Serenity...Just $13.99

Sometimes it's just not worth the battle.

My middle child (you remember him?  Willful, loving, Jack) hurt his elbow during goalie training last night.  They were practicing diving for the soccer ball (it's your third hand, you love the ball!) and he landed on it, his elbow slamming into hard ground.  Nothing broken (I'm not a doctor, but we've had 5 in our house - none Jack's), no heinous swelling or bruising.  But Jack was hurting last night.  I coaxed him into a warm bath, got him settled on the couch with a fluffy pillow, soft blanket and tv and he fell right to sleep.  This morning he was a hornet's nest.  

Couldn't move his arm (he said), couldn't do anything, refused to go to summer camp because he was afraid to take the field trip to the in-link skating rink.  He was bored, restless, and then got it in his head that he needed to have his arm in a sling. 

 

I tried telling him I don't have a sling.  I tried telling him I was working (from home today, mind you) and he needed to relax (read: be quiet!) and keep ice on it.  

Nothing worked.  Once he got the idea of a sling into his head, nothing else was going to do.  "Mom, pulleeeese!" he whined, "it hurts!"  Dragging out the words as though stretching the syllables would impress upon me his dire circumstances.  It simply stretched that nerve ending to near breaking.  You know the one...the LAST SENSITIVE NERVE?  Yep.  That one.

I heard about it from 8am this morning through 1pm when I had to run out for a doctor's appointment.  Then I read about it via text.  Gosh, I do love technology. 

On the way home, it hit me.  I had spent the past 5+ hours listening to this whining, complaining misery.  And suddenly an infomercial began playing in my head:  

Are you in need of peace?  Do you need a few moments of serenity?  How long have you had to put up with the whining?  Well, folks, have we got just the thing for you!

Peace!  Serenity! A temporarily content 11 year-old boy!  That's right!  All this can be yours for the low, low price of $13.99.  Just one payment of $13.99 can buy you a few moments of whinelessness (is that even a word? It is now...)!  All you have to do is stop at Walgreens on your way home and purchase that cotton, adjustable sling.  $13.99.  Operators are standing by...

Now, I normally do not fall victim to these sales pitches, but this was one I absolutely could not argue with.  I simply could not refuse.  I swerved into that Walgreens parking lot and ran in like I was on fire.  And when I got home and presented Jack with the sling...

Well, let's just say I'm writing this in complete silence...

 

As I Close Out My Fourth (a look back through the decades)

Next Tuesday, July 19th, I will turn 39.

The last year of my thirties.

It doesn't scare me, but I'm certainly in a reflective mode. It makes me think about each of the decades I've lived through so far...

Ages 0-9.

As the famous line goes "Everything I need to know, I learned in Kindergarten." True, to a point. All the major necessities were covered. We're born...check. Learn to sit, stand, walk....check. check. check. Get the talking thing down... Heck, we even learned to read and write. Loads of learning. Well done!

10 - 19.

A rough ten years. Pre-teen to teen, to college student all in such a short span. No wonder it's so fraught with angst and confusion.

Let's see if my second decade sounds anything like yours ... from 10 to 19, I learned...a different set of skills. How to talk back, wear makeup, not burn myself on a curling iron, empty a can of Aqua Net on just my bangs. All checks. I started and graduated highschool, went on my first date, had my first "serious" relationship. I don't know if I learned as much during these years as I tried, tested, pushed, ignored and fought against. Yep, that sounds more like it.

20 - 29.

Major changes here. The first and biggest being the coveted "legal drinking age." Maybe that's why the first couple years in this decade is a little hazy... I do recall moving into my first apartment. For many, this decade saw a college degree, maybe two. First "real, grown up" jobs, engagements, weddings, pregnancy, babies, and first homes. This 10-year span for me held great joy (becoming a mom), missed opportunities (travel), both bad (dropping out of college) and good (going back to college) decisions. This was a decade for learning how to be a "grown up," a wife, a mother, a home owner. This is when I learned to take care of others. To put others first. And to put myself last.

30 - 39.

This has been a decade of discovery. This was when I learned about me. My passions, my dreams, my hopes, what is most important. It has also held some very difficult years. Years that I'm grateful for nonetheless, because they shaped who I am today. If we could go back carrying all the knowledge we've gathered over time...wouldn't that make things so much easier? But really, who wants to do it over again? Not I. I'm thrilled to have gotten through it, and excited about what's to come. I refuse to think about the fact that my life may very well be half over (or worse). I have dreams! Big dreams! Promises I've made to myself. I've had my work published - seven times so far! And I'm finally working on that novel I've always wanted to write.

But I digress, I'm going to enjoy this last year of my thirties. And realize that every year has brought me closer to the best years of my life. I truly believe they are still in front of me.

What's your favorite decade so far (and why)?

What Is Patriotism?

I wrote this essay for a writing contest hosted by Hot Psychology magazine back in 2007. It took 2nd place.

My views have changed just a little bit since then, but since I just returned from vacation (a fantastic, long weekend in Ft. Myers), I thought it'd be okay to cheat a little, and repost this today, in honor of Independence Day. Happy 4th everyone!

I was working on my writing degree in 2001, teaching preschool at “Love ‘N Laugher” in the morning for extra income. It was a small school, 60 families in an 80-year old home that the owner had converted into a preschool. White brick with little red awnings, sidewalk chalk up and down the driveway, clapboard fence surrounding a happy playground filled with swings, slides and running toddlers. It was quaint. Cozy. Safe. One of a million little schoolhouses all over the world.

Once the children were down for their nap, the afternoon teacher would relieve me, and I’d head to my own classes. Universities tend to lean left, politically, and at the time, I was married to a right-wing Republican. I never had much opinion on political matters. Instead I tended to let my husband sway me, just as our parents’ beliefs sway us in our youth. Once I went back to school for my bachelor’s though, I became a little more opinionated. Maybe it was the University environment, maybe it was the strain on my marriage, maybe I was finally finding my voice, and over time, confidence in that voice. Whatever it was, I felt more and more compassion for the soldiers, and less and less for the government – ours or anyone else’s.

July 4 was always a favorite of the preschoolers at Love N Laughter. The kids celebrated by waving little American flags, singing “patriotic” songs and creating “firework” art by throwing paint-drenched Koosh balls at black construction paper. I can remember walking into the little school house the morning of September 11, 2001, a weary eye on the sky, half expecting to see fighter jets flying overhead. I can remember wondering if there were preschool teachers walking into little schoolhouse in Iraq, or Cuba, or Vietnam that morning. What makes us different from any of them? Surely they were familiar with the fear of the unknown, as I was for the first time that morning.

I can’t imagine anyone talking or writing about Patriotism without mentioning 9/11 in some way. Pre-9/11 America and Post-9/11 America. Of course, most would say that, as a country, we are much more “patriotic” now.

But what does that mean? Because our country was attacked in such a massive, public, horrifying way, that we suddenly became more proud of our country? Willing to fight back? We got flag happy, I think. We rallied around the troops, the government, and the “war on terror." These aren’t bad things, of course, but it did feel very “Republican."

If patriotism is this simple, why does it always seem to be a political issue? If we are against the “war on terror” then we’re not patriotic. If we’re all for it – we’re murdering, war lovers. What if patriotism is just about having that sense of peace within us that somehow things will be okay? What if it’s just about waving that little flag and smiling as you walk past a stranger – sharing a common bond – even for just that day.
It’s our right as Americans – born in a free country – to choose our politics. Are we Republican or Democrat? Do we back the president, or back away? Whichever way we lean politically – we should be proud that we have that right. We should be grateful for the opportunity to choose and speak out without fear. Why fight with the leftist next door because you’re right wing? Be glad that both of you have respect and love enough for your country to use your rights. Be patriotic – and smile at the opposing team – just for today.

That first 4th of July – 2002 – was a big one for our country. But things at Love ‘N Laughter were exactly as they’d been for the past 19 July 4th celebrations. Same little flags, same paint-smattered little hands, same smiles, giggles, shouts.

That little school house hasn’t changed in the last six years. There is still no lock on the front door. No iron gates at the end of the driveway. No metal detectors or rent-a-cops.
It is still the same, peaceful, cozy place it was pre-9/11. One small sign that maybe we really our patriotic – we really do believe in our peace. Is it naïve? Maybe. But it’s American. How patriotic is that?

iPhones and Margaritas

The first iPhone came out four years ago.

Hard to believe it's only been four years.

And I, a proud iPhone owner, ever since.

A gift from my parents for my 35th birthday.

Since then, I've replaced it once (after it took a swim in the toilet) and upgraded it once (to the 3GS). I've been holding onto this one until the new 5 comes out, and don't mind saying that I've done a swell job of keeping it away from water (especially after ingesting multiple margaritas) and in it's protective case.

The case is something, isn't it? The new iPhones are so much slimmer than the first ones were four years ago. Artistic and futuristic in design - slim, shiny, with rounded corners. Fits into the back pocket of your jeans just perfectly (hence the drop into the toilet). Then you go and put a clunky, plastic cover on it to keep it pristine. To protect it from falls on the concrete, scratches from the car keys in your purse (mind you, they have not come out with a fully waterproof option. Yet. ). But I digress...

The iPhone/Toilet Fiasco, as I affectionately refer to it, went something like this:

I have had a few (3) margaritas. I'm free to admit that, as a card-carrying member of the 21+ set. It's a Saturday night. I'm not driving. Anyway, my new iPhone is resting comfortably in the back pocket of my Lucky brand jeans. I run to the bathroom to, well, to return some of the margaritas, and..."Ker-Plunk" - my phone drops into the toilet before I even have a chance to sit down.

I scream.

Being a brand new device, I was not yet aware that kitty litter might be my saving grace (and even if I'd had this tidbit of knowledge, I don't own a cat...). Fast forward to the following morning...

Head down, tail between my legs, I sulk into the Apple store and, surrounded by co-eds, wait my turn. My Genius comes over and asks me how he can help me. I hold out my phone, and as he is about to take it from me, I mumble something about dropping it into the toilet. He withdraws his hand like it has just been lit on fire.

"Umm..okay," he says to me, "Was there...anything...in the toilet? When you, uhh...dropped it?

"NO." This very enthusiastically. Proud, almost. Whew! I think.

The throng of college students turns and looks, horrifically, in my direction. Genius takes the phone gingerly between his thumb and forefinger, holding it out in front of him like a piece of moldy cheese (I did say, "no" there was nothing in the toilet, didn't I?)

He asks me to have a seat on the stool and wait just a moment while he tests the phone.

A few moments later he is back. Takes the stool next to mine, scoots it closer. Takes my hands in his. "It doesn't look good."

I am reminded of a scene from E.R. We lost the patient (in this case, my iPhone), and had it quickly replaced (as is possible with electronic devices).

But I digress...

It's been four years since the first iPhone. Much has changed since then. Not just for Apple, but for me, as well. (But I will not digress again.) I'm still loyal to the brand. Without my iPhone I would be lost (quite literally sometimes, without mapquest). More than a phone, it's my address book, my connection to my friends, and most importantly, my kids. It's my photo album, music player, video maker and player, my social media touchpoint (I post and tweet almost exclusively from it), my calorie counter, my shopping list keeper...I could go on (I won't).

If it would only clean the house. But maybe there's an app for that.

Tiny Hypocrisies .... Big Truths

OpenSalon.com has a call out for essays on the topic: Tiny Hypocrisies.

Got one?

I certainly do. The "tiny" part, I'm not so sure of...but the Hypocrisy's true enough. One in particular. But damn, do I struggle with the truth. Only as a writer, mind you.

I pride myself on being a very honest person. Maybe that's because I don't lie well (not since I was sixteen, anyway...I had a knack for it back then). My hands get clammy, my face turns red, I stutter...If I could lie well, I have to admit that I wouldn't be so honest. See? There I go again!

But I digress. Truth is the crux of a writer's world. Truth is what makes the words come alive, the emotions jump off the page...it's what gives our essays and stories soul.

And here is my struggle: as a writer, how much do I reveal? Some writers are just so good at it (Chris Cleave comes to mind). Some writers can throw down the deepest, darkest secrets with such...confidence (Jean Whatley comes to mind) that it can not be denied. You don't read writing like that and think, "Can you believe that? Where are that woman's morals for God's sake!"

Why is it that I am always checking this moral compass of mine? If it's not pointing due North, if I've told even the tiniest of white lies, I can't so much as look in the mirror. What the hell is that?

Catholicism.

Right.

But again, I digress. One of my college writing instructors (Steve Lattimore) once told me that the best stories are ones where the writer puts the protagonist up in a tree, throws rocks at him, and then gets him down. Well, in this "tiny hypocrisy" I am the protagonist. I certainly found myself up in a tree. And the rocks? They hurt.

But what Prof. Lattimore didn't tell me, was what happens to the protagonist once he climbs down from that tree. Do all the other people in all the other trees look down on him for having gotten himself up there in the first place? Should I care? As my grandmother used to say (I imagine she still might, if the situation called for it), "Pobody's Nerfect."

Pobody's Nerfect. There ya go.