One of the things on my Life List is to learn how to knit. It seems so relaxing. Although I know myself and I generally hate following directions which means that I will never be able to knit one of those cable sweaters, or a hat, or a scarf with a pattern. But that’s fine. I am simple.
Susan has been promising that she will teach me to knit. I am holding her to that in California next week. The following is an exchange that we had yesterday while I was shopping in Jo-Ann fabrics.
Me: What size knitting needles should I buy?
Me: Helllloooooo?
Me: Why are you not sitting around just waiting for me to text you so you can answer me back with these all important questions?
Twenty minutes later:
Her: NOT wee skinny ones. Helpful, yes?
Me: Too late I already bought some.
Her: What size did you get?
Me: 8 or 9 or something or other?
Me: More important: They are bamboo!
Her: I have bamboo needle — LOVE them.
Me: And I got this really soft organic cotton hand dyed “wool”
Her: Ooooooh, what are you going to make?
Me: I have to decide in advance?
Her: Uh, that is usually how it works.
Me: A square?
Her: Potholder.
Me: Hahahaha.
Me: It will be fine as long as I don’t try to pick up anything hot
Her: Right
Me: Or reach into the oven and catch it on fire.
Her: Washcloth
Me: My hand knit organic cotton washcloth
Me: I think that would make me an asshole
Her: You can feel all superior when you wash your face
Me: And you know I would
Her: It can be your lovey like babies have
Me: Oh I can use a lovey
Me: ooooooh, I know. A vibrator cozy.
Her: Hahahaha, perfect.
Me: THAT would make me feel superior.
Her: The gold and diamond encrusted vibe* needs a cozy
Me: Yes, yes it does. It DESERVES one
Me: As do I.
Me: I don’t think everyone has a handknit organic cotton vibe cozy
Her: Hahahahaha
Me: It would satisfy me in so many ways
Her: You could certainly feel superior about that
Me: You know I am blogging this
Me: I think all my friends and neighbors need to know about my handknit organic cotton vibe cozy
Me: A little window into my world
From here the conversation took a decidedly unbloggable turn. You can use your own imagination about taglines that would be great for marketing a vibe cozy.
Honestly, I don’t know what I am more excited about, finally learning how to knit or being able to tell people who ask that I am making a vibe cozy.
*This is from a recurring email that Susan gets about an $8K vibrator** that is made of gold and encrusted with diamonds. The last email refered to it as a “vibe” and we both agreed that we would have to work that into our vernacular as much as possible.
**For $8K it would have to take me out to dinner and whisper sweet nothings in my ear
I have been dreading this. I feel like it is reflection on me and all my years of teaching, and frankly I don’t want to be judged or graded. It has been stressful.
I am not sure if I ever posted a follow up about my eigth grade son that I called the meeting for at school. The son who has ADHD and is painfully disorganized. The one I thought was surely flunking out of school, not because he isn’t smart. He is smart. He is crazy smart. You ever get stranded on a desert island, he is the person you want with you. He has incredible problem solving skills and can fix anything, the sprinkler system, the garage door opener, any appliances we have ever owned. It is just that his particualr for of brilliance does not translate well into a school setting.
I went into the meeting and solemnly looked at his teachers and said, “I really, really just hope he can manage to get it together and graduate highschool. Sometime. In his life.” I let out a long big sigh and shifted a sleeping Miles in my arms. Feeling like the cliche mother of too many kids.
And the team of teachers all looked back at me confused and asked what kid I was talking about, because they see none of those things.
Yeah, that kid, had straight A’s and all his teachers regarded him highly.
Anyway, grading period ended and… My oldest three sons GOT ALL A’s.
I don’t want to talk about 8 and 10 yr old sons though. Ugh. I knew my 8 yr old was struggling with reading. He just doesn’t get it. I had already decided that if I were homeschooling this year he needed to be tested and get some help that I apparently was not capable of giving. But my 10 yr old? His difficulties shocked me. I guess he was good enough at faking his reading skills, of reading just enough words to get the gist of the book or story that I never noticed. Perhaps I was distracted by those dimples.
Go on, stab me through the heart with some dull number two pencils. It would be less painful than the mental flagellation I have been giving myself daily. I take some consolation in the fact that both my 7th and 8th graders were late readers and they are reading just fine now. (See above: ALL A’s!) I fully believe that the younger boys will catch up eventually. I have no reason not to. I don’t think you can live in a house that has literally thousands of books, heavy restrictions on the amount of tv viewing allowed, and only the wii for video game playing and NOT learn the value of reading.
And if I am going to be honest, the way I feel has more to do with other people’s perceptions of me that their shortcomings. My own feelings of being a failure. I can’t walk into the elementary school without feeling like a big old loser. The cliche. The woman with so many kids she couldn’t bother to teach them properly. Or maybe she is too dumb.
Would it be weird to just happen to have my college diplomas in my hand the next time I have a meeting at the school? I could trip and have them go flying across the principal’s desk. And I could be all, “Ohhhhh, how did these get here?” All casual, like people always walk around with their diplomas all the time.
Granted they might think I am crazy, but I’ll take that over dumb.
Whenever I play wii bowling with Miles he beats me. I’d like to say that it is because I don’t try. But that would be a lie. I still maintain that if we bowled in real life I could kick his ass. If only because I would have the advatage of actually being able to lift a 10 lb bowling bowl.
When we do go bowling I am going to do with a flourish like Miles. Not sure when exactly the next time I will be bowling since the last time I went it was for my oldest son’s fourth birthday party. BACK IN 1998! But when I do, rest assured I will be bowling like Baryshnikov.
In case you can’t make out what he says to me at the end:
Whoa, you are creeping me out.
What?
You are [dramatic air quotes] creeping me out [/dramatic air quotes]
An hour away from my home at 10am Saturday morning. Get a text message from teenager:Are the dishes in the dishwasher clean?
My reply: Do you have eyeballs?
***
Teen son texts me: Can reading text messages count towards my school reading log minutes?
Clearly all this technology has killed valuable brain cells.
Listening to the national anthem before the game.
***
Swine flu going around. 8% of the school is out with it according to some random person who probably heard it from some other random person who probably made it up. That doesn’t stop me from repeating it with conviction, however.
I think one of my kids had it but I didn’t bring him to the doctor because he wasn’t THAT sick. I didn’t want to spread the germs around if I didn’t have to. I am thoughtful like that.
It has a 7 to 10 day incubation period. I am making no plans for this coming week. Other than bathing daily in Purell to be followed up with a Lysol spritzer.
***
Today Miles helped me wash all the doorknobs and light switches in the house. On the one hand, I felt bad making him a party to my crazy. On the other hand, help with cleaning! Win!
Player from the other team pointing to my son.
My son who then sacks his quarterback.
Also, it is very confusing when both teams are wearing identical uniforms. I have quite a few photos of the kid on the OTHER team who wears a number 7 jersey. I asked myself if it really matters. And the answer: No it does not matter.
***
Second verse, same as the first.
The bobble heads were not intimidated. They won the game.
A little girl with a ribbon in her hair. Wearing a cheerleading uniform.
Bar-B-Q. Yes, this is Texas.
Orange soda in glass bottles.
He sticks his pinky finger up in the air.
Look at me, Mom, I am fancy.
As if that is all it takes. We are the polar opposite of fancy.
Food on wax paper, on a red and white checked table cloth. Soft American white bread with slices of brisket in between.
This is goooood, Mom. What kind of bread is this?
My poor sheltered children are going to go off to college and eat all the things I refuse to buy for them: white bread –the kind that sticks to the back of your front teeth when you bite into your sandwich, breakfast cereal that is really just tiny cookies, and Lunchables.
***
I am going to Napa in two weeks. As much as I love my children and generally enjoy their company, I am looking forward to getting away from them. And not just because there is going to be wine.
I have had this window open typing on and off for over 24 hours, I wander away and then come back and type some more. You know what? That is way too long. Even I have lost interest in what I was writing.
Heading out to the bus stop in the morning. In the dark.
My 13 yr old son playing in his first football game.
Miles picking out his donut. I don’t even want to admit how many donuts he eats each week. Everytime we go out somewhere he is all, “I need a donut, Mom.”
Having only him home has led to one very spoiled little boy. I just rarely see a reason to say no to his requests for things like: playing the wii, having a happy meal, eating donuts, or doing shots of tequila. I do stop short of letting him snort lines off of a naked stripper, lest you get the impression that it is a free-for-all here. But if he whined enough I’d probably give in.
He isn’t tired. He is engaging in that long held male tradition of resting his eyes.
Oh how the kids love these stupid machines at the grocery store. Hurray another little plastic ball with a sticker inside! We don’t already have 500 of these littering the floor of my van.
The bright spot in house filled with testosterone. And dirt. Everyone needs some sparkling shoes in their life.
Pencils waiting for the kids to break out their homework. At which time I will stab myself repeatedly with one of these, because that is more enjoyable than helping my son with high school algebra.
The mud, dear god the mud. And yes, I make my kids take their shoes off and clap them on the ground to get most of it off before they are allowed into the car, even though my car is dirty enough that it really doesn’t matter.
And why is it that every other laundry detergent company wants to send me free product. Except for Tide. Why? WHY, TIDE??
It still suprises me how big the sky is here. It makes me feel so small and insignificant and perfect for being struck by a bolt of lightening.
Mama, I can see where the rainbow ends!
Yes, I see it!
Can we go there? Do you think we need to bring our own pot?
Pot?
For the golden coins… or are there pots there.
In which I make you feel very smart…
I booked airline tickets on Sunday for a trip I am taking in October. Susan and I are flying home together as far as Houston and then we part ways for our respective states. We really wanted to fly home Sunday evening, but no such flight exists from California. So we were faced with the choice of the red eye or leaving at 6 am Monday morning. We chose the red eye.
I happily booked my flight and went on my merry way. This morning Susan emails me: Our flight is supposed to be 12:15am on Monday, you made your flight for Sunday.
Yes, yes I did. And not only that it was a non-refundable, can’t make any changes kind of flight. So I had to buy a separate one way ticket home for MONDAY at 12:15 am.
If you could have seen my face as I typed in my credit card number again it would have really been the saddest photo of all time. Even sadder than this one:
An unused drink ticket I found in my suitcase.
What? So I haven’t unpacked from BlogHer yet. Whatever.
I am not sure how much to write about events that happened this past weekend, other than hello? crazy family alert.
I had been warned. But I don’t know, I guess I like to give people, especially children, the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps months ago when one of the kids in the family came into my house when we weren’t home and took ice cream out of my freezer I should have reconsidered. Or when it happened a second time. But I thought, oh kids do stupid things sometimes without thinking of the long term consequences.
Or when a different one of the kids in the family was mean and bullying to my daughter.
Or when I heard from several parents that I like and respect that they had incidents with the children in this family and they no longer allowed their children to associate with them.
Or when a completely random mother I meet at a playplace tells me a story, not knowing in which neighborhood I live, that involves her daughter and guess who? Yup, a kid from this family.
I guess I was waiting for a clearer sign? A burning bush maybe? A 2×4 across the back of my head? I am not sure.
We have had many things go missing since we moved here. My kids are somewhat careless so it isn’t out of the realm of possibility that items were stolen by random strangers driving through the neighborhood. You know those roving gangs that like to steal old scooters, footballs, basketballs, and the like. I hope you can hear the sarcasm that is dripping from my words right now.
Anyway, the most expensive item that has gone missing was my 8 yr old son’s Ripstick. It was also the item that was the most cared about. I point blank asked one of the kids from the family in question if he had it or if he had seen it or if he had maybe put it in his garage for safe keeping. You know trying to give him an out. And he said no.
Then a week or so later my oldest son saw him riding the Ripstick. The kid in question gave a long convoluted story to my oldest son about where it had come from, even though it had one of my kid’s names written on a sticker on the Ripstick. Before I could confront the kid he was gone. Next time my kids saw him with the Ripstick the sticker was ripped off. I told my kids to tell him that we knew it was ours and to give it back. In retrospect I wish I had more aggressively pursued it at that point.
I honestly thought that eventually the kid would give it back or that his parents would notice. But no on both counts.
Making a long, long, LONG story short. Just ask Heather B, she has called my three times over the past couple days trying to get the full story and one or the other of us has to get off of the phone before the end of the story to do things like eat or sleep. THAT is how long this story is.
We find out that he traded the Ripstick to a friend of our family for a skateboard. Where the kid told the father yet another lie about where the Ripstick came from and that his parents are fine with him trading such an expensive item for a really cheap board. That family sold the Ripstick on craigslist.
Once I found all of this out I went to their house. Every single day hoping to talk to the mother. She was never home.
Friday two of the kids from this family rode scooters to the bus stop. One of which belongs to us and we have not seen for months. And when the kid gave it back to us I asked where he had found it since it has been gone for a long time. He said it was at his house. And I think I said, huh. Or something similar. The second scooter belonged to a friend of ours who lived down the road. When I found out that the other kid was planning on ditching the scooter right there at the street corner when the bus came I told her that was not acceptable and that she should bring it back home until after school.
Friday after school the mother comes banging on my door. She is confrontational and wants to know why I called her children theives and said they stole the scooters. I am shocked at such an outrageous lie and tell her so. My children who were all at the bus stop are equally shocked.
She asks, “Are you calling my children liars?”
To which I diplomatically reply, “I am not calling your children anything. I am telling you that I said nothing at all like that. But while you are here there is something I want to discuss with you…”
And I told her the whole long tale of the Ripstick up to the part where it was traded.
She basically said that my children and I were liars that her son had no such toy. If he had, she would have known. Etc, etc, etc. And while I understand that no one wants to believe that their child would do anything wrong, becoming defensive doesn’t solve anything.
Then I tell her the part where another family and another adult become involved in the saga. She had no choice but to believe what I was saying. But she kept on coming back to my kids, turning it around to things that my kids have supposedly done, like leave their bikes behind her car (from now on she is going to toss them right into the middle of the street because it isn’t her responsibility to take care of them, especially if her children were going to be called thieves for returning items!), or cussing (she does not allow her children to cuss! I don’t either. But they do sometimes, nothing particularly bad, as do her children.)
I kept my cool. I said I would talk to my kids about those two things. Then she told the most outrageous lie about one of my kids that supposedly happened months ago. When I said that there was no way that had happened she came back with, “Oh your kids are perfect and my kids are liars and thieves. Get your head out of the sand.”
And I said, “I never said that, but my head is out of the sand now. It seems the solution is to keep your children away from my children. They are no longer allowed to play together, to talk to each other, nothing. I can not have my children be exposed to this anymore.”
She called me a few choice things and stormed off.
I was saddened by the whole thing.
But by far the worst part was the reaction of my children. My young sons who wanted to know how someone could pretend to be their friend and steal from them and lie to them. My one son wanted to know why he hadn’t just asked to borrow the Ripstick because they would have let him. They so much wanted to believe his lies. And even now I see them struggling with doubt, in spite of all the evidence.
It is a tough lesson to learn, that people are not always kind. That there are people who will take advantage of you. That people will pretend to be your friend. That people will lie for no reason other than to get someone else in trouble.
On the flip side I hope they also realize, after the dust from the fall out settles, that there are far more good people out there than bad. That having good character is important. And that at the end of the day if you can look yourself in the mirror and know you treated everyone exactly as you want to be treated, well you have learned the best life lesson of all.
I am sick again. I told Susan this morning that I thought I had consumption, which she said was very romantic and Victorian of me. Then she recommended that I get myself some opium. Try as I might I could only get my doctor to prescribe some heavy duty antibiotic that I have never heard of. And my hacking up a lung is not at all romantic. Trust me. Unless coughing until you vomit is romantic. Who knows what the kids are into these days.
Seriously, this whole being sick constantly thing is enough to make me want to take my little family and live on a deserted tropical island somewhere. After I coat us all in Purell. Then we will spend our days lying on the white sandy beaches, swimming in the ocean, having our skin taste like salty potato chips. Yes we would have sunscreen. And life vests. And protective helmets, those falling coconuts can be dangerous you know.
Come closer internet and I will tell you a little secret.
Last night Rob and I did one of our son’s homework. Oh yes, we did. As in we each did a different homework assignment while the child did other homework and studied for a test. It was either that or he wasn’t going to sleep last night. As it was he ended up only getting about 4 hours of sleep.
Isn’t this cheating?
Well, yes, I suppose some people might see it that way?
Do you?
No, I choose to see it as delegating. That is a very important life skill you know.
What if my teacher asks me about it?
Well, we will think of something.
Like LIE?
Well, some people might think of it like that…
Do you?
No, I think of it as FINISHING THIS MINDLESS BULLSHIT SO I CAN GET TO BED!
This reminds me of the Seinfeld episode where George and Jerry decide that the two of the together could be the perfect boyfriend… together we are the perfect [intentionally left blank] grader.
It reminds me of college. Minus the beer.
And the bong.
What are you guys talking about?
I told him to text me after his test today. I am dying to know how we, errrr he did.
Saturday was game day for the 8 and 10 yr old boys. The 8 yr old little bobble heads played first. When they are out there running around you forget how little they truly are. They can do so many things for themselves at this age.
Then you capture this moment and remember how small they still are in the grand scheme of life.
The coach on his knee to meet them at eye level. The other coaches snapping their chin straps for them because they can’t do it themselves. Or tying their cleats for them.
Ten year olds are different. Sturdier. Older. More like miniature men.
They can fasten their own chin straps. They can get their own pads on. They definitely can tie their own shoes, though my son will still ask me to tie his cleats because he can’t get them tight enough.
The first week of practice the coach went around and asked the kids what number they wanted to be. My cute, yet blonde in every sense of the word, son thought the coach was merely asking him his favorite number. As if that would be totally normal for your coach to walk up to you in the middle of warm-ups and ask you your favorite number.
The coach was asking you what number you want on your jersey.
Oooooh, I thought he was just making conversation. You know, getting to know me.
Do people frequently just ask you what your favorite number is — completely out of the blue?
Sometimes I think that our memories are really not based on any sort of factual occurrence. They are things, events, that have been reshaped by other events, by other wishes or desires, by other memories. By other people. Reworked to fit into the containers in which we hold them. They are altogether different than the original reality.
I think of all the times I have said that one day I would be able to look back on some event, whatever “fun” event it was supposed to be, and say that yes, it was fun. How much of life falls into this category of revisionist history? Not that any of it isn’t true, or didn’t happen, just that the highlighted part might not have been the most important.
I wonder what my children will remember from this past year, a year fraught with upheavals and changes. I write here and wonder if they will look back and wonder why I chose to highlight the things that I have. Why I have chosen to completely omit other things. Will they remember it completely different?
And yet, I still feel compelled to write. To have a hand in the reshaping. To craft the memories.
To remember the happy blonde boy with the blue tongue and not the one who kicked and screamed and rolled around on the bleachers while I calmly ignored him. At least on the outside. If I do happen to remember it, I definitely want to remember the calm part.
*****
At the field where the boys practice every night we must drive down a long driveway. It has speedbumps to slow the cars down. But they are not the regular kind of speedbumps, they are huge. Probably three feet wide. When you drive over them fast your car goes airborne for a few seconds.
Every night we pull into the driveway and they begin the begging.
Please, Mom? Pleeeeeease?
C’mon Mom!
Every night I pretend like I am not going to do it.
But instead as I approach the speed bump I speed up and we fly over it. The kids raise their hands in the air like we are on a rollercoaster ride. We all scream as our stomachs fall into the pits of our stomachs.
Sometimes there are people driving in front of us and I can’t speed up.
Why don’t other people do it, Mom?
Sheesh, they are so. not. fun.
They aren’t cool like you, Mom.
I don’t tell the kids that it is because the other people have nice cars. They’ll figure that part out for themselves one day.
*****
We were driving home from football practice the other night. My 10 yr old son, finally weighing enough to sit in the front seat, next to me. On the radio The Black Eyed Peas.
I gotta feeling that tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good, good night
He reaches over and turns the volume up. He sings on the top of his lungs, dancing in his seat, shaking his long blonde hair. It is more like a dog trying to dry itself off than an actual dance with a discernable rythmn. But he has so much joy. So much joy. It is contagious.
His siblings in the seat behind him join in. The van windows reverberate with their song.
We get home. Our new house, the one we are still trying to turn into a home. The home that really marks the line between the before and after, the then and the now, the there and the here. A line crafted of stone and wood.
It begins to rain and they all stand outside, faces upturned toward the rain as if they too have been sufferring from the drought. Their hair and clothing become soaked and cling to their bodies. Rivulets of water run down their faces and arms. I stand outside with them. I inhale deeply, the smell of rain made sweeter by weeks and weeks without it. I retreat to the front porch and watch them.
Then we hear thunder and see lightening and we all go inside. Friends come inside our house too. I make nachos. Kids rollerblade around on tile leaving puddles behind them.
I gotta feeling that tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good night
That tonight’s gonna be a good, good night
When you are 10 this is a good night.
And when you are 40 it isn’t too bad either.
*****
I recraft the memories for myself too. One day I will look back and say, without a trace of doubt, those were the best years. And I will mean it.
