For The Record

Every job has its share of quirks. And every profession out there is going to get its share of grief in the public media. And I get it, back to school season is kind of like shark week. It's here for a limited time and the media has to capitalize on a short window of interest.

But NBC News....$600-$1000 in back to school supplies? Where is this reality? Does it include school clothing? Is this inclusive of college textbooks? I have been sending a child, and then two, to public school for six years. I have never spent, or been asked to spend, this amount of money.

Have teachers asked for donations of supplies for their classroom? Sure. Have I donated every year? Typically. Because you know what? One box of Kleenex in my grocery cart doesn't change my household budget enough to be noticeable. But if I had to buy all of the tissues for a classroom of 20+ all year long? And the sanitizer? And the surface wipes? And the paper plates for every snack. And the snack for the child(ren) who showed up without one once (or every day)....THAT would make it impossible to feed my family. And yet teachers do fill the gaps in funding.  If everyone donates one thing to the common good of their child and his/her peers, we're all okay.  If you can't or don't wish to, that's your business, but please stop degrading schools and teachers.

Here's my bottom line. We complain about how much the pencils and tissues and binders cost. We don't complain about the cost of the fast food we order mindlessly, or the iced pumpkin latte, or the lottery ticket, the latest video game.     Where are we placing our value?  What do our children see as being important to us as parents?  What is the message?  "Go to school and learn.  Your job is important?"  Not when we are publicly quibbling over whether parents should have to buy their children pencils.  Or paper.  Or binders.

I agree.  Times have changed.  It used to be that a child went to school and everything they needed for the job was there.  Kids came with pencil boxes and pencils for the sheer excitement of new school supplies.  Unfortunately, like the Cabbage Patch Dolls of the same era, those days are gone.  And they are hard for everyone.  Including the teachers.  

What Is The Sound of One Mama Snapping?

When I get home from a long week at work, nothing makes me feel more at home than squabbling with three able-bodied children about whom will let the dogs out.  Mind you, these dogs did not sneak in during the day to surprise us.  They were here all along and typically want to go out soon after our arrival. 

Each day there is a contest to determine who can get through the door first and run off on some errand that would preclude dog detail.  One tactic is to stall outside looking at patterns in the dust and debris on the panel of the car exterior.  Some might find this mind-numbing, but to my children, the secrets of the cosmos are written there and must be studied with intense scrutiny. 

Another popular tactic is to declare that they are on an urgent bathroom mission.  Nothing and no one will get in between a child and a toilet.  However I am suspicious of the school meal plan as my children seem to both be extremely regular and need a prolonged period of time to get the business done.  Every.  Day. 

And finally, another tactic one might choose is to walk into the house, leaving car doors agape and a trail of outerwear along the way, and then look askance at any adult who might suggest that the dogs need to go out again today.  "What?" one might ask.  "What could be the matter mother dear?"  "Dogs?  Out? Didn't we do this just yesterday?  Surely there is someone else who could do this.  Maybe yourself?  I see that you have one eyelash still uninvolved in this process."

For you see, my children get into the car in the morning with the requisite coat, hat, mittens, boots and backpacks, yet return each night unaware that they must return these items to the house.  Daily, they flee the car, leaving all but their epidermis in the driveway. 
"Coat? 
"Not cold. 
"Shoes? 
"Don't need 'em...already in the house.
"Door? 
"I'm busy with the one on the fridge right now."

Which is how I came to enter the house this evening face first, and with most of my integrity on the front porch; with the contents of my work bag covering something akin to eight feet of real estate, and tripped over a beagle with uncanny timing.  It is why you might notice a boot shaped bruise on my cheek.  Because I don't always enter a room with an unnerving amount of grace, but when I do, I will definitely land on the least yielding object around. 

And, it is why, if you happen to be in a three block area of my home on any given work evening, you will hear the sound of one Mama slowly coming unhinged.

The Shape Of Things

I am one eye blink away from fighting with my daughter (again) about clothes.   With no prior notice, she went from loving cute and fluffy kitty shirts to the notion that she is a “tween” in a few short weeks and needs to have a personal style.  And she’s right-ish, but does it have to be during this particular fashion era?  I am a moment away from losing my cool over one more pair of skinny jeans with glitter and “awesome” emblazoned tee-shirt. 

 I know this is the time developmentally to fit in and camouflage oneself as just one of the gang, wearing what everyone else does, speaking their words, spouting their ideas, and watching their shows.  I just so desperately want to skip over this and get to the place where she knows who she is and marches to her drum.   And I also want to firmly place both feet on the brakes and resist with everything I have.

I know this is just the beginning.  There will love interests that irk and frighten me.  There will be social adventures and misadventures that will make me feel a wide range of emotion.  I know I will not always like her friends.  There will be life decisions that I will wish she hadn’t made.  And those of which  I am so proud it could slay me.  And it is such a mismatch between her anticipation and excitement, and my sense of loss and awe.

I want to both shelter her and prepare her.  I want to hold her and let her fly.  I want…a path.  And what I have is some hazy, water-stained, fragmented document that simply says, “This is the way it is from here.”  Splotched with the growing pain tears of mothers past who whisper “Do you understand now?”

I want her to be herself; this amazing girl that has stretched my body and my heart and my brain.  I want her to love who she is and stop trying to hide her imaginary flaws and to stop trying to create curves where biologically they are not yet meant to be.  I want to slow things down.  I want to go back to that moment when she last asked me to tuck her in.  If I had only known it was the last time, I might have stayed a minute longer, rolled my eyes a little less, and ignored the chores.  Because now it’s a thing.  If I ask to tuck her in, she’s “all good”.   She no longer needs that hug or kiss goodnight.  

But I do.

There's NOOO business, like Snooooww business....

It all began with a return to sledding.  I mean, doesn’t it always?  How many times have major life decisions been influenced by the desire to throw yourself onto a thin piece of plastic, race at a breakneck pace down a hill while adjusting your vertebrae without benefit of chiropractic school, and the desire to do so while not getting wet.  Just me?  Huh…I thought there’d be more of you.

Regardless, this year my children are all old enough to sled with little-to-no assistance.  What that doesn’t mean is that they WILL do it alone.  Just that they could.  Hence the need for bum-covering, warmth-providing, water-repelling pants.

As always, I go to Amazon.  If you cannot get it in two days from Amazon while not having to leave your house with three terrorists under the age of ten, I don’t need it.  What continues to amaze me, in no small part due to my total ignorance of how the internet “really” works, is that I can go online looking for one thing and somehow the search function will read my subconscious mind and retrieve the thing I didn’t know I needed. 

For example, in the search box I typed in “snow pants” and to my surprise what I got was certainly bum-covering, but not what I was anticipating, nor something I would have guessed existed.  Apple-bottomed derriere enhancing undergarments.  Falsies for your tush.    While this might make the downward hurtling over ice and snow less hurtful, it will not, I guarantee not, keep you warm or dry.  (Unless you simply stay inside as pants are no longer your friend.)  perhaps “snow pants” was interpreted as “no pants”?

Then comes the fun part.  Finding what you were actually looking for in the first place.  I tried board pants, which led me to something like late 80’s Jams.  And then snow bibs, which brought me to a festive array of infant covering.  And then finally snowpants.  Which brought me leggings with snowflakes. 

So here is the final search trajectory that brought me to pants worn outdoors in the snow.  Apparel ->women’s -> outerwear->snow-> athletic -> pants.  Well, that’s efficient isn’t it?  And thorough.  There was absolutely no way I was gonna stumble onto those pants unawares now was there.  If only the same could be said for the apple-tush harness of death.

Finally, there are, believe it or not, women out there that are over 5’9 and have an inseam of longer than 29”.  I know.  I know.  We should all stay inside unless we have the grace to be born at a perfect size 2 and able to wear sample sizes, however I didn’t get that memo until way too late.  I am tall in a lot of directions.

So here I am, about to don my snow pants for the first time.  They are genderless.  They are basic black.  They are ugly as sin.  But they are warm, tall, and dry.  My arse is covered and as protected as one can be just short of watching the fun from the sidelines.

And Amazon.  I’m onto you now.  The next time I need something basic, like printer cartridges, I’ll know to steer clear of anything too direct.  I’ll amble and mosey my way through all of the related search terms I can think of in the hopes of landing where I want to be on the first try. 

It's nothing. It's just....this.

Today I need a hug from my grandma. 

I woke up thinking about her and I just need to sit at her table, drink a cup of tea, and hear that this too will pass. 

Right now, there are so many "this" moments to count. My "this" is not purely political. 

 It's fatigue.

 It's overwhelm. 

 It's feeling too small to make a difference and too big not to.  

It's parenting in a world that made no sense to me a year ago, and even less now.

My "this" is seasonal.  As the light wanes in October and November so does my resilience.  My ability to be "on".  My ability to keep smiling so that all of the feelings that are too big to let out stay tightly confined under the surface.

My "this" is financial.  From fueling the car, to groceries, to keeping my children in shoes....What the What?  How did milk change price THAT much in one week?  How did bread become something to budget for?

My "this" is despair.  How can so many bad things happen to little people?  When you work in a human service field, you are bombarded with all of the good and bad that humanity has to offer.   I feel joy that there are still elements of love and respect and care.   I feel horrified and numb that in some places none of these are evident, and horrified that I feel numb.

My "this" is regret.  Regret for choices made and unmade.  Regret that I thought there would be time for that later, or that close enough was good enough.  Regret that I didn't do some things more and some things a lot less.

My "this" is loneliness.   In a busy world of people, surrounded daily by other humans, there are times that I feel truly alone.  And the depression that hits this time of year tells me this is because I am wrong somehow.  Broken.  If I were just, a bit  better I would need less, or feel less.  And it's hard to reach out because when I am in this place, I am hyper-aware of the disorganization of my house, the behavior of my children, the goldfish on the floor of my car, the extra pounds; the trappings that sum up my external life.

My "this" is variable.  For that I am grateful.  It isn't every day.  It isn't all year.  But it is real.  

I have supports.  I am lucky.  

But I also have grown to know that I am not alone.  My "this" is not your "this".  But we all carry a "this" in an invisible satchel.  Some days it's small and tucked away, and others it is being dragged along behind us, weighing us down.  Some of us are carrying many, many satchels all at once and much of the time.    I recognize your tight smile and fatigue.

So I ask of you, reach out and be kind to everyone you meet right now.  

Some of us need to hear that "this" will pass.  

Some of us need you to treat us with a little more kindness for just a little while.  

Some of us will promise to call, but cannot pick up a phone because we are afraid "this" will fall out.  

Some of us need you to smile at us, provide a kind port in a wild storm.

Some of us are temporarily stuck in the "this" abyss.   

Charlie Kardashian, the forgotten Klown

In a world of Kardashians I am absolutely a Charlie Chaplin.

Clumsy and awkward, and the ability to make people laugh my only defense.  You might recognize me immediately, but no one is dying to be me.   I made a comment recently about being grateful for being old, fat, and invisible.  And it is partly true.  I no longer feel under scrutiny.  I am the "before picture" and the cautionary tale.  I am the 40's and 50's era reminder that men don't make passes at girls who wear glasses (or sport big asses).

I am the nice girl.  The bookworm.  The involuntary sidekick always.  It isn't a role I signed up for.  It just seems to evolve that way over the years.  "Can you tell her I like her?" turns into "Is your friend single?" turns into "So, tell me about the winterizing on your house?"   I've been demoted from wing-man to Home Depot salesclerk.  Once again, without my awareness or consent.

As the mother of daughters, I don't know how to guide them.  My dating history is minimal and mild.  I don't know how to prepare them for being an object of interest whether solicited or unsolicited.  I can't tell them how to handle a pick-up line, because I've never had to.  I feel under-prepared all the time when I think about where we are headed in fewer years than I care to think about.

While I would almost always rather have someone think I am smart than think I'm pretty, there are still days that I want to be both, and grieve that I've missed my chance.  In the last week I've been told I look "tired", "frazzled", "pale", and "shot from a cannon".  These are not ringing beauty endorsements.

My Facebook invites are to join weight loss and diet groups, and my social events involve meeting up on Facebook at a specific time.  This is not what adulthood was supposed to look like.  

The most challenging part is what needs to change.  What do I want to give up?  What do I want to be different?  If I could go back into single dating life would I?  OMG, No!  If I could redo my college years, would I?  Maybe one or two days....   If I could go back and take up running at eighteen, would I trade the books that I read while others were running?  I don't think I would. 

So what needs to change, I guess is my acceptance of who I am and have always been.  The nice kid.  The invisible girl next door.  I just have to stop making decisions as though who I am limits what I am.  And vice versa.

And so, I put this risky bit of self disclosure out, not to garner reassurance that I'm okay, but because I want to give you advance notice that I am working some stuff out.  I'm coming to terms.  I'm figuring out which parts of me I want to keep, and which ones I don't, and which ones no longer give a damn. 

And to warn the "gentleman" at the gym that "what shape I am trying to get into" is none of his business.   If my grandfather were still with us, he would break you for speaking to a lady this way.  And I am, after all, a lady.  And I was raised in a culture where this is beyond rude.   And my grandpa's warrior genetics rage through my family tree. 

You have been put on notice sir.

I may waddle like a Chaplin, but I read like a champ and I can insult you in ways that you will still be looking up weeks from now.

Family Togetherness

Camping.  Wholesome, virile, rugged adjectives come to mind.  But now, for a moment, allow your brain to stretch into the possibility of camping with children, multiple children to be precise.  Further allow for imagining three children who have never slept out of doors in their lifetime and at least two of three are afraid of bugs.  And just for maximum growth opportunity, imagine you are sharing your campsite with veteran campers, who prefer quiet and solitude, peaceful babbling brooks, and quiet introspection.  Do you feel a bit of smoke curling around the edges of your now super-elasticized brain?  Then, you are almost, not quite mind you, but almost, at the point where you are ready to camp with my children.

It started out innocently enough.  "Let's try something new!" my husband encouraged.  "THIS will be an affordable vacation for our family."
"It's basically housework outdoors," I countered.  "Without electricity or plumbing."
"It will be good memories for the children.."
"Yes, the nights of being gnawed on by rogue bears are sure to leave an impression," I agreed.

And so it went for a good span of time, until all other vacation options were moot given the time, the cost, the care for the dogs while we were away, etc.  And so, the tent, last slept in ten years ago, and moved from one home to another twice, made a debut in our backyard.  The kids were thrilled.  They loved the various and sundry zipper doors and window flaps, and the general musty, dusty, slightly Hanta virus imbued quality of it all.  Soon, the boxes from Amazon began to arrive.  Seam sealer.  Waterproofing spray.  Inflatable air mattress.  Rechargeable pump for inflatable mattresses.  Water shoes for the communal shower facility.

I began to label the boxes "Monday night at the hotel,  Tuesday night..." and so on.  By the time the jaunty UPS man left our door the last night, I was certain I could have stayed a full week at the beach for the outlay of cash represented in Amazon boxes.  The delivery person was probably relieved that we were gone for a few days as the last box was less placed on our step than drop-kicked from the half-way point with a wave that did not include all of his fingers.  (It truly was a frightful number of boxes.)

The morning of the departure, the car is loaded to the breaking point.  The small towing trailer was recruited into service and filled with coolers, bikes, scooters, lawn chairs, firewood, small beasts of burden and a sherpa.  We carried more into the woods for our three day stay than we take to the beach for a week.  (It may have been the wrong time to mention that however.)

Upon arrival, grandparents greeted us excitedly, however the Mr. and I were communicating in death glares and grunts.  As the tent went up and the children fought and cried, I had nowhere to retreat with them where others were not subject to their joyful sounds of childhood, and I regretted the under-packing of wine.  The campers in the adjoining site cast baleful glances at our merry band and moved their party into the solitude of their soundproof, mansion on wheels.

The tent assembled and in position, I point out that our heads are minimally four inches off of the paved road.  "But it's the flattest spot," my husband pointed out.  "Yes, as will our heads be come morning," I observed.  With assistance the fully assembled tent was relocated with no minor amount of grumbling.  Still nearer the road than I let my children play, say nothing of sleep, the grandparents parked their vehicles along the side walls and we parked along the "head wall" and thus our Chevrolet-encrusted castle was deemed ready for occupancy.

 Apprised by the helpful ranger upon check-in that there had been a Yogi Bear type in the neighborhood the last few nights, we were encouraged to keep all foodstuffs sealed and to be certain that all dishes were either washed, or out of range of marauding bears.

"So we are basically sleeping in a giant bag with the tensile strength of wet tissue and bears will be likely outside seeking snacks is what you're telling me?" I queried.
"Don't worry," the ranger offered, "Bears are most interested in carbs."
"Such as the marshmallow that will inevitably be caked into my children's hair, eyelashes and every blessed pore by bedtime?"  I think it odd that the ranger began backing away while quite possibly considering how fast his little golf cart could go when necessary.  Not so helpful really.  Who trains these people?

Fully alert, mindful of bears, and trying to convince the children that they did not need to walk through the damp to the bathhouse yet again, I had no more than dozed off that evening when my husband, snoring loudly enough to ward off not only bears, but possibly a zombie apocalypse, stretched and brushed the edge of the tent with his hand.  "Swiiiishhh," went the tissue paper thin wall and everyone on the north side of the river could hear my scream of "Bear!!!!"

Except the children, who slept through it, having jumped on beds one and two thoroughly enough that they had extracted nearly all of the air, leaving them bed-bereft and seeking comfort on my twin mattress.  Family togetherness.  It's wonderful.  I highly recommend it.   Just not while camping in bear-friendly woods.

And thus ends night one.  I'd tell you more, but modern psychiatry suggests that you only dig so deep.  There's more to tell, but why rush things.  Camping is supposed to be relaxing.  And so, I bid you goodnight.  Sleep tight.  Don't let the marauding bears gnaw your toes and such.

Kiss-Kiss Darlings!