Put Me In The Zoo

I will go into the zoo.  I want to see it.  Yes, I do.  

Or, at the very least, I love Thing Two, so I will go to the zoo with his class for their field trip, just as I did for his older brother a few years ago.

I have nothing against the zoo itself, please note.  Just the concept of chasing energetic elementary schoolers around it for the better part of a day in the blazing sun, trying to keep them off the statues, off the fences, and out of the pens!  And I was even grateful for the sun and heat that followed this morning's showers, since it was 50 degrees outside and raining sideways there the year I went with Thing One.

I've always attributed the beginning of one of my particularly good friendships to that first trip, actually: once you hit the point where you are too wet to need an umbrella anymore and cold enough to shiver, you either become a grumpy, miserable piece of work or you give up and recognize the humor in the situation.  My now-friend B and I bonded permanently while hiding from the frigid rain with our older kids in the zoo's ice cream shop and laughing like a pair of fools!  The animals had all had the sense to take cover from the downpour, anyway--we were just following suit.

B happens to have daughters the same ages as both of my sons, so this time around we made a point of signing up to chaperone together again.  We were assigned three children to watch: her daughter, my son, and the birthday boy of last summer's Mexican fiesta.  These three have been in school together since preschool and get along well, which is handy.  As chaperones, B and I were carrying the group's lunches, water bottles, umbrellas, jackets, sunblock, etc, etc.  I had a backpack; she'd brought a portable cooler thing, which she pushed around the zoo in a rented stroller!  She is nothing if not practical.

We were at the zoo for about four hours, the highlights of which (in the kids' opinion) were watching a gorilla poop, eating lunch, and getting to ride a camel.  Oh, and the umpteen-foot python and screaming peacock.  B and I were more impressed with the big cats, the polar bears, and the sky-high stilettos and hoochie skirt worn by another chaperone.

The kids' bus didn't get back to school until about 4:50.  Having made that mistake the last time, there was no way in hell I was going on the bus with the kids again...B and I and another mom drove together in my car in blessed tranquility.  And I needed the temporary peace and quiet, since Thing Two also had a baseball game tonight!  He needed to be at the field by 5:30.

About half the kids on each team had also been to the zoo and were exhausted.  The game was a nightmare of zombie fielding and very slow base running.  One outfielder actually sat down mid-inning to tie his shoe and never quite got up again!  When the coach suggested tacking one more inning of play onto the end of the game--at 7:45!--there was a popular rebellion in the parent section of the bleachers.

All told, I was home today for about half an hour between 8:30AM and 8PM.  Good thing Himself worked from home today.  And Thing Two is lucky that he's cute!

Interesting

Saw some survey results recently: apparently three is the most stressful number of children.

Lovely.

I'd agree with the comment in the article that most of the stress is self-imposed and the result of excessive perfectionism, too.  That's definitely a big part of the problem around here, anyway.

My experience was that the transition between one and two kids was harder than the one from two to three, though.  By the latter point, you already know how to juggle, and are just (ha!) adding a ball.  Maybe that's why the stress levels for moms of four or more went down in the survey...they could just have the juggling thing down cold.

But I don't plan to find out personally: I think that one additional ball would probably send me right over the edge!  I'll quit while I'm behind...

At Least There's A Good View From Up Here

The year I was nine, my mother would cheerfully have sold me to the gypsies.  Heck, she would likely have paid them to take me away.  Although I was a relatively good kid for most of my childhood, for some reason I was a completely rotten little brat that particular year.

Like many mothers, at some point (probably during that year) she must have put the famous curse on me, the one that goes like this: "May you have children just like you!"  Because I have at least one of those, and right now he is driving me up a frigging tree.

I have HAD IT with the arguing and resistance and backchat.  And since I try very hard both to be careful about what I threaten and to follow through with what I have threatened when challenged, a most-beloved DS has gone into extended exile as of this evening.

If this is indeed the mother's curse I'm experiencing, I sure as hell hope it only lasts the one year, and that this is his equivalent of the year I was nine.  If not, I'm really in for it.  Especially since I haven't seen any gypsies recently.

"Mom, Please Go Buy Me A Big Bag Of Jellybeans!"

Thing One's first words to me in the waiting room this afternoon after he (prematurely, as it happened) bolted from the orthodontist's chair in a fit of pure elation.

You see, the kid has had a palate expander permanently affixed to the roof of his mouth for a good nine months or so.  The type he had is made of wire and is slightly less cumbersome than the one pictured in the link, but it's the same idea.   He's been good about having it in (only minimal griping), but it's been a rough road for him: besides the discomfort of the device, he had to have two teeth pulled as part of the palate expansion process, and he's been ordered to avoid many foods that he would love to be eating!  Popcorn, gum, and chewy or sticky candies have all been off the table.

But today, and unexpectedly, the orthodontist finally took the blasted thing out.  He may need a retainer (we go back to see in four weeks) but until then, the poor kid can finally eat whatever he wants again.  I though it was a nice touch that they gave him a celebratory balloon attached to packs of gum and microwave popcorn at the end of his appointment!

And the icing on the cake of the appointment?  Seeing this on the whiteboard wall of the kids' play area in the office, drawn there out of the blue by my beloved daughter.

A happy afternoon, indeed.

Mothers

Thinking about mothers today.  Of all varieties.  Mostly the ones who do the absolute best that they can for their children, however far short of 'ideal'--whatever that might be--they may fall.  Or think they fall.  They may have a bad day or two or twelve or hundred (God knows I have), but each time they get up the next morning and try their damnedest all over again.  How much more can we ask??

I've had some very special mothers in my life.

My mother's mother.  In some ways, even most ways, a hard woman, but her life made her hard and she was bound and determined to make our lives (her daughters' and granddaughters') better and easier than hers had been.  No substitutions or arguments were accepted, no sacrifice was too great for her to make for those whom she loved so dearly.  And she loved us dearly, no question about it.

My father's mother.  Inveterate card player, highly irreverent sense of humor, presider over one seriously crazy Irish-American household.   Baker of the best chocolate pies in the Midwest.  Descended from people who came over a few boats after the Mayflower, sweet- and innocent-looking (with color-changing fairy eyes) but sharp as a tack and nobody's pushover!  Best mother-in-law in the world other than mine.

My mother-in-law.  I don't have a good picture of her, unfortunately.  She came (with my father-in-law) to watch the kids this past weekend while we were in North Carolina.  They take the kids to all their (many, many) activities while we're gone.  Cook multiple meals so everyone is happy--we tell them not to do this but they do anyway.  Get them outside with walks and bikes and park trips.  Bring special treats for them when they come.  Play endless board and card games with them.  And when we got home today, the sheets and towels they had used had already been washed.  The guest bed was put back together.  The laundry was all done.  Himself and I had joked that they would be waiting at the door for us, bags already packed to go, since the weekend was a crazy one for them.  But no: when we arrived, my MIL cooked dinner--a very nice one--so I wouldn't have to do it on Mother's Day after a long car trip.  And made dessert.  And helped me clean up the kitchen before they left.  And, not incidentally, has been the soul of kindness to me since the first moment I met her, which was before her son and I actually started dating.

And last, but most certainly not least, my own mother.

 
Isn't that an awesome face my little brother is making in that picture??  And I have no idea what in the world I'm wearing here, but it was the '70s, so please cut us all some slack.

This woman has a core of steel.  We moved countries repeatedly when my brother and I were small.  While we went to our international schools and Dad to his English-speaking workplace, she learned to buy groceries in Tokyo and deal with house staff in Bangkok and negotiate with plumbers in Arabic and drive on the 'wrong' side of the road in Hong Kong.  All while volunteering at our schools and teaching CCD and baking cupcakes for class parties and helping us with homework and not letting us get away with giving anything less than our absolute best at school.  When we got older and made sports teams, if we had a game, she was there.  Biting her knuckles when we got hurt, yes, but she kept coming.  A band or choir concert?  Any kind of performance at school?  She was there.  Helping me pick out prom dresses a year in advance because they didn't sell them in Hong Kong and we had to bring them from the States each summer?  Yep.  Helping me deal when the guy I was dating at the time moved after every.single.cottonpicking.year of high school??  Yep.

My absolute best Mom story??  Would have to be the time (a Friday or Saturday night, I forget which) I was out with a girlfriend as a freshman in high school.  Both of us were dating juniors at the time, and my friend had VERY protective parents.  Somebody brought wine coolers to the beach, where we were all hanging out.  I had a sip or two, my friend got bombed.  I brought her home to my house, since I knew her folks would never let her out the door again if she went to her house.  Got home and belatedly remembered that Mom and Dad were having a dinner party that night!  Mom got up from the table, helped me get my friend cleaned up and to bed, then went back to her party like nothing ever happened.  She understood that I was trying to do the right thing, and she had my back.  She's had my back for my entire life.   The family joke is that Dad thinks I'm an angel, while Mom knows I'm not an angel but loves me anyway.  Or because.  I have not, for one second, ever doubted that she loves me.    

I'm a lucky woman.  I hope to someday be the kind of mother that these mothers have all been to me.

Happy Mother's Day.

The Adventure Continues

MCB Camp Lejeune covers 246 square miles.  I think we drove through about half of it yesterday afternoon trying to figure out how to get to the house where the after party was being held.  You know you are in a different world when your directions include landmarks like the BOQ (bachelor officer's quarters), an ammo storage facility and Tactical Landing Zone Goose!  The buildings have names and numbers, but the numbers often aren't sequential. It's a lot like trying to find an address in Tokyo, actually--the streets have names but good luck finding the right number.

The change of command ceremony was beautifully done.  Our friend handled himself with dignity and spoke well and made us proud.  It was a lovely day, sunny with just enough breeze to make the 50 state flags arrayed between the two massive helicopters flanking the ceremony area on the flight line sway gently and to cool off the men in their suits or camo.  (As a female, I was very happy to be in a sundress in the heat.)  The color guard presented the colors, and a Marine band played.  As a former marching band player myself, I admit that I focused a lot of my attention on this group during the ceremony, because I know enough about how hard it is to play and stay in formation that it was very apparent how good they are.  It was seriously cool.  They march column-style (check out a Texas A&M band video on YouTube sometime for an example of this.)  The rest of the Marines in this group performed drill maneuvers at various points during the ceremony in the back by the flags, and marched in a long column before the dignitaries present at the end of the ceremony (a process called passing in review.)  I was irrationally happy to see that one of the platoons was commanded by a woman.  And a small blond woman at that.

There was a formal luncheon afterward at the Officer's Club.  I spent most of it trying to figure out how to distinguish rank by insignia.  I finally got all the Marine officer levels straight, but was defeated by the Navy.  Their system is absolutely crazy.  The whole idea actually reminded me a little of taekwondo, since our belts serve the same function as their insignia: if you are familiar with the system, you can tell at a quick glance where you rank relative to everyone else in the room.  The military version is a lot more complicated, though.  The other thing that struck me at the luncheon was how short most of the men in the room were.  At 5'10", I am taller than almost all of them, which was an unfortunate flashback to high school for me, but there is a good reason for it here...helicopter cockpits just aren't that big and tall guys don't fit.

In between the O club (where good behavior is expected) and the after party (where it is discouraged!) we had to go back to the hotel to change.  As Himself drove, I found myself looking at the businesses that immediately surround the base.  Barbershops.  Pawn shops.  Bars.  Gentlemen's clubs.  Stores that sell cheap furniture, expensive electronic equipment, and shiny tire rims.  Tattoo parlors everywhere.  Gun stores and military surplus stores and every fast food joint imaginable.  And charmingly, an abundance of billboards advertising the services of breast-augmenting plastic surgeons.  This surprised me, given that this is generally not a population known for having a large amount of disposable income, and my impression would have been that boob jobs are relatively expensive.  But the billboards wouldn't be there if the demand wasn't.

In the morning, I saw the absolute best of the Corps.  Outside the base, the underbelly is a lot more apparent. An interesting dichotomy.

It Was A Perfectly Normal Pizza Dinner At Some Friends' House

Except for the small, insignificant fact that the man who sat next to me during dinner happens to be one of President Obama's official helicopter pilots.

Things like that happen when you hang around with Marines for long enough.  And my husband has been hanging around with one particular Marine for more than 25 years now, which should certainly qualify as long enough, although this friend has technically only been a Marine for a shade under 20 of those years.

My husband's friend is a helicopter pilot as well, and we are at Camp Lejeune this weekend celebrating a milestone in his career with him and his wife and family.  Tomorrow is the formal celebration, which I am informed will involve three generals with a total of five stars between them.  My primary goal for the day is not to embarrass myself in front of this crew by tripping while wearing a dress and heels.  A secondary goal is to enjoy the sight of all the good looking, clean-cut men in suits and military uniforms!  (Cue fanning myself and swooning.)

This base is a different world.  For one thing, children can run about essentially unsupervised, since access to the base is so restricted.  (Not sure I would be able to let go of my own children so easily, but I see it happening here.)  In that sense, it is almost a flashback to an old-time kind of childhood.  For another, they speak a different language around here.  At the main gate of Lejeune, there is a visitor's center where civilians must be signed onto post by their military host.  The bathroom in the visitor's center has a sign on it that says "Public Head."  The one on the front door of the visitor's center says "Remove Your Cover."  (Meaning take off your hat.)

And good grief, when in recent memory have I ever felt so OLD?  Looking around here, so many people are in their late teens or early twenties...my own almost-40 is positively geriatric by comparison!

But I love this area, not least for the friendly people and good food. We drove half an hour out of our way this afternoon for some ethereal chopped pork barbecue sandwiches and sweet tea and I don't regret that one bit.  When in Rome, I'll be darned if I eat at McDonald's.

Off to bed.  Tomorrow morning will come early...