Sometimes There's Just No Arguing with a Six-Year Old

Student:  Mrs. J., are Martin Luther King, Jr., and Barack Obama related?

Me:  No, sweetie, they’re not related.

Student:  Are you sure?

Me:  Yes, hon, I’m sure.

Student:  Well, I think they’re cousins…they look a lot alike, don’t you think?

Now what am I supposed to say to that, except, Happy Martin Luther King, Jr., Day everybody!

How Embarrassing!

My son and the neighbor are at my house yesterday afternoon working on a project.  I’m on the computer and out of the corner of my eye I see them walk out the door.  Time passes and it’s time to rally the troops for dinner so I call next door to have them send my son home. “Um,” my neighbor replies, “The boys are at your house.”  “Oh yes, that’s right," I say,  "I forgot that after they finished their project I sent them outside to tap the keg for the strippers.  Silly me!  I’ll send your boy right home.”  Not skipping a beat, my neighbor replies,  “No need.  I’ll be right over to get him.  You did say ‘strippers’ right?”  How embarrassing!  Our detached garage is morphing in to a teen hang-out and they were, very safely, out there playing video games.  (Hey, they had just completed an Honors Chemistry project, who am I to deny them a game of Black Ops to relieve a little stress?)

Of course, just the day before, it was the neighbor’s turn to be embarrassed.  I went to pick the kids up at their school after their respective practices, only their son was not there waiting with my kids. “Where’s David?” I asked.  “I don’t know,” my son says, “I saw him turn around shortly after we started running so I thought maybe he had a club meeting or something that he forgot about.  His backpack’s not in our usual spot so I guess his mom must have picked him up.” 

Now remember, this was the day before the “I don’t know where the kids are” incident, which means I still have “responsible parent” status, which means I’m not going to just leave without knowing for sure where David is.  We call his cell phone, but he’s not answering, so we call his house. His mom answers and says that she has not, in fact, heard from David.  She says that though it’s odd for him to just disappear like that, she is not actually worried so she tells us to go ahead and leave; she’s sure he’ll call her soon (and she assures us that she will let us know once this happens).  I'm still not 100% comfortable just leaving so we make one final attempt to find him…my son checks the library and goes back to the track to check there one last time.  No David.  No David backpack.  So we head home. 

We are about a block from our house and his mom calls and says, “Guess where my knucklehead son was?  He had to go the bathroom ‘real bad’ so he turned around and when he got back to the school he moved his backpack and was stretching somewhere else!” 

Shouldn't there be some sort of "poop policy?"  Perhaps I'll make an “I’m pooping, please don’t leave me” sign in the event of future “evacuation” situations. 

Oh boy, I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings!

It’s No Sweat off My Back

Just got off the phone with my mom.  Before I continue, I must take a moment to say that the point of this blog is not to host a big ole’ fat pity party.  Poor me…my mom’s mentally ill…my job sometimes makes me nutty…my family refuses to change paper towel rolls!  No…the real reason for this blog is to practice writing so that I can one day sell something…an article, a book…my first born…my soul…anything so that I can make a little money and do some real traveling.  Not to sound morbid or anything, but once I hit 40 I started thinking there was a real possibility I could die never having been to Europe, or Washington D.C., or New York City, or the Pacific Northwest, or any one of the many, many places I hope to see during my time here on Earth.  Of course, I’d be dead, so I wouldn’t really know I never got to see all those places, right? But still, it got me thinking.  Sooner sometimes really is better than later.  And so, with that slightly morbid yet completely realistic thought, I came to the conclusion that the only way I can ever hope to make even one shiny penny with my writing is to practice writing, and the only way to practice writing is to write about what I know, and what I know is my mom, my job, and my family.  So…

Just got off the phone with my mom.  Sometimes she will call and say, “Jane, I just wanted to call you to let you know I am still alive.  I have not passed yet in case you were wondering.”  I will say, “That’s great mom.”  We will say our goodbyes and that will be the extent of the entire conversation.

Other times, however, she wants to talk.  Notice I didn’t say she wants to talk to me.  Rather, she wants to talk at me.  And, really, it’s no sweat off my back to sit and listen to her.  So I often “engage” in long, one-sided conversations, where my only contribution is “Hello” and “Goodbye.”  And I am happy to do so.  I can’t take her in and care for her myself; I can’t see her on a regular basis; I can’t even live in the same city as her.  But, sit and listen to her for a while?  No problem.  This I can do.

So today she calls and says: “Jane, I think I’m going to be around a little while longer after all.  I’m planning to be around until I’m 75.  That’s when I think I will pass.”

She sounds like she’s in a good enough mood so I joke, “Really mom?  Already planning on checking out, huh?  Why 75?  Is there some significance to 75 I should know about?”

“Well,” she says, “I’m 72 now, and so in 3 years I’ll be 75.  And, you see, I have this really lumpy bed, and sleeping on this soft, lumpy bed makes time go by very slowly.  So I think I can only last three more years.  Now, if I had a nice, firm bed then time would just fly by and I think I would live a lot longer.  But for now, since I have this lumpy bed, I think I’ll only be able to make it another three years.  I used to think I’d make it to 80, but not with this lumpy bed.  Seventy-five is all I can do with this soft, lumpy bed.”  (The really funny thing is that the standing joke between my dad and me is that she will, in fact, out live us all!)

This is clearly going to be one of those phone calls when she just wants me to listen, so I happily oblige.

She then goes on to talk about the clothes I sent her for Christmas.  You may think dealing with her is painful, and, well, some days yes and some days no. In some ways it’s actually quite easy.  In some ways, she is like a child in that her needs are really quite simple.  Sending her clothes, for example, even a simple pair of pants and a matching jacket from Target, thrill her to no end and will keep her happy for weeks. In fact, she has already called me three times to thank me for the “Christmas Outfit.”  A $10 gift card to Burger King will also bring her great joy.  Give her something, anything, and, like a child, she is happy (she is also very appreciative and will likely send a handwritten note, in addition to a phone call or two, to tell me thank you…yes, even for Burger King gift card). 

  

She then goes on to talk about an upcoming appointment with her psychiatrist and how she wants to wear the jacket I got her to the appointment.  It’s got a “fur” lining that she says makes her “feel pretty.”  “You know how I like to sit on my throne and look like a star,” she goes on to say.  She rambles from topic to topic (a hallmark symptom of schizophrenia) and I listen attentively.  After a while she says, “Well, I just wanted you to know my plans of being around longer.  I know last time we spoke I told you I was going to pass sooner, but I changed my mind and I didn’t want you to worry. I’ll be here three more years.”

She signs off “Mother.”  (Funny, I don’t call her mother, my sister does; I call her mom.)

"Bye mom.  Love you,"  I say and we both hang up.

I Bet You Don’t Have Messages Like This on Your Answering Machine

During the same week that I received the phone calls that lead to “The Grease Fire Story” and “The Reno Story” (both listed below), I also came home to several answering machine messages from my mom.  Sadly, the more I hear from my mom the worse I know that she is doing; this was a particularly bad week.  I have transcribed one of the messages below.  (I can see the questions forming in your brain even before they reach your lips:  Why on earth would you post this, Jane?  It’s not one bit funny.  In fact, it’s downright sad, not to mention a little bit frightening.  What’s the point?) I ask that you please read it, and below I will explain myself, and if you still have questions or doubts, feel free to leave a comment. 

Picture me arriving home and pushing the play button on my answering machine…

“This is Mother Bee Sally Bee I’m sending a portrait of John and it’s uh one of those million dollar portraits and I’m afraid Dopey Darlene the in house nutcase is going to steal it out of Patricia Rutgers office because she I had it in my hand and it was all addressed in uh one of those priority mail boxes box you know for the mail man I told the mail man to take it down to Patricia Rutgers mail box the canasta box the cribbage box the mail box the mail man he didn’t do it and if you leave anything in front of Darlene she’ll take it she pulls the telephones out of the cords or away from the desk we don’t have any good everyone’s real rough on the telephones and Belinda Buchanan the receptionist telephoned Alison the um lady janitorette she banged the receiver of the phone down this morning she said there were rats in 301 but that’s okay I’ll stay here I don’t want any more good time psychiatric hospitals because that skinny Mexican doctor beat me to within an inch of my life and I had to stay in the hospital three days and it took 6 months to recover my broken foot every time I go to the psychiatric hospital they do 16 electrode shocks which is $100,000 they take my money okay I’ll talk to you later I hope Jane mans the desk phone or mans the telephone but look for a package um I got the right zip code this time love Sally Bee Mother”

(Just a little background: My mom is in a nursing home, for lack of a better term and, for the sake of privacy, I have changed everyone’s names.  The portrait she mentions is of my son.  There was a time, long ago, when my mom was actually pretty functional. After my parents divorced she maintained an apartment; she also enjoyed painting and she was a classical pianist.  The "million dollar portrait" did arrive, and it’s sad.  I’d post it here but it just doesn’t seem right.  My poor son.  He was a good sport about it though; I’ll give him credit for that.)

Now to the reason I chose to post this…it’s two-fold really.  First and foremost, you really and truly never know what’s going on in a person’s life.  If you saw me in the grocery store on any given day, you would never in a million years think that this is the message I would be listening to as I put away my groceries. 

Second, everyone has baggage of some sort. You can look at a person and think, ‘Oh, look at her, she is so put together with her perfect body, her perfect designer jeans, her perfect husband, her perfect kids, and even her perfect dog.’  And you know what?  You'd be talking about me!  Ha!  The truth is you'd be talking about no one and you'd be wrong to jump to those types of conclusions based simply on appearances.  I don’t care what a person looks like, she’s carrying some baggage. 

Now she may be sportin’ the latest Louis Vuitton carry-on (a part of me actually feels kind of sorry for this person because, really, if all of her baggage can fit in one little carry on then she really hasn’t done much living); she may have the sensible “JC Penney Special” $49.99, 16-piece matching set (I think a lot of people probably carry this type of baggage, and sometimes they're lugging the entire 16 pieces, and sometimes they're just toting a bag or two); or she may have the no-name, bulging-at-the-seams, have-to-sit-on-it-to-close-it, doesn’t-even-come-close-to-matching set (God bless that person, that’s all I have to say).  Whatever…it’s all baggage and we’re all carrying it.  Some of us carry it better than others, and some of us carry more than others.  I, for one, have a lot of baggage, I know that, but I like to think that I carry it well…and it most certainly matches! 

My point is next time you feel like judging someone, don’t.  Next time you think someone’s life is better than yours, I’m willing to bet it’s not.  My point is go out into the world and not only be yourself but be honest with youself.  And above all else, show someone a little extra kindness today.  Afterall, she may be going home to "Mother Bee Sally Bee."

I’m Running off to Vegas to Become a Blackjack Dealer

I love my family, truly I do.  In fact, I will go so far as to say I adore them.  I have an amazing husband and two wonderful kids.  BUT…every now and then I have this fantasy of running off to Vegas and becoming a blackjack dealer.  The reality, unfortunately, is that I am over 40 and I have really small boobs, so I think it’s pretty safe to say that this fantasy will never come true, but hey, it’s my fantasy, right?  So in my mind I picture myself strolling in to work, dealing my cards, and strolling right back out again.  No fuss,  no muss, no one bugging me, no one asking me questions, no one demanding nothin’.  It’s just me and my cards.  The best part about this fantasy is that if anyone were to dare bother me, I’d have a pit boss named Guido who would swoop down swiftly and “take care of them” if you know what I mean.  Now, if my family is as great as I  just said they are, then why do I have this fantasy you ask?  Well, get a load of this story…

My family is the absolute worst about changing toilet paper rolls and paper towel rolls.  I am, literally, the only one is the house who does it.  Pitiful, I know, but true.  I have tried everything to make this an easier “chore” for them.  For example, there are always extra toilet paper rolls in the bathroom cupboards, and I go to the trouble of unwrapping the paper towels right when I buy them and place them easily accessible in our pantry.  Still, no one changes them but me. 

So last night, upon noticing that the paper towel roll was almost empty, I went to the pantry, opened the door, bent down, picked up a new roll, and placed it directly adjacent to the stand that houses the current, almost-out paper towel roll.  I mean, come on, how much easier can it be for someone to change the roll once it’s officially out?  A new one is right there!  Well, imagine my surprise when I come home from working in my classroom for a few hours and notice that the old roll is now empty (but still  in the stand); the new roll has clearly been used a couple of times; and it’s still next to the stand!  Not a single person could see fit to take the old roll, throw it away, and replace it with the new roll…all of which would have taken two seconds and could have been done in the same arm motion…the reason I know it could have been done in the same motion is that I tried it out myself!  Okay, fine, I now concede defeat and will officially give up any hope of help in this area and will gladly (oh, yes, gladly) change any and all empty paper rolls in this house!  So there!

Now that was within the first three minutes of entering the house…it gets better.  As I said, I have just come home from my classroom (it’s early Sunday afternoon).  I don’t see anyone hanging out downstairs so I venture upstairs to see what everyone is up to.  My daughter greets me with, “Mom, what are you making me for lunch?” and my son says, “Mom, are you going to do laundry today?  I am out of boxers.  See, I have to wear my cross country shorts” (he then proceeds to pull up his shorts’ leg to show me the yellow running shorts, like I really need to see them).  I look and my husband and say, “Can you believe this?”  He agrees it’s not the best greeting and says, “Come on guys, you can take care of those things yourselves.”  My son’s response…are you ready for this?  He says, “Well, then, what do we have a mother for?”  Ouch!  It’s an, ‘Oh my gosh, did he really just say that?’ moment.  It’s an ‘Oh my gosh, I’m so running away to Vegas to become a blackjack dealer’ moment!  And it’s for sure an ‘Oh my gosh, that kid better be glad Guido’s not around’ moment.

Technology is Stupid

One morning recently I was listening to the rain falling outside my window and, for some stupid reason, I decided to hop on my phone to check The Weather Channel app.  Shockingly, it said it’s raining!  (In my defense, the animated rain falling from the animated clouds is kind of cool.)  I thought to myself, technology really is stupid sometimes, and it reminded me of a similar moment a friend of mine recently had with her husband, so here’s my Technology is Stupid story.

My friend Lauren was in LA with her husband Richard.  (In my world, LA is anywhere south of Thousand Oaks and north of Irvine.)  So, they were somewhere in that LA abyss and they were driving to a mall.  Richard was trying to check the traffic app on his phone, while he was driving, which was upsetting Lauren to no end.  Seeing he was upsetting his wife, Richard proceeded to try and tell her how to check the traffic app for him.  So now, not only is he trying to negotiate an LA freeway, but now he has added handing his phone off to his wife to the chaos, along with explaining to Lauren how the app works.  Mind you, Lauren is still sportin’ a flip phone (gasp!) and could really care less about traffic apps and pretty much anything else that has to do with “smart phones.”  She thinks it’s all pretty much useless and silly.  Frustrated and seriously feeling that her safety was at stake at this point, she snapped:  “Put the stupid phone down, Richard, and look out the window…there’s traffic.  See?  It’s right there, you don’t need your stupid phone to tell you we are stuck in traffic!” 

She’s right, of course she is, but Richard is a bit stung by the outburst (he was, after all, only trying to be helpful).  Needless to say, they drove the rest of the way to the mall in silence.  Still mad when they arrived, Lauren decided she didn’t even want to walk with Richard into the mall, so she proceeded to mess around with her purse for a minute or two; he, on the other hand, had immediately hopped out of the car and started heading toward the mall entrance.  Feeling enough time had passed, Lauren got out of the car and took off in the opposite direction, figuring they would just meet up at the store they were there for in the first place, which, ironically enough was, you guessed it, the Apple store.  So Lauren gets to the Apple store, and there’s no Richard.  She hangs out for a while and still no Richard.  Realizing things have gone too far, she calls him (yes, on her archaic flip phone).  Turns out, he’s at the entrance to the mall waiting for her!  So…a big fat fight over some stupid technology.  In the end they were, luckily, able to enjoy a good laugh about it.

Every now and then I catch myself in situations like this and I think about Lauren and Richard and I am reminded that you don’t need technology to tell you it’s raining.  You don’t need it to tell you there’s traffic.  You simply need to look out the window!

Dear God What Have I Done?

A couple of nights ago, New Year’s Eve to be exact, my family and I went around the table and said one thing we resolved to do in the New Year.  When it was my turn, I said I was going to seriously give this writing thing a go, and as such I told them that I had just started a blog.  My son said, “Blogs are stupid.” (Thanks, Mr. Cheerful.)  My husband said, “Good for you.  If nothing else, the practice (of writing) will be good.”  (Got it, Mr. Practical.)  And my daughter said, “Um, will you be posting things about us?”  (You betcha, Miss Knows Me Too Well.)  “Yep.”  I replied honestly.  So, in keeping my word, here is my first, but surely not my last, post about my dear daughter.

Every now and then I will walk by our downstairs playroom (the kids are teenagers now, but I still refer to it as the playroom…sigh) and I will spy my daughter laying on the couch, remote control resting on her belly, a plate of food in her hand, and a general mess in her wake, and I think, ‘Dear God, what have I done?’  Only, the thing is, I know exactly what I have done.  In trying to be the exact opposite of the mother I had, the kind who was too often too sick to do much of anything, I have become the mother that, quite frankly, does too much. 

I’m not talking about the kind of mother who tries to be her child’s best friend by buying her the next best “it” gadget, or spoiling her with endless material things. (My husband and I are firm believers in delayed gratification and my kids know full well that they, and indeed we, will never be the first family on the block to have the latest, greatest, well, anything.)  I’m talking more about doing too much for her: her laundry, her dishes, cleaning up her room, etc.

You see, when I was a kid, it seems as if I had to do everything both for myself and by myself.  Now, I know that this can not possibly be true, but a great deal of my memories involve me doing whatever it is that a “normal” mom would do for her daughter.  One example comes quickly to mind. 

I was probably 10 years old and I had a pair of pants that were too long.  I have no recollection of buying the pants or where they came from, but alas they were too long and I wanted to wear them the next day.  Well, there was no way I could ask my mom to hem them because she was, well, doing what I remember her doing a lot of back then…sleeping.  So I decided to hem them myself.  Mind you, this was before my spectacular Jr. High Home Economics Class, and I really had no experience, and even less of a clue, about how to sew.  But I wanted them hemmed and I wanted them hemmed now (so much for delayed gratification).  How, or why, I even thought I could hem them is beyond me, except that I probably thought, “Hey, just pin them up and sew.  It can’t be that hard.” 

Turns out, like most everything else that “can’t be that hard” it was indeed hard.  No so much hard in the actual hemming of the pants, more like in the actual way they turned out.  One pant leg was a complete and total “flood waiting to happen” while the other pant leg was, you guessed it, dragging the ground.  For some reason that I can no longer recall, I just had to wear those pants the next day.  I do recall though that they were green and had some type of cool darker green embellishment on the back pockets; I’m sure they were totally cool at the time.  (Funny, too, that I still have a clear picture of them in my head.)  Anyway, I wore them the next day and I didn’t even care that they were uneven!  (I wonder if that day I became “the crazy girl with the uneven pants?”  Don’t know, don’t care…I had my green pants on and I was happy.) 

Memories like these make me question if, in trying to be the exact opposite of my mom, I am actually doing my daughter a disservice.  You see, since I knew my mom wouldn’t and/or couldn’t hem the famous green pants for me, I simply did it myself.  I didn’t rely on anyone to help me or even to show me how (of course, that ended up being not such a great thing after all).  Sometimes I wonder if, in my eagerness to do for my daughter, I am really taking away this type of “I can do it myself” spirit. 

Then I recall the time this past summer when we made curtains together.  I got her started and then she totally ran with it and ended up doing most of the project herself.  Or I remember all the lunches (and indeed dinners) she has made, sometimes with help from her father and me, sometimes on her own.  Or the times she has taken her own money and bought her friends’ gifts that she picked out all on her own after much thought about who would like what.  There are countless examples of times that I have gotten her started on something (like the curtains), but in the end she has made the project or event all her own.  And in the end, isn’t that was mothering is all about?  Helping our kids and guiding them with something and then watching them soar with it and making it their own?  So while I still cringe and think, ‘Dear God What Have I Done’ when I see the remote on the belly, I know that my girl’s going to be just fine.  In fact, she’ll be better than fine, because, unlike her mom, she won’t be afraid to ask for help.