For those of you old enough to remember, Aviance perfume used to have a commercial where a woman wearing slacks and a buttoned-down top would dance to a sexy little number about cooking breakfast, taking the kids to school, doing the laundry, fixing dinner, feeding the dog, cleaning up, and then still being desirable to her mate by bedtime.
That song became the theme for my generation of women.
Not only can we do it all—we are expected to do it all.
Somewhere along the line doing it all not only became our right—but now it appears to be our obligation. For thousands of years, men have been denying us females of the right to have it all; therefore, now that we have cracked that glass ceiling, we will do it all-dag nab it! Even if kills us!
Who was that woman who spearheaded this have-it-all-movement? I’d like to slap her!
All I’ve been getting out of this having-it-all-stuff is exhaustion.
I have been advised to prioritize. But then, the items at the top of my list keep shifting based on the crisis of the moment. While addressing one item on the list, the other items are neglected until lights and buzzers start going off to tell me that they can’t be neglected any longer. These alarms are directly attached to family.
Our mothers, who were fortunate enough to be discriminated against by the male population, didn’t have all these items on their lists.
Last night, I was talking to a friend. At nine o’clock in the evening, she hadn’t even been home. The house needed to be cleaned. With her mother arriving today for a visit, she predicted that she receive advise to quit her job to stay home and care for her family.
Our mothers don’t understand. How can they? They were from the Ice Age back when women weren’t free to run themselves ragged. They can’t understand why we run ourselves into the ground having it all: It’s because we can!
A couple of years ago, I emceed a mystery dinner production I had written for a local theater. That became the priority at the top of my list for a couple of weeks.
Trusting my husband, I turned the house and our family over to him. After the play was over and the audience went home, my family returned to the top of my list, at which point I transformed myself from playwright to crisis manager.
While in the midst of rehearsals, my son’s school teacher had sent a homework assignment home to me. It was to be a bonding experience for mother and son to write a paper about a Famous American Woman. With it due on Monday, it jumped to the top of my list at 9 o’clock Sunday night. Too bad my son was in bed and unable to bond with me while I researched our homework assignment.
At seven o’clock in the morning, with the deadline for our project looming overhead, I rousted him out of bed, and dictated “our homework” to him, only to find that it was to be completed on a form, which had disappeared soon after the assignment had landed in our house.
So, I wrote a note to the teacher claiming that my son (he’s a child, therefore irresponsibility is expected of him) misplaced my homework assignment.
Then it came time for coercing my son into his clothes to go to school. This was when I discovered that while my husband was in charge; his son discovered the joy of mud. I had to give Jack credit. He didn’t just let the shoes remain muddy. He washed them, and then let them sit without drying them. Three days later, they were still wet.
Note number two to the teacher went into my son’s bag. This time, I blamed his father for allowing Tristan to ruin his sneakers, which rendered them unavailable for gym.
The time to catch the bus was looming down on us. I whipped my son into his backpack, knelt to zip up his coat to protect him from the cold like the good mother I pretend to be, only to discover that he had holes in the knees of his pants!
That was when doing the laundry was moved to the top of my list. However, even Wonder Woman couldn’t have gotten his pants washed and dried in time for the bus.
I considered writing a third note to the teacher confessing to my ineptitude, but decided that there was still a chance to save my reputation as a semi-adequate mother. I put Tristan into a pair of pants from out of the laundry that appeared clean at a distance, as long as you didn’t have a bloodhound’s nose.
While I rushed Tristan to change his clothes, he asked why he couldn’t wear the torn pants.
Thinking of the two notes he already had that were meant to explain our family, I said, “Because if you do, your teacher is going to report me for neglect and I’ll go to jail!”
I could see his little mind digesting this information while I tried to make him presentable by combing his hair.
“What will happen to me if you go to jail?”
“You’ll get sent to a home to live with a bunch of other kids whose mothers have lost their minds.”
Seeing my party animal son’s eyes light up at the prospect of living in the party zone while I shared a cell with five other mothers who didn’t do their homework, I threw out, “And you’ll have to share all your toys!”
With that, the light was doused and another crisis was resolved.
Now, it’s time to move onto the next item on my list.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Monday, October 12, 2009
Diary of an Inept Housewife: You Know You Are Middle-Aged When...
Diary of an Inept Housewife: You Know You Are Middle-Aged When...
The time has come for me to throw in the towel. I have been fighting it for years from working out to stay a size eight to using anti-wrinkle creams (and then when those didn’t work I resorted to dimming the lights). But the day came with the sign too big to ignore: “I am middle-aged.”
You know you are middle-aged when you stop getting invited to friends’ weddings and start receiving invitations to the weddings for children of your friends. Last Spring I sobbed throughout the wedding of our son’s former babysitter. She thought my tears were over the beauty of the ceremony. In reality, they were over the lost of my youth.
This brings me to my next point: You know you are middle-aged when your bedtime is earlier than your babysitter’s curfew.
You know you are middle-aged when the hottest clubs you used to hang out at are avoided by the younger generation, which used to be you.
You know you are middle-aged when sex in advertising fails to sell to you.
You know you are middle-aged when you are no longer listed as a target audience in Hollywood. That’s why you can’t find anything to watch on television or in the theaters.
You know you are middle-aged when the radio stations you listen to switch their advertisement from “the hottest music” to “classic rock” but they play the same tunes.
You know you are middle-aged when your friends start looking old.
You know you are middle-aged when the sex symbols you used to go ga-ga over play the current sex symbol’s parents. Likewise, you also know you are getting old when the rock stars you used to follow become eligible for social security. A true sign that your generation has joined the ranks of middle-aged is when you go to buy rock concert tickets and the box office has a sign up stating that they have senior citizen discounts.
You also know you are getting old when you can’t remember your favorite rock star’s name or the lyrics to your favorite song.
You know you are middle-aged when your doctor and your child’s teacher are young enough to be your children.
You know you are middle-aged when you child is old enough to be a doctor or a teacher.
You know you are middle-aged when you send your children to bed because you are tired and make them put on a sweatshirt because you’re cold.
You know you are middle-aged when you go to bed before your children because they are now old enough to go to bed on their own.
You know you are middle-aged when you really want to take a nap, but you can’t because you don’t have time.
You know you are middle-aged when a top priority in your search for a vacation spot is rest and relaxation, not romance and excitement.
You know you are middle-aged when you avoid romance and excitement.
You know you are middle-aged when you now consider a game of monopoly exciting. Exciting used to be white water rafting or skydiving.
You know you are middle-aged when you realize that you could die white water rafting and skydiving and, for this reason, start avoiding these types of sports.
You know you are middle-aged when you know people who are listed in the obituaries.
You know you are middle-aged when you stop receiving invitations from friends for baby showers, and start getting invitations from them for their daughters’ baby showers.
You know you are middle-aged when you start wearing sensible shoes.
You know you are middle-aged when you don’t look for a purse to match your outfit, but rather a sturdy one that can carry everything your need, which is a lot more than it was before you were middle-aged.
You know you are middle-aged when you stop buying a whole ensemble with your shoes and purse and clothes coming together to create a look. Who is going to notice anyway?
You know you are middle-aged when your parents stop taking you to the doctor and you start taking them.
You know you are middle-aged when no one has to tell you to behave because you are finally old enough to know better.
You know you are middle-aged when you have to tell your parents to behave because while they are old enough to know better, they are now too old to remember, or, if they can remember, care.
You know you are middle-aged when you look forward to the day that you will be too old to remember how to behave so that you can once again have an excuse to misbehave.
Now that you are over the hill, it is all downhill from here.
The time has come for me to throw in the towel. I have been fighting it for years from working out to stay a size eight to using anti-wrinkle creams (and then when those didn’t work I resorted to dimming the lights). But the day came with the sign too big to ignore: “I am middle-aged.”
You know you are middle-aged when you stop getting invited to friends’ weddings and start receiving invitations to the weddings for children of your friends. Last Spring I sobbed throughout the wedding of our son’s former babysitter. She thought my tears were over the beauty of the ceremony. In reality, they were over the lost of my youth.
This brings me to my next point: You know you are middle-aged when your bedtime is earlier than your babysitter’s curfew.
You know you are middle-aged when the hottest clubs you used to hang out at are avoided by the younger generation, which used to be you.
You know you are middle-aged when sex in advertising fails to sell to you.
You know you are middle-aged when you are no longer listed as a target audience in Hollywood. That’s why you can’t find anything to watch on television or in the theaters.
You know you are middle-aged when the radio stations you listen to switch their advertisement from “the hottest music” to “classic rock” but they play the same tunes.
You know you are middle-aged when your friends start looking old.
You know you are middle-aged when the sex symbols you used to go ga-ga over play the current sex symbol’s parents. Likewise, you also know you are getting old when the rock stars you used to follow become eligible for social security. A true sign that your generation has joined the ranks of middle-aged is when you go to buy rock concert tickets and the box office has a sign up stating that they have senior citizen discounts.
You also know you are getting old when you can’t remember your favorite rock star’s name or the lyrics to your favorite song.
You know you are middle-aged when your doctor and your child’s teacher are young enough to be your children.
You know you are middle-aged when you child is old enough to be a doctor or a teacher.
You know you are middle-aged when you send your children to bed because you are tired and make them put on a sweatshirt because you’re cold.
You know you are middle-aged when you go to bed before your children because they are now old enough to go to bed on their own.
You know you are middle-aged when you really want to take a nap, but you can’t because you don’t have time.
You know you are middle-aged when a top priority in your search for a vacation spot is rest and relaxation, not romance and excitement.
You know you are middle-aged when you avoid romance and excitement.
You know you are middle-aged when you now consider a game of monopoly exciting. Exciting used to be white water rafting or skydiving.
You know you are middle-aged when you realize that you could die white water rafting and skydiving and, for this reason, start avoiding these types of sports.
You know you are middle-aged when you know people who are listed in the obituaries.
You know you are middle-aged when you stop receiving invitations from friends for baby showers, and start getting invitations from them for their daughters’ baby showers.
You know you are middle-aged when you start wearing sensible shoes.
You know you are middle-aged when you don’t look for a purse to match your outfit, but rather a sturdy one that can carry everything your need, which is a lot more than it was before you were middle-aged.
You know you are middle-aged when you stop buying a whole ensemble with your shoes and purse and clothes coming together to create a look. Who is going to notice anyway?
You know you are middle-aged when your parents stop taking you to the doctor and you start taking them.
You know you are middle-aged when no one has to tell you to behave because you are finally old enough to know better.
You know you are middle-aged when you have to tell your parents to behave because while they are old enough to know better, they are now too old to remember, or, if they can remember, care.
You know you are middle-aged when you look forward to the day that you will be too old to remember how to behave so that you can once again have an excuse to misbehave.
Now that you are over the hill, it is all downhill from here.
You Know You Are Middle-Aged When...
Last spring, I sobbed throughout the wedding of our son’s former babysitter, who happens to be the daughter of my best friend. She thought my tears were over the beauty of the ceremony. I didn't tell her that they actually were over the loss of my youth. The week before, her mother was kind enough to point out that in another ten years, she would be coming to my son's wedding.
Thanks, Jill!
It's time to throw in the towel. I've been fighting it for years from working out to stay a size eight to using anti-wrinkle creams. When those didn’t work, I resorted to dimming the lights. Katie's wedding was a sign too big to ignore.
I'm middle-aged.
You know you are middle-aged when you stop getting invited to friends’ weddings and start receiving invitations to the weddings for your friends' children. This brings me to an even earlier sign: You know you are middle-aged when your bedtime is earlier than your babysitter’s curfew.
You know you are middle-aged when you stop receiving invitations from friends for baby showers, and start getting invitations from them for their daughters’ baby showers.
You know you are middle-aged when your friends start looking old.
You know you are middle-aged when the hottest clubs you used to hang out at are avoided by the younger generation, which used to be you.
You know you are middle-aged when sex in advertising fails to sell to you.
You know you are middle-aged when you are no longer listed as a target audience in Hollywood. That’s why you can’t find anything to watch on television or in the theaters.
You know you are middle-aged when the radio stations you listen to switch their advertisement from “the hottest music” to “classic rock” but they play the same tunes.
You know you are middle-aged when the sex symbols you used to go ga-ga over play the current sex symbol’s parents. Likewise, you also know you are getting old when the rock stars you used to follow become eligible for social security. A true sign that your generation has joined the ranks of middle-aged is when you go to buy rock concert tickets and the box office has a sign up stating that they have senior citizen discounts.
You also know you are getting old when you can’t remember your favorite rock star’s name or the lyrics to your favorite song.
You know you are middle-aged when your doctor and your child’s teacher are young enough to be your children.
You know you are middle-aged when you child is old enough to be a doctor or a teacher.
You know you are middle-aged when you send send your children to bed because you're tired. You're old when you go to bed before them because they are now old enough to stay up without you.
You know you are middle-aged when a top priority in your search for a vacation spot is rest and relaxation, not romance and excitement. You're old when you avoid romance and excitement.
You know you are middle-aged when you now consider a game of monopoly exciting. Exciting used to be white water rafting or skydiving. You're old when you realize that you could die white water rafting and skydiving and, for this reason, start avoiding these types of sports.
You know you are middle-aged when you know people who are listed in the obituaries.
You know you are middle-aged when you start wearing sensible shoes. You also stop looking for a purse to match your outfit to create a whole ensemble with everything coming together for a complete look. Instead you buy a nice sturdy bag that can carry everything your need, which includes all your pills, tissues, snacks, notes, keys, and medic-alert buttons. Who would notice a complete enxemble on a middle-aged woman anyway?
You know you are middle-aged when your parents stop taking you to the doctor and you start taking them.
You know you are middle-aged when no one has to tell you to behave because you are finally old enough to know better.
You know you are middle-aged when you have to tell your parents to behave because while they are old enough to know better, they are now too old to remember, or, if they can remember, care.
You know you are middle-aged when you look forward to the day that you will be too old to remember how to behave so that you can once again have an excuse to misbehave.
Now that I'm over the hill, it is all downhill from here.
Thanks, Jill!
It's time to throw in the towel. I've been fighting it for years from working out to stay a size eight to using anti-wrinkle creams. When those didn’t work, I resorted to dimming the lights. Katie's wedding was a sign too big to ignore.
I'm middle-aged.
You know you are middle-aged when you stop getting invited to friends’ weddings and start receiving invitations to the weddings for your friends' children. This brings me to an even earlier sign: You know you are middle-aged when your bedtime is earlier than your babysitter’s curfew.
You know you are middle-aged when you stop receiving invitations from friends for baby showers, and start getting invitations from them for their daughters’ baby showers.
You know you are middle-aged when your friends start looking old.
You know you are middle-aged when the hottest clubs you used to hang out at are avoided by the younger generation, which used to be you.
You know you are middle-aged when sex in advertising fails to sell to you.
You know you are middle-aged when you are no longer listed as a target audience in Hollywood. That’s why you can’t find anything to watch on television or in the theaters.
You know you are middle-aged when the radio stations you listen to switch their advertisement from “the hottest music” to “classic rock” but they play the same tunes.
You know you are middle-aged when the sex symbols you used to go ga-ga over play the current sex symbol’s parents. Likewise, you also know you are getting old when the rock stars you used to follow become eligible for social security. A true sign that your generation has joined the ranks of middle-aged is when you go to buy rock concert tickets and the box office has a sign up stating that they have senior citizen discounts.
You also know you are getting old when you can’t remember your favorite rock star’s name or the lyrics to your favorite song.
You know you are middle-aged when your doctor and your child’s teacher are young enough to be your children.
You know you are middle-aged when you child is old enough to be a doctor or a teacher.
You know you are middle-aged when you send send your children to bed because you're tired. You're old when you go to bed before them because they are now old enough to stay up without you.
You know you are middle-aged when a top priority in your search for a vacation spot is rest and relaxation, not romance and excitement. You're old when you avoid romance and excitement.
You know you are middle-aged when you now consider a game of monopoly exciting. Exciting used to be white water rafting or skydiving. You're old when you realize that you could die white water rafting and skydiving and, for this reason, start avoiding these types of sports.
You know you are middle-aged when you know people who are listed in the obituaries.
You know you are middle-aged when you start wearing sensible shoes. You also stop looking for a purse to match your outfit to create a whole ensemble with everything coming together for a complete look. Instead you buy a nice sturdy bag that can carry everything your need, which includes all your pills, tissues, snacks, notes, keys, and medic-alert buttons. Who would notice a complete enxemble on a middle-aged woman anyway?
You know you are middle-aged when your parents stop taking you to the doctor and you start taking them.
You know you are middle-aged when no one has to tell you to behave because you are finally old enough to know better.
You know you are middle-aged when you have to tell your parents to behave because while they are old enough to know better, they are now too old to remember, or, if they can remember, care.
You know you are middle-aged when you look forward to the day that you will be too old to remember how to behave so that you can once again have an excuse to misbehave.
Now that I'm over the hill, it is all downhill from here.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Well Kept Secret Revealed
Can you keep a secret? I had to find out the hard way. So, for you women out there who haven’t had children yet, here’s a news flash:
Moms don’t know everything.
Where this myth developed, I have no idea. Look at the first mother, the mother of man-kind: Eve. She’s the one who got her and her husband evicted for stealing fruit from the landlord’s prized tree. Clearly, she didn’t know what “Don’t touch that!” meant.
Somewhere, between Eve and today, a myth evolved that made us think that women who have children know it all. We don’t seem to put this pressure on women who don’t have children. (Maybe they’re smarter than we give them credit for.)
Of course, my mother knows everything. Since giving birth, I wonder if that isn’t necessarily because she’s my mother, but that her smarts came naturally.
Believing that mothers know everything, I just assumed that when I became a Mom I would assume great wisdom, most likely during childbirth. It would be bestowed upon me. I would instantly have the knowledge necessary to raise my son and show him the ways of the world.
If it wasn’t bestowed, then there must be something that the doctors would put in the IV in the maternity ward along with the epidural that would make that happen.
Well, it didn’t happen! I was as clueless when I left the hospital as I was when I went in. The only difference was that my family expected me to know it all, and with the expectation of wisdom comes great responsibility.
Have you noticed that fathers aren’t expected to receive this great wisdom when they are hit with parenthood? That’s because they already know everything—until it comes time to set up the entertainment center.
My first clue that this was indeed a myth should have been all the baby books out there with step by step instructions for child rearing. They even included diagrams. Of course, they all said the opposite of what my mom, who does know everything, said.
So I wasn’t bestowed with wisdom in the maternity ward. Yet, because I am now Mom, everyone thinks that I know it all—except my son! He knows the truth because I have failed every test he has given me, which is embarrassing considering that he doesn’t know how to drive yet.
The tests started in the crib with crying until Mommy picked him up. My mother warned me, “Don’t pick him up. Ignore him. He’s testing you.” If I picked him up, then he won and that put him in control. If I didn’t pick him up and let him cry until he fell asleep at his naptime, then I would have won and became the one in control.
So I didn’t pick him up, and he continued to cry and cry and cry.
What was I supposed to do? Sit there and listen to him cry?
News flashes went off in my head of my son in the clock tower with a rifle saying that he was driven to this because his mommy didn’t care about him. Divorces with him telling the marriage counselor that he couldn’t be intimate with his wife because his mommy withheld her love from him at naptime. Going from job to job and career to career to town to town in search of love in all the wrong places because I refused to give it to him!
He was doomed to become a burden on society, and it would be my fault!
Isn’t Mom the first one they blame when someone fails?
So, I saved my son’s marriage and career and failed his test. I picked him up. His laughter when I took him into my arms had a note of wicked satisfaction. My secret had been revealed to him.
But I have everyone else fooled! In my family, no one knows how to cook and clean and grocery shop and coordinate play dates like Mom. When our party animal son has his friends over, Mommy is the only one clever enough to manage the under-aged mob. At least that is what Daddy claims when he locks himself in the train room not to emerge until the dust settles.
From computers to appliances to VCR’s to DVD players to television to wireless networks to e-mail to cyberspace, Mom is the Motherboard in our household when it comes to technology. In their mind, my knowledge in this area is somehow connected to my parental status. It is because I am Mom. Therefore, I know everything. Therefore, when it is broken, call her first!
When it is lost—Mom knows where to find it! My husband will be in his office, in town, at his desk, and he will call me at the house to ask where his checkbook is—and I will know where it is (usually in my purse).
But, there is that one soul who knows that I don’t know it all. The one whose test I had failed. I see it in the way the corner of his lips will curl when I fail yet another one of his tests. Sometimes I fail just because I am too tired to take them.
Last winter, after a snow storm he claimed a cold on the first day back to school. The roads were still icy and so, rather that send our car down the ski jump to get him to the bus stop, I had let him stay home. Daddy had proclaimed that it was a test and I failed! I heard about my failure on this exam for days.
Last week, my son announced in the morning that he had a stomach ache. The smile on his lips when he made his claim, following it up with, “Can I stay home from school?” with a note of joyful anticipation told me that this was yet another test. I was determined not going to fail this one. So I sent him off to school proud to have passed.
Until day four came. At which point he didn’t wake up with a stomach ache, but I did as the touch of his virus hit me with a double whammy that put me in bed for the full weekend.
“Is this your stomach ache?” I accused him when he brought me a cup of tea.
The grin on his lips was followed by a chuckle that told me that somehow this five foot tall kid who had yet to complete high school had once again outsmarted me. I don’t know how. I’m still trying to figure that out.
I have to take solace in not receiving all this wisdom that I had expected to come with motherhood with this thought:
Okay, maybe I don’t know everything. But I was smart enough to have him for my son and I am smart enough to fail his tests out of a love that only a mother can give.
So I can’t be too dumb.
Moms don’t know everything.
Where this myth developed, I have no idea. Look at the first mother, the mother of man-kind: Eve. She’s the one who got her and her husband evicted for stealing fruit from the landlord’s prized tree. Clearly, she didn’t know what “Don’t touch that!” meant.
Somewhere, between Eve and today, a myth evolved that made us think that women who have children know it all. We don’t seem to put this pressure on women who don’t have children. (Maybe they’re smarter than we give them credit for.)
Of course, my mother knows everything. Since giving birth, I wonder if that isn’t necessarily because she’s my mother, but that her smarts came naturally.
Believing that mothers know everything, I just assumed that when I became a Mom I would assume great wisdom, most likely during childbirth. It would be bestowed upon me. I would instantly have the knowledge necessary to raise my son and show him the ways of the world.
If it wasn’t bestowed, then there must be something that the doctors would put in the IV in the maternity ward along with the epidural that would make that happen.
Well, it didn’t happen! I was as clueless when I left the hospital as I was when I went in. The only difference was that my family expected me to know it all, and with the expectation of wisdom comes great responsibility.
Have you noticed that fathers aren’t expected to receive this great wisdom when they are hit with parenthood? That’s because they already know everything—until it comes time to set up the entertainment center.
My first clue that this was indeed a myth should have been all the baby books out there with step by step instructions for child rearing. They even included diagrams. Of course, they all said the opposite of what my mom, who does know everything, said.
So I wasn’t bestowed with wisdom in the maternity ward. Yet, because I am now Mom, everyone thinks that I know it all—except my son! He knows the truth because I have failed every test he has given me, which is embarrassing considering that he doesn’t know how to drive yet.
The tests started in the crib with crying until Mommy picked him up. My mother warned me, “Don’t pick him up. Ignore him. He’s testing you.” If I picked him up, then he won and that put him in control. If I didn’t pick him up and let him cry until he fell asleep at his naptime, then I would have won and became the one in control.
So I didn’t pick him up, and he continued to cry and cry and cry.
What was I supposed to do? Sit there and listen to him cry?
News flashes went off in my head of my son in the clock tower with a rifle saying that he was driven to this because his mommy didn’t care about him. Divorces with him telling the marriage counselor that he couldn’t be intimate with his wife because his mommy withheld her love from him at naptime. Going from job to job and career to career to town to town in search of love in all the wrong places because I refused to give it to him!
He was doomed to become a burden on society, and it would be my fault!
Isn’t Mom the first one they blame when someone fails?
So, I saved my son’s marriage and career and failed his test. I picked him up. His laughter when I took him into my arms had a note of wicked satisfaction. My secret had been revealed to him.
But I have everyone else fooled! In my family, no one knows how to cook and clean and grocery shop and coordinate play dates like Mom. When our party animal son has his friends over, Mommy is the only one clever enough to manage the under-aged mob. At least that is what Daddy claims when he locks himself in the train room not to emerge until the dust settles.
From computers to appliances to VCR’s to DVD players to television to wireless networks to e-mail to cyberspace, Mom is the Motherboard in our household when it comes to technology. In their mind, my knowledge in this area is somehow connected to my parental status. It is because I am Mom. Therefore, I know everything. Therefore, when it is broken, call her first!
When it is lost—Mom knows where to find it! My husband will be in his office, in town, at his desk, and he will call me at the house to ask where his checkbook is—and I will know where it is (usually in my purse).
But, there is that one soul who knows that I don’t know it all. The one whose test I had failed. I see it in the way the corner of his lips will curl when I fail yet another one of his tests. Sometimes I fail just because I am too tired to take them.
Last winter, after a snow storm he claimed a cold on the first day back to school. The roads were still icy and so, rather that send our car down the ski jump to get him to the bus stop, I had let him stay home. Daddy had proclaimed that it was a test and I failed! I heard about my failure on this exam for days.
Last week, my son announced in the morning that he had a stomach ache. The smile on his lips when he made his claim, following it up with, “Can I stay home from school?” with a note of joyful anticipation told me that this was yet another test. I was determined not going to fail this one. So I sent him off to school proud to have passed.
Until day four came. At which point he didn’t wake up with a stomach ache, but I did as the touch of his virus hit me with a double whammy that put me in bed for the full weekend.
“Is this your stomach ache?” I accused him when he brought me a cup of tea.
The grin on his lips was followed by a chuckle that told me that somehow this five foot tall kid who had yet to complete high school had once again outsmarted me. I don’t know how. I’m still trying to figure that out.
I have to take solace in not receiving all this wisdom that I had expected to come with motherhood with this thought:
Okay, maybe I don’t know everything. But I was smart enough to have him for my son and I am smart enough to fail his tests out of a love that only a mother can give.
So I can’t be too dumb.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Alice's Funeral
Life is what happens while we’re making other plans.
I wish I could say I made that up. A friend told me that several years ago and it stuck with me. If things went according to my plans I would be Earl Stanley Gardner (who happens to be dead), in which case, I wouldn’t be in this quirky family of mine of which I have grown quite fond; and if I wasn’t here, then they would all be dead of starvation because I’m the only one who knows how to cook.
While pursuing life according to my agenda, God knocked me off track to land me here, which, to make a long story short, I have come to conclude is a better place than where I was planning to go.
Life never happens according to our plans.
Nothing could have brought that home more than Alice’s funeral:
My friend Mindy’s late mother had lived a full and exciting life. Alice served in World War II in the Women’s Army Corps. She and her late husband had lived all over the world, including Iran, while raising four daughters. When she was in her eighties and her health went South, her daughters were forced to move Alice into a nursing home.
During the height of the leaf peeper season, her children treated Alice to a New England cruise in the Fall. The Sunday after she had returned from the trip, Mindy went to pick up her mother, a devout Catholic, for Mass only to find that she didn’t want to go. Alice told her she didn’t need to go that Sunday. “God doesn’t mind if I don’t go. I’m going to see Him later on this afternoon.”
Mindy was both amused and upset with this news.
Alice went on to explain that the cruise was the last thing on her list of things she wanted to get done. Now she had done it all and she was ready to go and today was the day.
What do you say when someone tells you that they’re going to die right after lunch?
The only thing Mindy could think of to say was, “Mom, you’re not going to die today. Now get ready, we’re going to Mass.”
Alice insisted that she didn’t have time to go to Mass because she was dying. “My funeral is going to be Tuesday at Rachel’s house.” (This was news to Mindy’s sister.)
Mindy argued that her mother wasn’t going to die that afternoon and that her funeral couldn’t be on Tuesday because she had to work that day. “Mom, we’ll tell you when you’re going to have your funeral,” she was surprised to say.
Well, Alice didn’t go to Mass, nor did she die after lunch. Now what was she going to do? She had done everything she had planned to do with her life. What else did she have to look forward to except her funeral?
At Alice's request, her daughters held her “funeral” the next Sunday, even though she had failed to earn it by dying beforehand.
Unsure of whether to laugh or cry, Alice’s family gathered together at Rachel’s home, where she met with each of her children and grandchildren alone to have their last words together before she passed on, which she insisted would be before the end of the party. Since she didn’t die the Sunday before according to her plan, then she was going to do so at her daughter’s home while surrounded by her family. This was exactly the way she wanted to go.
It was a poignant get together filled with both laughter and tears. Each daughter recalled the exciting life of her mother, who was enjoying her own funeral from a rocking chair in the corner of the family room.
After Alice met with everyone, they waited for the final moment that would mark her departure to heaven where she would meet her husband waiting on the other side…and they waited…and they waited.
Eventually, the punch melted, food was gone, and the guests started getting restless. Mindy and her sisters struggled to keep the funeral goers entertained with more stories from their mother’s life.
While Alice continued to rock in her chair in the corner, the guests stared at her in search of a sign, some sign, any sign that she was ready to go. After all, they had done all they could do. They were having her funeral. Everyone had dressed in black. They were serving her favorite food, including caviar. At this point, there was nothing more within the confines of the law that they could do to help her.
Some of the older grandchildren were uncertain. Should they take a vacation day from their jobs to continue waiting for Grandma to die, which she swore was going to be at any moment, or go on to work. How do you tell your boss that you can’t come in because you can’t leave the funeral of your grandmother, who happens to still be alive, but she says she will be dead any minute? How do you tell Grandma that you can’t wait for her to die any longer because you have to go to work?
Clearly, while dying at her daughter’s house during her funeral was Alice’s plan, it was not God’s.
The hour grew late and it was time to take her back to the nursing home. Mindy was elected to give Alice the bad news that she wasn't dead yet. “Mom, it’s time for us to take you back to the nursing home.”
“But I’m going to die and I want to do it here.”
“Mom,” Mindy gently explained, “it’s late and your funeral is over. We can’t wait for you to die any longer. Everyone needs to go home. They have to go to work tomorrow.”
“So I’m not going to die today?” Alice asked.
“I don’t think so.”
Alice snatched up her cane and rose from her rocking chair. “Rats! I can’t even die according to my own schedule.”
I wish I could say I made that up. A friend told me that several years ago and it stuck with me. If things went according to my plans I would be Earl Stanley Gardner (who happens to be dead), in which case, I wouldn’t be in this quirky family of mine of which I have grown quite fond; and if I wasn’t here, then they would all be dead of starvation because I’m the only one who knows how to cook.
While pursuing life according to my agenda, God knocked me off track to land me here, which, to make a long story short, I have come to conclude is a better place than where I was planning to go.
Life never happens according to our plans.
Nothing could have brought that home more than Alice’s funeral:
My friend Mindy’s late mother had lived a full and exciting life. Alice served in World War II in the Women’s Army Corps. She and her late husband had lived all over the world, including Iran, while raising four daughters. When she was in her eighties and her health went South, her daughters were forced to move Alice into a nursing home.
During the height of the leaf peeper season, her children treated Alice to a New England cruise in the Fall. The Sunday after she had returned from the trip, Mindy went to pick up her mother, a devout Catholic, for Mass only to find that she didn’t want to go. Alice told her she didn’t need to go that Sunday. “God doesn’t mind if I don’t go. I’m going to see Him later on this afternoon.”
Mindy was both amused and upset with this news.
Alice went on to explain that the cruise was the last thing on her list of things she wanted to get done. Now she had done it all and she was ready to go and today was the day.
What do you say when someone tells you that they’re going to die right after lunch?
The only thing Mindy could think of to say was, “Mom, you’re not going to die today. Now get ready, we’re going to Mass.”
Alice insisted that she didn’t have time to go to Mass because she was dying. “My funeral is going to be Tuesday at Rachel’s house.” (This was news to Mindy’s sister.)
Mindy argued that her mother wasn’t going to die that afternoon and that her funeral couldn’t be on Tuesday because she had to work that day. “Mom, we’ll tell you when you’re going to have your funeral,” she was surprised to say.
Well, Alice didn’t go to Mass, nor did she die after lunch. Now what was she going to do? She had done everything she had planned to do with her life. What else did she have to look forward to except her funeral?
At Alice's request, her daughters held her “funeral” the next Sunday, even though she had failed to earn it by dying beforehand.
Unsure of whether to laugh or cry, Alice’s family gathered together at Rachel’s home, where she met with each of her children and grandchildren alone to have their last words together before she passed on, which she insisted would be before the end of the party. Since she didn’t die the Sunday before according to her plan, then she was going to do so at her daughter’s home while surrounded by her family. This was exactly the way she wanted to go.
It was a poignant get together filled with both laughter and tears. Each daughter recalled the exciting life of her mother, who was enjoying her own funeral from a rocking chair in the corner of the family room.
After Alice met with everyone, they waited for the final moment that would mark her departure to heaven where she would meet her husband waiting on the other side…and they waited…and they waited.
Eventually, the punch melted, food was gone, and the guests started getting restless. Mindy and her sisters struggled to keep the funeral goers entertained with more stories from their mother’s life.
While Alice continued to rock in her chair in the corner, the guests stared at her in search of a sign, some sign, any sign that she was ready to go. After all, they had done all they could do. They were having her funeral. Everyone had dressed in black. They were serving her favorite food, including caviar. At this point, there was nothing more within the confines of the law that they could do to help her.
Some of the older grandchildren were uncertain. Should they take a vacation day from their jobs to continue waiting for Grandma to die, which she swore was going to be at any moment, or go on to work. How do you tell your boss that you can’t come in because you can’t leave the funeral of your grandmother, who happens to still be alive, but she says she will be dead any minute? How do you tell Grandma that you can’t wait for her to die any longer because you have to go to work?
Clearly, while dying at her daughter’s house during her funeral was Alice’s plan, it was not God’s.
The hour grew late and it was time to take her back to the nursing home. Mindy was elected to give Alice the bad news that she wasn't dead yet. “Mom, it’s time for us to take you back to the nursing home.”
“But I’m going to die and I want to do it here.”
“Mom,” Mindy gently explained, “it’s late and your funeral is over. We can’t wait for you to die any longer. Everyone needs to go home. They have to go to work tomorrow.”
“So I’m not going to die today?” Alice asked.
“I don’t think so.”
Alice snatched up her cane and rose from her rocking chair. “Rats! I can’t even die according to my own schedule.”
Monday, October 5, 2009
The Curse of Saying the Wrong Thing at the Wrong Time to the Wrong Person
Saturday night, my husband and I went out on a double date. We don’t do this very often. Read on to find out why.
When we got to the restaurant where we were meeting our friends, Jack turned to me and said, “Remember, this is Jill and Bill’s anniversary. So don’t ruin it for them. Whatever you do, don’t say anything.”
Now, you might be asking yourself, “What is it that he didn’t want me to say anything about?” The answer: ANYTHING.
Unfortunately, I have been cursed with the uncanny ability of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to precisely the wrong person.
As a child, I got the first clue that I had this curse. Before my family would go to any social gathering, my parents would warn us, “Now don’t say anything to anyone.” They had four children, but they would both be looking directly at me when they handed out this order.
Growing up didn’t seemed to relieve me of this curse.
For five years, I cared for my wheelchair-bound father-in-law. It was an exhausting period in my life, in which at one point I had to put my writing career aside.
A couple years ago, we were enjoying a cocktail before dinner and conversation turned to the topic of our pets. We have two dogs, one of which we had acquired during half-time at a football game. (No, Piranha Puss was not the door prize.) Later, at another football game, a woman was trying to give away a litter of kittens.
In telling Grandpa about how I had put my foot down to my son about getting a kitten and kept it there, I said, “I would love to have a cat. I used to have a Maine Coon named Duchess. She was beautiful and I would love to have another one. But as full as my life is right now, I just don’t have room on my plate for a litter box. Someone is going to have to die before I have room on my plate for a cat.”
Grandpa, whose hearing was quite good, sat up straight in his wheelchair and looked right at me. He said nothing.
I had just told my father-in-law that when he passed away, I was already planning to replace him with a cat!
Wishing that I could suck those words back in, I looked at him.
For a long time, neither of us said anything.
Finally, I broke the silence. “Want another brandy?”
It has been a year since Grandpa passed away and I have yet to replace him with a cat. I didn’t mean it the way the words came out. Luckily, he suffered from mini-strokes and I think he forgot about what I had said.
In my own defense, I don’t think these verbal blunders are completely my fault.
Last night, during our double date, the subject of a couple we both knew had come up.
The last time I had spoken to the wife, I had asked how her daughter, a recent high school graduate, was doing in college. With a wail, the woman covered her face with her hands and ran outside hysterically never to be seen again.
Since the girl was the same age as Jill’s daughter, I asked if she knew what was going on.
Jill’s face dropped and she looked across the table at Jack, who glared at me as if to say, “Didn’t I tell you not to say anything?”
This was when I learned that the daughter had dropped out of college to become a stripper. “Everyone knew. That’s why you should never mention her name to her mother.”
Sure! Everyone knew! Except me! Show me the memo saying not to mention this couple’s daughter to them.
I don’t like the word ignorance. It has derogatory meaning behind it. Personally, I don’t think those of us who suffer from this curse of saying precisely the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time are ignorant. I prefer to think we suffer from a lack of knowledge.
The fallout seems to happen when those on the receiving end of our verbal curse suffer from an over-abundance of sensitivity.
After college, I was dating an Army officer. When we met a group of friends at a happy hour, I made the blunder of telling a fat joke that someone else had told me that day. While our friends laughed, my boyfriend looked at me with a stone-like expression. As soon as we were in the car, he berated me. “How dare you tell that fat joke in front of Lisa?! She’s at least 40 pounds overweight!”
Once again, I failed to get the memo informing me that Lisa was 40 pounds overweight. Apparently, Lisa didn’t get the memo either. She had laughed at my joke and invited me to lunch two days later. We struck up a great friendship while the Army officer dumped me with the excuse that I could never make it in his high society circles.
Here is my suggestion for how to handle encounters with those suffering from the curse of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person at exactly the wrong time: Don’t think too much about the words that come out of our mouths. Give the cursed the benefit of the doubt. Assume they didn’t get the memo telling them that your daughter decided to become a stripper or that you were fat.
And then, like Grandpa, sit up straight in your chair, look them straight in the eye, and order another brandy.
When we got to the restaurant where we were meeting our friends, Jack turned to me and said, “Remember, this is Jill and Bill’s anniversary. So don’t ruin it for them. Whatever you do, don’t say anything.”
Now, you might be asking yourself, “What is it that he didn’t want me to say anything about?” The answer: ANYTHING.
Unfortunately, I have been cursed with the uncanny ability of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to precisely the wrong person.
As a child, I got the first clue that I had this curse. Before my family would go to any social gathering, my parents would warn us, “Now don’t say anything to anyone.” They had four children, but they would both be looking directly at me when they handed out this order.
Growing up didn’t seemed to relieve me of this curse.
For five years, I cared for my wheelchair-bound father-in-law. It was an exhausting period in my life, in which at one point I had to put my writing career aside.
A couple years ago, we were enjoying a cocktail before dinner and conversation turned to the topic of our pets. We have two dogs, one of which we had acquired during half-time at a football game. (No, Piranha Puss was not the door prize.) Later, at another football game, a woman was trying to give away a litter of kittens.
In telling Grandpa about how I had put my foot down to my son about getting a kitten and kept it there, I said, “I would love to have a cat. I used to have a Maine Coon named Duchess. She was beautiful and I would love to have another one. But as full as my life is right now, I just don’t have room on my plate for a litter box. Someone is going to have to die before I have room on my plate for a cat.”
Grandpa, whose hearing was quite good, sat up straight in his wheelchair and looked right at me. He said nothing.
I had just told my father-in-law that when he passed away, I was already planning to replace him with a cat!
Wishing that I could suck those words back in, I looked at him.
For a long time, neither of us said anything.
Finally, I broke the silence. “Want another brandy?”
It has been a year since Grandpa passed away and I have yet to replace him with a cat. I didn’t mean it the way the words came out. Luckily, he suffered from mini-strokes and I think he forgot about what I had said.
In my own defense, I don’t think these verbal blunders are completely my fault.
Last night, during our double date, the subject of a couple we both knew had come up.
The last time I had spoken to the wife, I had asked how her daughter, a recent high school graduate, was doing in college. With a wail, the woman covered her face with her hands and ran outside hysterically never to be seen again.
Since the girl was the same age as Jill’s daughter, I asked if she knew what was going on.
Jill’s face dropped and she looked across the table at Jack, who glared at me as if to say, “Didn’t I tell you not to say anything?”
This was when I learned that the daughter had dropped out of college to become a stripper. “Everyone knew. That’s why you should never mention her name to her mother.”
Sure! Everyone knew! Except me! Show me the memo saying not to mention this couple’s daughter to them.
I don’t like the word ignorance. It has derogatory meaning behind it. Personally, I don’t think those of us who suffer from this curse of saying precisely the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time are ignorant. I prefer to think we suffer from a lack of knowledge.
The fallout seems to happen when those on the receiving end of our verbal curse suffer from an over-abundance of sensitivity.
After college, I was dating an Army officer. When we met a group of friends at a happy hour, I made the blunder of telling a fat joke that someone else had told me that day. While our friends laughed, my boyfriend looked at me with a stone-like expression. As soon as we were in the car, he berated me. “How dare you tell that fat joke in front of Lisa?! She’s at least 40 pounds overweight!”
Once again, I failed to get the memo informing me that Lisa was 40 pounds overweight. Apparently, Lisa didn’t get the memo either. She had laughed at my joke and invited me to lunch two days later. We struck up a great friendship while the Army officer dumped me with the excuse that I could never make it in his high society circles.
Here is my suggestion for how to handle encounters with those suffering from the curse of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person at exactly the wrong time: Don’t think too much about the words that come out of our mouths. Give the cursed the benefit of the doubt. Assume they didn’t get the memo telling them that your daughter decided to become a stripper or that you were fat.
And then, like Grandpa, sit up straight in your chair, look them straight in the eye, and order another brandy.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
When I Un-Grow Up
This morning, as he will often do, my son tried to go to school dressed special. He had decided to wear his cross country running suit, which consists of the thinnest and skimpiest of material, no sleeves, and short shorts.
Now, I would normally not have a problem with that except that this is the first of October and the outside temperature is in the forties. So, being the big bad mom that I am, I ordered him to take off his running uniform and put it in his book bag to change into later.
“Why? Everyone else wears their uniform to school.”
Not only did I outrank him, but I also had forty pounds on the kid. I could have refused to back down, reminded him who was boss, exert my authority, and fought him to the bitter end to keep my crown as ruler of the roost; except the bus was coming in less than five minutes.
If the battle went on too long, I would have had to get out of my tattered bathrobe, Spongebob Squarepants slippers, and leave my steaming coffee mug behind to drive him across town to school.
I weighed my options and decided the fight wasn’t worth it. Being the kind matriarch that I am, I consented to let him put on his clothes over the uniform. Concluding that he had lost yet another battle for independence, my son stomped up to his room to do as I had ordered.
Then, we fought the battle to get him out of his dress shoes, which he wanted to wear with his running uniform, and into his athletic shoes. (You will never see Tristan on the cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly.) Before Tristan could reach the last “m” in “Mom” I yelled, “I’m your mother. Do it!”
The shoes were changed and he made the bus with one minute to spare.
Rank does have its privileges, but it also has its downfalls. For example, it's the captain, not the enlisted personnel, who always goes down with the ship.
I’m waiting for the day that I can rejoin the ranks of my family’s underlings. Let Tristan take on the responsibility of running the ship while I streak naked across the bow.
After wasting our youth yearning for the day that we could make our own decisions—and then taking on the responsibility of making decisions for our children—we do get a second shot at living life with a devil-may-care attitude. Granted, our bodies will be saggy and baggy; our hair (if we are lucky enough to have any) will be gray; and our rocking and rolling may be confined to the rolling of our wheelchairs.
When we reach the age of immaturity, we will be free to wear sleeveless shirts and short-shorts in the dead of winter. If we catch pneumonia, then we won’t be missing any school and since we’ll be retired we won’t have any boss on our backs about missing work.
Our children, who decades before we ordered to shut the front door because we aren’t heating up the whole neighborhood, will take care of us. They will make the doctors appointments, drive us there, and pick up our prescriptions for us. We won’t even have to remember when to take our medicine because they will do it for us.
When I re-enter my childhood, I will date all those undesirable characters that my mother warned me against. (I will get to date them because everyone knows that Jack is going to die first.) I figure that the no good that my mother predicted would come to these characters will have already come and gone by the time they past the age of sixty-five.
Last year, Grandma dated a man from her bowling team. I was concerned because at seventy-five he was older than her and he never had a good job. Like he was going to get one now? But she was flattered that he asked her out because he had the largest bowling average on the whole team. Luckily, he left her for a younger woman of sixty-five. She didn’t care. Now she’s dating someone who has season tickets for the Pittsburgh Steelers. She says that he’s a gigolo but doesn’t care. Back when she was expected to be responsible, and set a good example, she had to date men of depth. Now that she's no longer looking for marriage or children or a future beyond next week’s game, then she can live for the moment.
Meanwhile, those of us who are the filling in the middle of this generational sandwich find ourselves responsible for planning beyond that moment not only for our children who aren’t yet aware that there is life after high school, but also for our parents who have retired from decision-making.
Who can blame them?
My mother is taking full advantage of her second childhood. After being the good girl in the fifties during the Happy Days era, she has now joined a gang. Their uniforms consist of purple clothes and red hats. Once a week they invade a local establishment to raise Cain while the management prays that members from a rival gang won’t show up.
A couple of weeks ago, Grandma and I went to an athletic club where they had a hot tub. After several minutes of soaking in the bubbling hot water, a couple of teenaged boys got in with us. As my seventy-year-old mother got up to get out of the tub, her top dropped down to give both of them full view of her naked breasts.
Instantly, I jumped up to block their view and hissed in her ear to cover herself up. She quickly covered one breast, but still left the other one exposed. Once again, I had to get up and tell her to cover herself up. “You have two, you know.”
With a naughty grin, she covered up the second one. She wasn’t the least bit concerned. Meanwhile, I was embarrassed that these two teenaged strangers had seen my mother’s naked breasts.
Later, I recalled a time in my youth when would I lay out in the front yard in my blue and white string bikini. One afternoon, a state trooper pulled up in front of the house to inform me, and my mother, that I was obstructing his speed trap down the road because all the speeding drivers were slowing down to look at me.
I was quite proud of myself.
Meanwhile, my mother ordered me to move around to the back yard. She didn’t like all these people looking at her daughter’s scantily clad body any more than I liked these teenaged boys looking at her naked breasts.
Now, thirty years later, she has taken on the same attitude I had then. As far as she's concerned, she’s free to go streaking through the club in all her glory. If anyone notices her over the shapely twenty-year-olds then it’s a good day.
Someday, I’m going to grow up to be just as immature as she is.
“Why? Everyone else wears their uniform to school.”
Not only did I outrank him, but I also had forty pounds on the kid. I could have refused to back down, reminded him who was boss, exert my authority, and fought him to the bitter end to keep my crown as ruler of the roost; except the bus was coming in less than five minutes.
If the battle went on too long, I would have had to get out of my tattered bathrobe, Spongebob Squarepants slippers, and leave my steaming coffee mug behind to drive him across town to school.
I weighed my options and decided the fight wasn’t worth it. Being the kind matriarch that I am, I consented to let him put on his clothes over the uniform. Concluding that he had lost yet another battle for independence, my son stomped up to his room to do as I had ordered.
Then, we fought the battle to get him out of his dress shoes, which he wanted to wear with his running uniform, and into his athletic shoes. (You will never see Tristan on the cover of Gentlemen’s Quarterly.) Before Tristan could reach the last “m” in “Mom” I yelled, “I’m your mother. Do it!”
The shoes were changed and he made the bus with one minute to spare.
Rank does have its privileges, but it also has its downfalls. For example, it's the captain, not the enlisted personnel, who always goes down with the ship.
I’m waiting for the day that I can rejoin the ranks of my family’s underlings. Let Tristan take on the responsibility of running the ship while I streak naked across the bow.
After wasting our youth yearning for the day that we could make our own decisions—and then taking on the responsibility of making decisions for our children—we do get a second shot at living life with a devil-may-care attitude. Granted, our bodies will be saggy and baggy; our hair (if we are lucky enough to have any) will be gray; and our rocking and rolling may be confined to the rolling of our wheelchairs.
When we reach the age of immaturity, we will be free to wear sleeveless shirts and short-shorts in the dead of winter. If we catch pneumonia, then we won’t be missing any school and since we’ll be retired we won’t have any boss on our backs about missing work.
Our children, who decades before we ordered to shut the front door because we aren’t heating up the whole neighborhood, will take care of us. They will make the doctors appointments, drive us there, and pick up our prescriptions for us. We won’t even have to remember when to take our medicine because they will do it for us.
When I re-enter my childhood, I will date all those undesirable characters that my mother warned me against. (I will get to date them because everyone knows that Jack is going to die first.) I figure that the no good that my mother predicted would come to these characters will have already come and gone by the time they past the age of sixty-five.
Last year, Grandma dated a man from her bowling team. I was concerned because at seventy-five he was older than her and he never had a good job. Like he was going to get one now? But she was flattered that he asked her out because he had the largest bowling average on the whole team. Luckily, he left her for a younger woman of sixty-five. She didn’t care. Now she’s dating someone who has season tickets for the Pittsburgh Steelers. She says that he’s a gigolo but doesn’t care. Back when she was expected to be responsible, and set a good example, she had to date men of depth. Now that she's no longer looking for marriage or children or a future beyond next week’s game, then she can live for the moment.
Meanwhile, those of us who are the filling in the middle of this generational sandwich find ourselves responsible for planning beyond that moment not only for our children who aren’t yet aware that there is life after high school, but also for our parents who have retired from decision-making.
Who can blame them?
My mother is taking full advantage of her second childhood. After being the good girl in the fifties during the Happy Days era, she has now joined a gang. Their uniforms consist of purple clothes and red hats. Once a week they invade a local establishment to raise Cain while the management prays that members from a rival gang won’t show up.
A couple of weeks ago, Grandma and I went to an athletic club where they had a hot tub. After several minutes of soaking in the bubbling hot water, a couple of teenaged boys got in with us. As my seventy-year-old mother got up to get out of the tub, her top dropped down to give both of them full view of her naked breasts.
Instantly, I jumped up to block their view and hissed in her ear to cover herself up. She quickly covered one breast, but still left the other one exposed. Once again, I had to get up and tell her to cover herself up. “You have two, you know.”
With a naughty grin, she covered up the second one. She wasn’t the least bit concerned. Meanwhile, I was embarrassed that these two teenaged strangers had seen my mother’s naked breasts.
Later, I recalled a time in my youth when would I lay out in the front yard in my blue and white string bikini. One afternoon, a state trooper pulled up in front of the house to inform me, and my mother, that I was obstructing his speed trap down the road because all the speeding drivers were slowing down to look at me.
I was quite proud of myself.
Meanwhile, my mother ordered me to move around to the back yard. She didn’t like all these people looking at her daughter’s scantily clad body any more than I liked these teenaged boys looking at her naked breasts.
Now, thirty years later, she has taken on the same attitude I had then. As far as she's concerned, she’s free to go streaking through the club in all her glory. If anyone notices her over the shapely twenty-year-olds then it’s a good day.
Someday, I’m going to grow up to be just as immature as she is.
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