. He was absolutely fascinated by the slot machines, the haze of cigarette smoke hanging in the air, the people who were visibly drunk at 9 o’clock on Sunday morning while gambling, the clouds of pot everywhere, and the signs on the Strip and in the casino regarding all manner of sex-related stuff.
As he put it, “This building represents everything that’s wrong with America.”
Pretty funny that that was his summary, but I guess it beats him deciding that UNLV is now at the top of his college choice list!
Wednesday, January 30, 2019
More Car Conversations With Thing One
On the way to soccer, as usual.
He asked why so many prominent men have much younger wives. (The subject came up in the context of a conversation about American politics.) I explained the whole concept of the midlife crisis and that the taking of a younger ‘arm candy’ second wife is actually relatively common among the powerful and privileged.
It absolutely blew his mind, as he put it, “that you could love someone for 25 years and then dump them.” Hopefully he will still think that way when he’s 50, but I’m doing something right with this kid if this is where his head is at 15. Actually, it isn’t so much that I can take credit, as that his father and I have been married for 17 years and that both sets of grandparents have been married for approximately forever. (Just under 50 years in one case, just over 50 in the other.) I suspect it’s more that he is assuming that the norm is what he’s grown up with, but that’s not a bad thing.
He asked why so many prominent men have much younger wives. (The subject came up in the context of a conversation about American politics.) I explained the whole concept of the midlife crisis and that the taking of a younger ‘arm candy’ second wife is actually relatively common among the powerful and privileged.
It absolutely blew his mind, as he put it, “that you could love someone for 25 years and then dump them.” Hopefully he will still think that way when he’s 50, but I’m doing something right with this kid if this is where his head is at 15. Actually, it isn’t so much that I can take credit, as that his father and I have been married for 17 years and that both sets of grandparents have been married for approximately forever. (Just under 50 years in one case, just over 50 in the other.) I suspect it’s more that he is assuming that the norm is what he’s grown up with, but that’s not a bad thing.
Thursday, January 17, 2019
And I Missed It All. Dammit.
Yesterday, Thing Two was upset when he walked out to the parking lot after basketball practice. Apparently some of the older boys on the team were giving him grief about his playing. I am his mother and I love him more than anyone on earth, but I will freely admit that God love the child, basketball is not his best sport. I'm pretty sure that he made the team only because he is nearly six feet tall in seventh grade, (I believe) the tallest kid in our tiny podunk little middle school. To be honest, I also suspect that part of the issue is that he's still a little different, and middle schoolers in general just suck at being kind to those who aren't straight down the middle of the behavioral bell curve. The first word in his official diagnosis is "social," after all. He's made tremendous progress, but is he going to fit in with the "cool" athletic eighth graders at this point, especially if they pass him the ball and he misses a straightforward shot? Nah, not so much.
So, I fire off an email to the coach right after practice to get some independent adult insight into the situation, which he has yet to answer. (He has been responsive in the past, though. I will give him that.) Strike 1. Then, of course, Murphy's Law being what it is, the kid has a basketball game today, away at the rival school. Himself is (Murphy's Law, part 2), WAY out of town tonight, so I have to cover the night's kid detail all on my lonesome. The plan was to get Petunia off the bus, head over to the rival school, watch the basketball game from 4-5, grab Thing Two, run home, feed all three kids, and then get Petunia to soccer training by 6:30 while leaving Thing Two at home with Thing One. You know what they say about plans...but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Game starts. It's UGLY. The other team is kicking the collective butts of our A team starters, which means that basically no subbing is going on since by definition they are the best we've got. We were down 25 or so in the third quarter and only two players had rotated into the game other than the starting five, neither of whom were Thing Two even though he often plays in A games. (He's considered a "swing" player, meaning that he subs into A team games and starts in the very few B team games on the schedule.) I'm having a couple of thoughts at this point: 1), maybe he really is playing badly, if the coach isn't playing him at all anymore, and 2), why the hell am I here on a busy afternoon if my kid isn't going to leave the bench? Quickly followed by 3): Wow, the coach is visibly frustrated and snapping at the kids. (Strike 2.) I'm sitting two rows behind him, I hear and see it all. I text Himself and say that all in all I'm glad Thing Two isn't playing because if they are going to get yelled at for a poor performance, at least he can't be a target if he's not in the game.
Game ends. We've lost, still by 25 or so. Thing Two went into the game exactly once and played only the final two minutes and 21 seconds. Mercifully, he didn't do too badly. Whistle blows, kids line up for the ritual postgame handshakes, I go to grab Thing Two to leave. Then I notice a few other parents just coming into the gym and realize, "Oh SHIT. There must be a B game today too." No way I can stay for it, either: I have to get Petunia home, fed and to soccer. So, to recap, I have sat through a miserable stressful ugly hourlong game, of which my son played only the final 141 seconds, and now have no choice but to leave immediately before a game in which he will likely play a great deal, as a B team starter. (In retrospect, probably part of the reason he didn't play much in the A game.) After scrambling him a post-B game ride home, I left, feeling much like I had abandoned him to the wolves. After all, with an A team that good their B team would probably be pretty good too, and I'd already seen the coach's mood for myself. Wasn't at all sure how he'd handle two rough losses in a row. But I had to leave, so I left.
Run home, feed Thing One and Petunia, leave dinner for Thing Two, head to soccer. Thing One had strict instructions that he was to text me immediately upon Thing Two's return home to let me know how the B game went. Then I waited...and waited...and waited. Finally, the text came in. Those of you familiar with the texting habits of teenaged boys will not be surprised by its contents. I quote it below, in its entirety.
"W"
(i.e., they won.)
Oh, another text.
"33-23"
Two texts, comprising a total of six symbols. That's all I got.
So, I call home, gobsmacked that they actually won the B game but really wanting to hear how Thing Two did. The answer floored me. Six boards. Nine points. That is, he scored more than a quarter of the team's total points by himself. And, as dawned on me belatedly, there are only two ways to score an odd number of points in a basketball game: you have to sink either a three pointer or a free throw. Given that his position is right under the basket (and that he usually can't hit a bull in the butt with a basketball from more than fifteen feet, anyway), the three point thing was unlikely. The kid made a FREE THROW. His first one of the season. Six boards. Four baskets. And a mofoing free throw. And I didn't see any of it because I was driving to soccer. Bloody hell.
At least it happened. And there was not a strike three of which I'm aware. I'll take it.
So, I fire off an email to the coach right after practice to get some independent adult insight into the situation, which he has yet to answer. (He has been responsive in the past, though. I will give him that.) Strike 1. Then, of course, Murphy's Law being what it is, the kid has a basketball game today, away at the rival school. Himself is (Murphy's Law, part 2), WAY out of town tonight, so I have to cover the night's kid detail all on my lonesome. The plan was to get Petunia off the bus, head over to the rival school, watch the basketball game from 4-5, grab Thing Two, run home, feed all three kids, and then get Petunia to soccer training by 6:30 while leaving Thing Two at home with Thing One. You know what they say about plans...but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Game starts. It's UGLY. The other team is kicking the collective butts of our A team starters, which means that basically no subbing is going on since by definition they are the best we've got. We were down 25 or so in the third quarter and only two players had rotated into the game other than the starting five, neither of whom were Thing Two even though he often plays in A games. (He's considered a "swing" player, meaning that he subs into A team games and starts in the very few B team games on the schedule.) I'm having a couple of thoughts at this point: 1), maybe he really is playing badly, if the coach isn't playing him at all anymore, and 2), why the hell am I here on a busy afternoon if my kid isn't going to leave the bench? Quickly followed by 3): Wow, the coach is visibly frustrated and snapping at the kids. (Strike 2.) I'm sitting two rows behind him, I hear and see it all. I text Himself and say that all in all I'm glad Thing Two isn't playing because if they are going to get yelled at for a poor performance, at least he can't be a target if he's not in the game.
Game ends. We've lost, still by 25 or so. Thing Two went into the game exactly once and played only the final two minutes and 21 seconds. Mercifully, he didn't do too badly. Whistle blows, kids line up for the ritual postgame handshakes, I go to grab Thing Two to leave. Then I notice a few other parents just coming into the gym and realize, "Oh SHIT. There must be a B game today too." No way I can stay for it, either: I have to get Petunia home, fed and to soccer. So, to recap, I have sat through a miserable stressful ugly hourlong game, of which my son played only the final 141 seconds, and now have no choice but to leave immediately before a game in which he will likely play a great deal, as a B team starter. (In retrospect, probably part of the reason he didn't play much in the A game.) After scrambling him a post-B game ride home, I left, feeling much like I had abandoned him to the wolves. After all, with an A team that good their B team would probably be pretty good too, and I'd already seen the coach's mood for myself. Wasn't at all sure how he'd handle two rough losses in a row. But I had to leave, so I left.
Run home, feed Thing One and Petunia, leave dinner for Thing Two, head to soccer. Thing One had strict instructions that he was to text me immediately upon Thing Two's return home to let me know how the B game went. Then I waited...and waited...and waited. Finally, the text came in. Those of you familiar with the texting habits of teenaged boys will not be surprised by its contents. I quote it below, in its entirety.
"W"
(i.e., they won.)
Oh, another text.
"33-23"
Two texts, comprising a total of six symbols. That's all I got.
So, I call home, gobsmacked that they actually won the B game but really wanting to hear how Thing Two did. The answer floored me. Six boards. Nine points. That is, he scored more than a quarter of the team's total points by himself. And, as dawned on me belatedly, there are only two ways to score an odd number of points in a basketball game: you have to sink either a three pointer or a free throw. Given that his position is right under the basket (and that he usually can't hit a bull in the butt with a basketball from more than fifteen feet, anyway), the three point thing was unlikely. The kid made a FREE THROW. His first one of the season. Six boards. Four baskets. And a mofoing free throw. And I didn't see any of it because I was driving to soccer. Bloody hell.
At least it happened. And there was not a strike three of which I'm aware. I'll take it.
Tuesday, January 15, 2019
Not The Answers He Was Expecting, I Guess
A good friend of mine called me this afternoon to relate a funny conversation he’d just had with our mutual dermatologist, a generally unflappable, slow-talking gent from Oklahoma. For background, this guy is my usual geocaching companion, and although his hair is almost entirely grey and, as he puts it, he can eat off the seniors’ menu at Applebee’s, he’s not one to shy away from a physical challenge.
Which leads us to this afternoon, and him having the following exchange with the doctor during his regular annual checkup.
Doc: “What happened to your knees?”
Friend: “Oh, nothing major—those are just scrapes from climbing a tree.”
Doc: *prolonged pause*
Doc: “And WHY were you climbing a tree?”
Friend: “There was a geocache in it, hanging fifteen or twenty feet up. Only way to get to it.”
Doc: *another pause*
Doc: “Well, did you get it at least?”
Friend: “Yep.”
Seems he then went on to tell the doc (who knows that we are friends) that I was waiting safely at the bottom of the tree while this was going on. I asked if he happened to mention that later the same afternoon I crawled fifty feet each way through a dark concrete drainpipe to grab another one for us, but no. Sigh. I carry my own weight on this team, thankyouverymuch. Guess I’ll have to clear my name the next time I’m in for a checkup!
Which leads us to this afternoon, and him having the following exchange with the doctor during his regular annual checkup.
Doc: “What happened to your knees?”
Friend: “Oh, nothing major—those are just scrapes from climbing a tree.”
Doc: *prolonged pause*
Doc: “And WHY were you climbing a tree?”
Friend: “There was a geocache in it, hanging fifteen or twenty feet up. Only way to get to it.”
Doc: *another pause*
Doc: “Well, did you get it at least?”
Friend: “Yep.”
Seems he then went on to tell the doc (who knows that we are friends) that I was waiting safely at the bottom of the tree while this was going on. I asked if he happened to mention that later the same afternoon I crawled fifty feet each way through a dark concrete drainpipe to grab another one for us, but no. Sigh. I carry my own weight on this team, thankyouverymuch. Guess I’ll have to clear my name the next time I’m in for a checkup!
Wednesday, January 9, 2019
I Love My Other Boy Too
(Just to clarify, of course.)
Speaking of conversations with my sons in cars, had another interesting one last night. It had to do with the choices you make and the consequences they bring.
In Taekwon-do, we have a hand technique called an upward block. The actual mechanics of it aren’t important, but the key point is that it is used to change the trajectory of an incoming kick. That’s the literal translation of the Korean. I was reminded of that because our conversation was all about life trajectories and how we change them.
My observation so far is that for good or bad, parents set their child on a particular life course with their expectations and lifestyle, but the child has the ability to change it. The whole thing started with a conversation about college. I was saying to him that two of my dear friends are extremely bright, but never got beyond high school. One is a union ironworker, and the other is a car mechanic. He asked why they hadn’t gone to college, and I explained that some families don’t care much about education. Or don’t have the money to send a kid to college. Or have never sent anyone to college, have no idea how getting in works and don’t necessarily think it’s that important. You could see him trying to process that.
I pointed out to him that his father and I have done everything we could to set him up to succeed, but that from here on out it’s on him. He can stay on his current trajectory, keep doing well in school, get a job that makes him happy and have a happy life, or he can make choices that will temporarily or permanently change it. He could do drugs, drive while drinking, get a girl pregnant...any of that would knock him right off that curve. I also noted that he’s already changed his own trajectory for the better once, through hard work and determination. Three or four years ago, he came to us and said that he was tired of being pigeonholed on the B team at his old soccer club and wanted to see if he could make a better team. That child carried a soccer ball around with him for six solid months. Every free minute he was shooting or juggling or dribbling, but damned if he didn’t make that new team when tryout time rolled around. His old team is struggling right now, but the new one is playing tournaments all over the country and is likely to have several players make it to college teams.
It’s all about hard work and choices. Stay the course, or change it?
Speaking of conversations with my sons in cars, had another interesting one last night. It had to do with the choices you make and the consequences they bring.
In Taekwon-do, we have a hand technique called an upward block. The actual mechanics of it aren’t important, but the key point is that it is used to change the trajectory of an incoming kick. That’s the literal translation of the Korean. I was reminded of that because our conversation was all about life trajectories and how we change them.
My observation so far is that for good or bad, parents set their child on a particular life course with their expectations and lifestyle, but the child has the ability to change it. The whole thing started with a conversation about college. I was saying to him that two of my dear friends are extremely bright, but never got beyond high school. One is a union ironworker, and the other is a car mechanic. He asked why they hadn’t gone to college, and I explained that some families don’t care much about education. Or don’t have the money to send a kid to college. Or have never sent anyone to college, have no idea how getting in works and don’t necessarily think it’s that important. You could see him trying to process that.
I pointed out to him that his father and I have done everything we could to set him up to succeed, but that from here on out it’s on him. He can stay on his current trajectory, keep doing well in school, get a job that makes him happy and have a happy life, or he can make choices that will temporarily or permanently change it. He could do drugs, drive while drinking, get a girl pregnant...any of that would knock him right off that curve. I also noted that he’s already changed his own trajectory for the better once, through hard work and determination. Three or four years ago, he came to us and said that he was tired of being pigeonholed on the B team at his old soccer club and wanted to see if he could make a better team. That child carried a soccer ball around with him for six solid months. Every free minute he was shooting or juggling or dribbling, but damned if he didn’t make that new team when tryout time rolled around. His old team is struggling right now, but the new one is playing tournaments all over the country and is likely to have several players make it to college teams.
It’s all about hard work and choices. Stay the course, or change it?
Sunday, January 6, 2019
I Love My Boy
Thing Two had an hour and a half of soccer practice, two hours of Confirmation class, and an hour of goalie training consecutively today. Allowing for the necessary drive time in between those scattered map points, he and I left the house at 12:40 and will probably get home about 8:45 tonight.
I hate this crazy freaking schedule, I really do. And I’m just the driver; I can’t even imagine how he feels about it, although I have to say that he has been a real trouper today. Luckily (for a variety of reasons) the Confirmation class is only one Sunday a month, not every Sunday like the soccer.
I spend a lot of time in the car in general with day-to-day stuff, but since family logistics dictate that I’m usually the parent who does the road trips with Thing One, he and I have also covered a lot of ground together. I can think of at least seven multi-hundred mile soccer trips with him in the past couple of years. I wouldn’t trade those for gold, believe it or not. The best conversations I have with him take place while we are sitting side-by-side in the car. Thing Two not being quite as verbal or expressive as his brother, we tend to bond over music in the car rather than talking. I was thinking about that on the way to goalie training, and reflecting that I’ll still take the one on one time with either of my sons whenever and however I can get it, whether or not it involves deep conversations.
And then a song came on the radio, and he commented that the singer used to be in the band Linkin Park. Immediately followed by asking me why the former lead singer of that band would’ve committed suicide. Screech, halt, back up the bus. What was I saying about not having deep conversations with him in the car??? Scratch that.
Oh, and speaking of him not being my talker, the woman running the CCD program asked him to read the closing prayer tonight, one he’d never seen before, from the microphone in front of a room full of people. He read it so beautifully I almost cried. Although he’s only 13, he has a deep voice already, and had to bend down a little bit from his 5’11” height to reach the microphone. He has new glasses, ones that look better on his face, and he’s grown out his crew cut enough so that now you can see the dark curls against his pale skin. I know I’m prejudiced, but he is a handsome child, and he’s growing up so fast I almost can’t stand it.
I hate this crazy freaking schedule, I really do. And I’m just the driver; I can’t even imagine how he feels about it, although I have to say that he has been a real trouper today. Luckily (for a variety of reasons) the Confirmation class is only one Sunday a month, not every Sunday like the soccer.
I spend a lot of time in the car in general with day-to-day stuff, but since family logistics dictate that I’m usually the parent who does the road trips with Thing One, he and I have also covered a lot of ground together. I can think of at least seven multi-hundred mile soccer trips with him in the past couple of years. I wouldn’t trade those for gold, believe it or not. The best conversations I have with him take place while we are sitting side-by-side in the car. Thing Two not being quite as verbal or expressive as his brother, we tend to bond over music in the car rather than talking. I was thinking about that on the way to goalie training, and reflecting that I’ll still take the one on one time with either of my sons whenever and however I can get it, whether or not it involves deep conversations.
And then a song came on the radio, and he commented that the singer used to be in the band Linkin Park. Immediately followed by asking me why the former lead singer of that band would’ve committed suicide. Screech, halt, back up the bus. What was I saying about not having deep conversations with him in the car??? Scratch that.
Oh, and speaking of him not being my talker, the woman running the CCD program asked him to read the closing prayer tonight, one he’d never seen before, from the microphone in front of a room full of people. He read it so beautifully I almost cried. Although he’s only 13, he has a deep voice already, and had to bend down a little bit from his 5’11” height to reach the microphone. He has new glasses, ones that look better on his face, and he’s grown out his crew cut enough so that now you can see the dark curls against his pale skin. I know I’m prejudiced, but he is a handsome child, and he’s growing up so fast I almost can’t stand it.
Friday, January 4, 2019
You Know You Live In The Country When...
...you leave your freshly-taken-down (formerly) live Christmas tree in your front yard by the driveway for your friend’s kid, who will come by with his pickup truck to collect it because his family’s goats love to eat them! Definitely an eco-friendly way of getting rid of a Christmas tree.
Happy New Year, everyone!! Good luck remembering to write “2019” on your forms and checks. :)
Happy New Year, everyone!! Good luck remembering to write “2019” on your forms and checks. :)
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