“Going my way home?” my impish 8 year old son, Eli, asked as he leaned thru the passenger side window of my car after happily bounding off the school bus yesterday afternoon. His grin warmed my heart.
“No silly,” I chirped, “We have to go pick up your brother at school. Hop in.”
Then he flashed a mischievous smile, turned tail and ran away from me at lightning speed.
What would happen if you took the school bus home ?
The police would make you bring it back ! (Well, we all need a little levity these days.)
As a parent, one tries to prepare her kids for everything. Especially if you have one of those kids for whom spur of the moment adjustments can be earth-shatteringly upsetting. Take the first day of third grade for example. New school. New teacher. New kids. New campus. But the biggest anxiety; taking a bright yellow school bus for the first time ever.
Who knows why certain things are scarier than others. But for my 8 year old son, Eli, his fears seemed to circle around taking that bus. There was the question of which one to get on, which one to take home, who will he sit with, what if he misses it? There were countless worries and fears floating around his new school mode of transport.
So what did I do? I was determined to prepare him accordingly which I knew would allay all of his fears. I checked the written parent packet and it was bus #108 that would daily carry my boy to and from his new school. We drilled the number into his head. We played silly games to test his memory. “Should you get on bus #115?” we’d ask, trying to light-heartedly trick him. “What about #37?” “Let’s say there’s a pink school bus and the number is #138 and the driver, whom you’ve never seen, says, ‘come on the bus, little boy. I have candy.’”
We did a couple of dry runs to school from the bus stop and taught him where to meet the bus after school so he’d have no concerns whatsoever. We even practiced walking to and from the bus stop, even timed it so we’d know what time to depart each morning. I was pretty proud of myself. But as all good mythologists know, it’s always pride that comes before the fall.
First day of school and we wait for nearly a half hour at the bus stop. The bus never arrives. We drive Eli to school and he ends up being tardy on his first day, which freaks him out and raises his anxiety level exponentially. After calming him, straightening out the tardy situation, and getting him situated in class, the day went surprisingly well. That is, of course, until it was time to come home.
They shuttled the bus-riding kids out to the parking lot and guided Eli right to bus #105. That’s when all hell broke loose. “I can not get on bus #105!” he insisted. “I’m supposed to be on bus #108.” Bus number 108, however, had broken down earlier in the day (which was why it didn’t come in the morning) and was in the shop torn up and awaiting repair. Bus #105 was taking its place. Of course that didn’t sway my son who had been practicing this drill for over two weeks. I can only imagine his focused little mind as he walked out to the bus. “Bus #108, bus #108, bus #108,” he likely repeated like a mantra as he headed out of school that first day. It eventually took two drivers, the teacher, the vice principal and finally the kind and compassionate principal himself to convince Eli that it was okay to take bus 105 to get home.
“Why was he so upset?” my 11 year old son, Levi, asked. “Because,” I answered, “He did everything right, just the way we practiced. Only sometimes, life changes the rules on us in the middle of the game. And it just isn’t fair.”
So here’s to a new school year filled with busses that will break down, schedules that will be changed, and routines that will be altered. But hopefully, amidst all the chaos life throws in his path, my youngest will learn to sway in the wind like a sturdy Elm and not snap at every formidable gale.
Just discovered an awesome mom blog at http://www.sitmomsit.blogspot.com. It’ll have you laughing and crying all at the same time. Kind of like that “Chatty Cathy” doll; only better.
OK, im in. Inspired by boss Karen Barr @RAKmagazine. Committed to social networking. Gonna do it this time! Really.
Passover has a lot of rules — what you’re allowed to eat, what you’re not, how you’re supposed to rid your home of “chametz” (the name given to all non-appropriate Passover food), your requirement to tell the Biblical story of Exodus to your children. It’s a heavy responsibility holiday if you try to follow it according to “Halakhah” (Jewish law).
And we do. At least we try. My kids eat special food, off of special plates, prepared in special pots and pans. I end up cooking almost non-stop for the entire weeklong festival, a task I’m not generally accustomed or predisposed to. The Passover story tells how the Jews left Egypt and were freed from decades of slavery. I sometimes wonder if my culinary servitude isn’t God’s way of offering me experiential understanding of my ancestors’ plight.
But in spite of the hard work and requisite effort this holiday demands, I love it. My fondest childhood memories are of Passover. I remember the mini
matzah-meal pancakes my mother used to make, the special Seders that lasted till midnight over which my grandfather, and later my beloved father, presided, the delicious fruit shaped jellies I craved all year long that now define the holiday for my two little boys. There’s something deep that connects me to my family, my community, and my past each spring when Passover arrives.
So I clean my cabinets, pack away my Blender, and get out my grandmother’s old recipes. I cry a lot too, remembering the innocence and wonder of those childhood years. I miss the people who make up my memories, and I feel sad that these joyous times will one day be merely a part of my kids’ recorded histories, like old home movies or a treasured tattered tablecloth.
I’m grateful that they will have the memories to connect them to me, to my husband, to their grandmothers. But the somber realization that time passes extraordinarily quickly these days is one that occupies my thoughts almost obsessively this time of year. It reminds me of an ancient bit of Jewish folklore that tells how King Solomon asked his wisest assemblymen to create a ring that will make him happy when he is sad and sad when he is happy. They created the ring with a simple saying etched into the gold: “Gam zeh ya’avor” or “This too shall pass.”
I wish you a meaningful Passover and Easter and wish for you the joy of good times and the melancholy of beautiful memories.
Breaking up is hard to do
Have you ever had a friendship just kind of fizzle? It’s like you suddenly realize that someone you cared about isn’t a part of your life anymore. It’s a crummy feeling, especially if you’re not sure why it happened. How does one deal with this type of situation?
Well, there are several options. If you’re a normal person, you wonder about it, lament the loss for a total of 32 seconds, then move on to the daily tasks at hand. I, on the other hand, think about things like this rather obsessively. I try to imagine what I could have said or done to drive this person away, what casual faux pas one of my children might have committed at the last remembered family get together, or on what commemorative event I must surely have forgotten to send a card. (Believe me, it’s exhausting being me.)
Maybe you’ve even imagined approaching the person you lost and saying something like, “Hey, WTF? What the hell happened?” Here again I will draw the distinction between a normal person’s response and my own. The normal person might briefly imagine this type of curious interchange at some kind of random reunion at Costco. Then, realizing she has genuinely more pressing issues to which she must attend, our normal person lets go of the fantasy scenario, accepts that people move on in life, and goes back to folding laundry. I, however, will actually go to great lengths to seek out the estranged person, sometimes years after our final meeting, and will, in fact, inquire as to the reason for our alienation.
This, I assure you, is a bad idea. I now know that from my most recent foray into the land of hopeless friendship salvaging. You see, my husband and I ran into a couple from our past recently at one of our fave sushi places. The husband was cordial and warm. His wife, on the other hand, could have frozen a skin-scalding hot tub with one glance of her icy stare.
Even my husband was taken aback by the shiver. “Why do you suppose she acted like that?” I wondered out loud. “I don’t know,” he replied, “Maybe this time you really did do something to offend her.” Of course I pined over this for the next 48 hours and then finally decided to pen a good, old fashioned, snail mail note that I sent off the following day. The note basically said that I was sad that our friendship had faded and that I’d always wondered what had happened and that I was sincerely regretful if I had offended her in some way.
Now I know you’re not supposed to want a particular outcome when you write a letter like that. But somewhere, deep in my mind, I guess I hoped such a note might rekindle our friendship. I waited weeks for a response. What finally came was a stunner.
Her letter was curt and pointed. “How interesting it is that people remember things so differently,” she started. She then went on to recount an episode where the toilet in their guest casita had overflown and they’d had to cancel dinner plans with us. According to her, I’d been irritated by their last minute cancelation and hadn’t called the following day to make sure all was well. To her, that breach meant the end of the relationship.
I do actually remember the event. She was always a bit unreliable and had cancelled plans with us on several earlier occasions. When this happened, I recall thinking that an overflowing toilet was a lot like the old “I have to wash my hair” excuse our mothers used to use to get out of an unwanted date in the olden days. Maybe I was wrong, but since at least one of our toilets overflows on a daily basis, her catastrophe seemed barely trivial to me. And in truth, I didn’t react as if she’d been hit with a devastating deluge.
But I never in a million years would have thought that my failure to acknowledge her sewage inundation would have caused the total demise of our friendship. The letter ended abruptly noting that she and her husband had moved on and she certainly hoped that we would do the same. There was no mention of rekindling our friendship, no faint hint of sorrow at the loss of our relationship, not even a feigned pretense of gratitude for the bold honesty of my letter.
It was a little weird I have to admit. I mean, to end the friendship over a torrential toilet? And then to take the time to write back and say that because of this heinous insult, she and her mate had no intention of ever reconnecting with us in the future. I was kind of shocked. While she did concede that they would be publicly cordial if ever our paths were to cross, her dismissal felt more like that of an orthodox jewish parent’s whose only daughter had decided to marry an Episcopalian.
I’m trying not to obsess over this. Obviously they weren’t as good of friends as I thought. But is there something to be learned from this mishap? Perhaps I was mistaken in judging my friend’s misfortune. What seems superficial to one person might be cataclysmic to another. After all, as my father, the king of the overused cliche, used to say, “One man’s meat is another man’s poison.”
I’ll leave you to figure that one out.
I’ve lost my mind again. Remember how we decided to get a puppy and everyone thought it would send me into a psychotic tailspin from which I’d never emerge? Well, it didn’t.
The fact is we got lucky. We got the one and only perfect puppy on the planet. It’s true. She has yet to do anything wrong. I”m not joking. This puppy is like from heaven. She’s never chewed up anything. She learned to use the doggy door in like an hour and a half and has not had any accidents in the house. She has the most gorgeous ebony coat and does not shed even a single hair.
I am madly in love with Maggie. The only issue is that she LOVES the company of other dogs. She adores us and everything. Finds people delightful and loving. She’s very affectionate with humans. But there is a deep, intense joy that eminates from within her when she gets around other dogs.
While we were out of town she vacationed with her foster mommy who had 3 or 4 other dogs. She was in her element. She did clearly miss us. But she played from sun-up to sun-down and had the time of her life.
Now that she’s back, I think she’s kind of depressed. I can see it in her eyes. They’re just a bit listless
. She’s lost some of the spring in her step. She just seems like she’s lonely, no matter how much love and attention we give her.
So I think the only answer is another puppy. My sister hung up on me when I told her I was thinking about it. Everyone says I must be insane. The fact is, this is not what I necessarily want. I am liking having a dog for the first time in my life. But I never imagined myself the owner of more than one of these playful pooches.
But now that I am devoted to Maggie, I feel obligated to do what is right for her. Without a doubt, she needs a companion. It’s like her soul’s calling is to connect with another canine. What kind of person would keep a living creature from it’s truest, deepest purpose in life?
So I’m looking for the second most perfect puppy in the universe.(and a new prescription for Ativan). Any suggestions on where to find either or both?
I am an enabler. Really, I am. I’m like the classic example of someone stuck in a destructive relationship. I make excuses for indefensible actions. I forgive innumerable disappointments. I turn the other cheek so often, I’ve developed chronic whiplash and need to see a chiropractor on a regular basis. This abuse has got to stop.
You see, it started innocently enough back in ’05. I needed new wheels. So I went out looking. I never expected to fall in love with a Rover. It just happened. It was like…destiny.
From the moment we hooked up, I knew he was trouble. Sure he was handsome, in a different sort of way. He wasn’t like all the others. His unique, boxy shape made him stand out in a crowd. I loved the way I could always single him out in a busy parking lot. He was powerful and rugged and I felt safe in his charge.
But the honeymoon was short-lived. Soon he started to have all kinds of “issues.” That’s when he began having an intense relationship with our service technician. At first it was once a month. Then weekly visits. Their connection seemed unusually close to me. But I ignored the looming sense of danger. What a fool I was.
We stumbled through a rocky five years together until I hit rock bottom and kicked him to the curb. I believed I was on a path to wellness. But I was merely fooling myself. This spring I met his brother. I was definitely on the rebound. I fell instantly in love, and I fell hard. But I told myself I knew what I was doing. Sure, there was a striking family resemblance. He had the same strong features, the same well-defined body, the same rugged exterior. But I believed the hype — that he was fitter, tougher, lower maintenance. Oh, how we deceive ourselves under the guise of loving.
I leased the 2010 model in March convincing myself that it was only 36 months, that it would be over in no time. “Besides,” I reasoned, “With such a clear-cut ending in sight, I could surely keep my attachment in check.”
But here I am. Summer vacation in California, and he did it to me again. He started having electrical “difficulties” on the drive over. I figured it was just another ploy for attention, a clumsy attempt to steal focus from my kids. I tried to ignore the warning signs, the flashing orange lights, the minor inconveniences. But then this morning, he wouldn’t even turn over. He just sat there silently, brooding, while I raged and cursed and swore I’d leave him forever.
Now we’re stuck. After an interminable wait for a tow truck and another excruciating intake interview with an out-of-state service tech, I’m back in my all too familiar state of profound disillusionment, waiting for this week’s diagnosis. What could it be now? A faulty computer glitch? A loose radiator cap? A fuel injection hiccup? Does it even matter anymore? I feel hopelessly trapped in a dangerously addictive dance of deception and doom.
Where can I turn for help? I need to break this sick pattern of attachment. I need a ride that wont let me down, that will be there for me in good times and bad, that wont leave me stranded in strange cities, with unfamiliar mechanics and coffee machines so advanced I can’t even figure out how to brew hot water for tea.
Please, someone help me. I admit my powerlessness over my addiction and am ready to turn my life over to a power greater than myself. But who could that be? Do you think “Motor Trend” might qualify?
I've always believed in the whole "absence makes the heart grow fonder" thing.
I miss my kids.
I’m happy. But I miss my kids.
This is always how I feel on vacation. I love getting away. I need to refresh, revitalize, re-engage with my husband. Life gets too tiring if you never take those well earned sabbaticals. But still, even knowing how important it is to take those breaks from mothering and just be a woman, a partner, a tourist, doesn’t make it any easier. Why is it that your kids seem exponentially cuter, sweeter, and more irresistible the minute you lose sight of them?
I’m a firm believer in absence making the heart grow fonder. Sometimes I think the whole purpose of going away is to get that rush of coming home feelings. My husband and I try to take adult only vacations every year or two. But most of the married couples I know have never taken a trip sans children. Truth be told, they don’t have relationships I envy. My parents travelled annually without my sister and me throughout my childhood. They left me with sitters, grandparents, or teachers who were happy to moonlight for a few extra bucks. It never dawned on them to give up their romantic getaways because they were parents. If anything, being parents made them realize how badly they needed time away to reconnect and remember why they’d come together in the first place.
My mom once told me without a modicum of regret that she put her husband first, even ahead of her two daughters. I think this was a fairly common sentiment amidst our parents’ generation. It went along with the whole “children should be seen and not heard” credo. But to put your adult desires ahead of your children’s perceived emotional requisites in today’s world is to commit the unthinkable. Only selfish, unfeeling parents would abandon their little ones for a week or two of adult adventure.
But allow me to challenge those beliefs for a moment. To all of you who wouldn’t think of leaving the little ones for a little grown-up R & R, ask yourselves this: If you took a few days to focus on you, to rebuild your partnership with your spouse, to reinvent yourselves as a couple, wouldn’t that be of value to your children? Isn’t part of our job as parents to model a healthy, loving adult relationship for our kids?
So take a day, a week, maybe even two (if you’ve got willing in-laws). But get away from being a parent for a while. You’ll be astounded by who you are when you return.
A real life e-mail to my husband during tense economic times
Dear Mark,
While thinking about our financial difficulties this morning, I came up with a brilliant money making strategy. However, after much research, I’m sorry to report that there is not one single reality TV show I can apply to be on to increase our earnings. The only thing that even comes close is one for you. “Husbands!!! Is your wife driving you nuts?” Want to try to get on the Marriage Ref, Seinfelds new show?
I’ve checked out everything from “Does your spouse wear a snuggie?” (What the hell’s a snuggie?) to “Have you recently come back from the dead?” There’s nothing for me. Seriously. It’s a real bummer. I’m not really a shopaholic. (Although I know you might argue that point). I’m not addicted to prescription pain meds. I’m not even recently divorced. I almost qualified for The Apprentice. But of course I missed the deadline by three months.
One show advertises “Feel you’re in over your head as a parent?” That one really speaks to me. But you have to live in Los Angeles County. You haven’t cheated on me recently, have you? There’s a new National talk show looking for spouses who’ve been cheated upon who have strong convictions on the subject. (I’d kind of guess that would be all of them, wouldn’t you?)
Would you characterize yourself as controlling? There’s an ad for women with husbands who try to control their every move.
Do you often muse to yourself that I’m just not the woman you married? There’s a show for you on that issue.
We don’t have a blended family. No inter-racial components. No step-kids. Shit. We’re the most uninteresting family in the universe.
There’s even a show for Moms addicted to energy drinks. Figures I gave up my Red Bull a few years ago.
Wait, here’s one. You are pretty hot. They’re looking for men as bold and good looking as the guys from Jersey Shore, that MTV show. You’re kind of old though. Too bad. How about this? “Spoiled Wives.” Do you think I’m a spoiled brat in need of constant manicures, pedicures and facials? Ok, don’t answer that. I’m not applying for that one. Too bad I’m so artistic. There’s a show for Interior decorators who are really interior desecrators. There’s even a show for women who own pawn shops.
I’m not a young veteran, don’t want to confront someone about their slutty facebook pictures, I’m not even interested in confronting your mistress. I’m certainly not the real life 40 year old virgin. And as far as I know you don’t have a compulsion to cover the furniture in plastic wrap. Do you by any chance still suck your thumb?
I’m not sure what “Cakemania” is, but if you’re obsessed with it or hooked on performance enhancing drugs, I have a shot at a couple of shows. I doubt I’m smarter than a 5th grader. And I’m too darn old to try out for the “real” weather girl for a new iPhone App.
Guess I’ll just go back to clipping coupons.
Frugally yours,
debra
