44 Years

Today is my parents' forty-fourth wedding anniversary.

My mother put herself through college, working days as a schoolteacher and taking classes at night.  It took her five years to finish her bachelor's degree.  My father earned his degree in four years and then did a one-year MBA program immediately afterward.  Mom's college graduation ceremony and Dad's business school graduation ceremony were scheduled for the same day, August 31st, 1968.

Both of them skipped their graduations, and they were married on that day instead.  

Nine countries, two children, a dozen pets, and a variety of adventures later, they are still happily married and going strong.  They arrived for a visit from the West Coast last night (we have them for two weeks!!) and Himself and I took them out to dinner tonight to celebrate.

Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad.  We love you. 

How To Sell A House, Italian Style

So, I came across this post the other day, and it reminded me of something that happened the spring after we bought our current house.  (We bought it in late fall, almost nine years ago.)

I was out back working in the garden, and accidentally dug up what appeared to be a religious figurine wrapped in a ziploc bag.  To make it stranger, it was buried head down.  I had no idea who it was or why the hell it was buried in my yard.  Despite being raised Catholic, I had never heard of this whole bury-St-Joseph-in-the-back-yard-when-you-want-to-sell-your-house thing.  I happened to mention it to my mother on the phone later that day, and she explained.  Apparently it is an Italian thing, like bathtub Marys.  Seems horribly disrespectful.  And I gather that the sellers are supposed to collect it once the house sells, but clearly that didn't happen, so I am stuck with one slightly used St. Joseph figurine, if anyone wants it.  I will not be tempting fate by throwing it away.  That is probably even more disrespectful!

We bought the house from an Italian couple, who were very kind to us, but (based on a rant directed at their movers that I inadvertently overheard the day they were moving out and we were moving in) most likely 'connected.'  That was an interesting day.  Our running joke for years has been that they probably buried Jimmy Hoffa in our backyard, too.  Even though he probably wouldn't help to sell the house nearly as much as St. Joseph.

I Am So Going To Hell

Today, I was driving along, minding my own business, when a car zoomed out of a side street unexpectedly and almost sideswiped me.  I had to jerk into the other lane to avoid being hit.

Back in the bad old days before I had children, I had a killer commute to work in tons of traffic and was not always known for my patience or kindness when other drivers acted like idiots (me? No...)  During that phase of my life, I developed an unfortunate tendency to swear at those other drivers in a most colorful manner.  Not that they could hear me, but it made me feel a lot better.

Since Thing One was born, I have tried very, very hard to curb my language, and for the most part have succeeded, but sometimes the filter is just not quick enough.  At least the kids weren't in the car with me today when I called the driver who almost hit me every name in the book and then some as I was swerving all over the road.

But then I looked up at the driver of the other car and froze.  Karmically speaking, I'm pretty sure it's not a good thing to roundly and thoroughly cuss out a nun, even one who can't drive for crap.  

Practice

Thing One's piano teacher said something to him today that really struck me.  She told him that practice does not necessarily make perfect, but it does make permanent.  

Her point was that all the practice in the world does not necessarily help if what you are practicing isn't correct.  If that's the case, all you are doing is ingraining whatever you are doing wrong to the point where it becomes exceptionally difficult to fix.  (She is trying to get him to slow down and make sure that he is playing his assigned pieces correctly before he burns them into his muscle memory.)

When she said that, I immediately thought about my martial arts class.  I recently discovered that I have been doing a particular move completely backward for weeks.  Not quite sure how that happened, but it is the sad reality.  Now, every time I perform that move, I have to make a conscious effort to do it correctly, which is a pain in the ass but my own fault.  

I guess the takehome lesson is a broad one: be careful what you allow yourself to practice, since that will become your habit, for good or bad.  Reflecting tonight on the fact that beyond physical activities, this also includes how I think, how I treat others, and what I say.

I'll be practicing my lessons too.

Miss Alex

I wrote a few weeks ago about one of my heroes.  Got an e-mail this morning from another one.

When I was in graduate school, Miss Alex was one of the administrative assistants in my program's main office.  A beautiful ebony-skinned woman with tidy dreadlocks and a musical lilt in her voice from her native West Indies, she had a smile and a cheerful greeting for everyone who came in.  Over time, we became good friends.

Life hadn't given her an easy hand.  She married young, to a philanderer who mistreated her.  She eventually kicked him to the curb and raised their three children alone, even going into the Army to support them.  When I met her, the older two were grown and gone and the youngest was still in high school.

She had dreamed of being a doctor as a child, but life got in the way.  A few years after I met her, she quit her job at the graduate school: she had decided that she still wanted to be a doctor and was going for it.  Her last child was done with school and she could finally think of herself again.

She took classes at the local community college, then finished a bachelor's degree at one of the Seven Sisters schools that had a program for non-traditional students.  She finished some post-baccalaureate courses at another university afterward, and is currently preparing for the MCAT (the medical school entrance exam) and saving money for medical school interview expenses.  She has still been working while putting herself through school, so the pace has been slow, but she is determined.  She wants to be a psychiatrist eventually, and she will be a damned good one.

Thinking of you today, Miss Alex.  Proud of you and proud to know you.

Magic Pill

Thing Two has had a particularly rough week or so.  The behaviors that mark his otherness have been more prominent than usual, which always sets my teeth on edge and my stomach to churning.  I am so hoping that the problem is the accumulated lack of routine and that the start of school in a week or so will help.  Yes, he is better than he used to be.  Much, much, much better.  But it is still very apparent that he is not quite like all the other kids.

Today, I left Things One and Two at the childcare area of the gym while I worked out.  When I came back, I was told by Thing One that other kids had been asking him questions about his brother's behavior, which broke my heart.  He stood up for his little brother, but it kills me that he has to.  Unfortunately, I would guess that this is just the beginning, and I thank God for the kind heart of my eldest.  He is going to need it.  Along with all the patience and forbearance he can muster.

Sometimes, other bloggers muse whether, if such a thing as a magic pill that would make their child "normal" existed, they would give that pill to the child.  A surprising number say (at least publicly) that they would not, that the challenges they face are part of what makes the child unique and wonderful.

I am here to tell you that, if such a pill existed, I would give it to my child without a second's hesitation.  I would trade my own life for that pill some days.

All I want is for my son to be normal.  To fit in.  To have friends.  For myself not to have to worry every day about whether he will be able to live independently as an adult.  Basic things that so many parents take completely for granted.  I can't even imagine NOT giving him that pill if I had a choice.

But of course, there is no such pill, and I have no such choice.  He may get to "normal," or at least close enough, someday.  He has made so much progress over the years that the doctors are guardedly optimistic for him.  The brains are there, no question.  Kid is damned smart.  The wires getting to his brain are just scrambled, but they are mightily scrambled, and the language pathways were affected most of all.  Poor kid got the shallow end of the genepool in several different ways.

So we fight every day to get things just a little bit better, to make him understand and speak better, to make him understand interpersonal dynamics better.  It is an uphill battle and I am often so desperately sick of it, but it is a battle for the long haul.  In the absence of the magic pill, this battle is the only chance we have.

And it is helping.  I know that it is helping.  But some days I just want to cry, and today is one of those days.  I know that I have so many blessings to count, including him, and I will start counting again tomorrow.

Tonight, I am wishing for that damned pill.

Bad Weather

Flipped on the news just now to see where the forecasters think Hurricane Isaac is headed.  Not looking too good for the Gulf Coast at the moment.  I lived in Houston for a long time, actually not too far from the Astrodome, and watching the aftermath of Katrina and Rita on TV made me physically sick.  So hoping that the infrastructure holds up this time around and that the impact of this storm is not so deadly and dramatic and uprooting for the poor souls in its path. 

A few days ago, Ms. Moon wrote a post on her blog entitled Tell Me Again Why I Live Here? that got me thinking.  She was reflecting on the fact that Floridians have not only hurricanes to contend with, but also alligators, snakes, and other various and sundry disagreeable forms of wildlife including massive mosquitoes. 

I know why I live where I do (a combination of my husband's job and Murphy's Law), but I ask that same question of my parents regularly.  It is possible to see the San Andreas Fault line from the front porch of their home in Southern California--I am not exaggerating in the slightest--and their homeowner's association runs regular earthquake preparedness and other disaster-related drills.  I have to admit that their town and the surrounding area are staggeringly beautiful, which I presume is why people would be crazy enough to live RIGHT ON TOP OF A MAJOR FAULT LINE, but still.  Their thought process is that everyone has to go sometime, and they might as well be in a place that they love when it happens.  Can't argue with their logic, at least when I'm being rational.  It happens on occasion. 

That said, I hate earthquakes--and tornadoes, for that matter--with a fiery passion.  I prefer my natural disasters to come with warning, preferably a lot of warning!  Surprises are not my thing, never have been.  Having been through several earthquakes in Japan, small ones but big enough as far as I was concerned--it felt like the four corners of the room had been taken up by some malevolent giant on a sudden whim and vigorously shaken on each occasion--I will cheerfully avoid those as much as possible.  I have also seen the sky turn pea green and then dashed headlong for the basement during summer Midwestern storms.  Can't say that was much fun either.  At least with hurricanes, you do know where they are and when they are coming.  Stressful enough waiting for them to arrive, but there is time to prepare with batteries and water and the like, or alternatively to board up and get the hell out of Dodge.

Thinking tonight about the people waiting for Isaac, those with battened hatches and stockpiled supplies and also those who have boarded up and sought safer harbors. 

Rain, rain, go away...