Monday, October 02, 2006
On My Birthday
The sun hits the lake and the reflected light is difficult to bear. I have to close one eye to watch you playing at the water’s edge but I see you completely. I see the joy in your open-mouthed smile. I see your strength and purpose in the way your legs pound the sand as you walk. I see your independence and honor it for the gift it is rather than the curse I imagine. I want to keep this moment. I want to tuck it in my wallet like a faded picture. I admire you, all of you, and fall in love with you all over again.
Friday, September 29, 2006
'Tis the Season to be Frightened
MEMO
To: Major Retailers
Everywhere, USA
From: Vikki Reich
Minneapolis, MN
To whom it may concern,
When I go to your store to shop for Halloween costumes, miniature candy bars and scary cauldrons, I do not want to see Santa's ass sticking out of a chimney. No one should ever be able to buy a Halloween costume and Christmas tree at the same time. It's wrong, WRONG, I say. It seems that you have forgotten that Halloween is in October and Christmas is in December. I know that math can be difficult, so, I wanted to let you know that Christmas is actually three months away. Three months. So, please free Santa from that chimney and send him back to the North Pole. Mrs. Claus needs help with the Trick or Treaters.
Sincerely,
Vikki Reich, Marketing Critic Extraordinaire
Monday, September 25, 2006
Blondes Do Have More Fun
I am walking in the cold rain. My hands are in my pockets and I am looking at the ground. Suddenly, I feel that someone is watching me. I turn and look up to see four Barbies sitting on a roof top. Their vibrant halter tops and short shorts stand out against the pale gray shingles. They are all smiling and each one has a hand raised above her head, waving to me. They are having a grand old time and the rain doesn't bother them a bit.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Frosted Mini Whites
There is a mountain of shoes in our foyer. There is a jacket on a bench, a jacket on the back of a chair, a jacket on the desk and a jacket on the floor (note to self: get rid of some of the damn jackets). The glasses of water the children had to have because they would otherwise die of thirst sit on tables virtually untouched. “But Not the Hippopotamus” peeks out from under the radiator. The dining room table is covered in newspaper that needs to be recycled. There are socks on the bedroom door knob and there is a Transformer in one of the socks. There is a tube of lanolin and a beach towel on the banister. Welcome to my house, throw your shit everywhere and make yourself right at home. Before having kids, this kind of clutter would have never been acceptable to me but, now, I can step over the scooter to let the cat out without giving it another thought.
My mother was a single mom for most of her life. There was barely enough money despite full-time work and overtime. She would come home after work, make dinner and then do the dishes. The house was always immaculate – no dust, no crunchy kitchen floor, no mysterious sticky substance on the table. There were always crisp sheets and gleaming white toilets. The yard was a showcase with a beautiful lawn and amazing gardens. I imagined the marigolds were my mother’s little soldiers, always standing at attention and keeping the weeds at bay. There was order to everything and, yet, I never saw my mother clean or garden. It was a miracle.
This week, I was talking to my sister about all of this. I was telling her how tired I am in the evenings and how I just don’t feel like doing anything but I have to make myself do things or succumb to utter chaos.
Vikki: How did mom do it all?
Sis: Mini whites.
Vikki: What? Is that a cleaning service?
Sis: Mini whites. You know? White crosses.
Sis underestimates my naïveté. She can hear my blank stare through the phone.
Sis: Speed, Vikki. Speed.
How about that? Better home management through chemicals!* It's no wonder that I can't compete. I may have a moldy bag of lemons in my pantry but, by god, I am drug-free.
*My mother’s doctor gave it to her and described it as a "little burst of energy in a pill". Apparently, many helpful doctors prescribed speed for women so that they could manage everything. The practice fell out of favor in the early 80’s when the drugs became harder to get and, well, the facts about the resulting heart damage came to light.
My mother was a single mom for most of her life. There was barely enough money despite full-time work and overtime. She would come home after work, make dinner and then do the dishes. The house was always immaculate – no dust, no crunchy kitchen floor, no mysterious sticky substance on the table. There were always crisp sheets and gleaming white toilets. The yard was a showcase with a beautiful lawn and amazing gardens. I imagined the marigolds were my mother’s little soldiers, always standing at attention and keeping the weeds at bay. There was order to everything and, yet, I never saw my mother clean or garden. It was a miracle.
This week, I was talking to my sister about all of this. I was telling her how tired I am in the evenings and how I just don’t feel like doing anything but I have to make myself do things or succumb to utter chaos.
Vikki: How did mom do it all?
Sis: Mini whites.
Vikki: What? Is that a cleaning service?
Sis: Mini whites. You know? White crosses.
Sis underestimates my naïveté. She can hear my blank stare through the phone.
Sis: Speed, Vikki. Speed.
How about that? Better home management through chemicals!* It's no wonder that I can't compete. I may have a moldy bag of lemons in my pantry but, by god, I am drug-free.
*My mother’s doctor gave it to her and described it as a "little burst of energy in a pill". Apparently, many helpful doctors prescribed speed for women so that they could manage everything. The practice fell out of favor in the early 80’s when the drugs became harder to get and, well, the facts about the resulting heart damage came to light.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Presidential Hopeful
This morning, sitting at the dining room table:
Miguel: How many more years is George Bush going to be president?
Luisa and Vikki (in unison): Two.
Miguel: And John Kerry is not going to run again?
Vikki: No, I don't think so.
Luisa: Yes, I think he will but he won't get the nomination.
Miguel: Mama, I think you should be president.
Vikki: Really? Why?
Miguel: You wouldn't send people to war.
Vikki: Probably not. I'm not going to run for president, though, because it takes too much money.
Miguel: It costs more than building onto our house?
Vikki: It takes millions of dollars.
Miguel: And you want to spend your millions of dollars on something else?
Yeah, that's it...
Miguel: How many more years is George Bush going to be president?
Luisa and Vikki (in unison): Two.
Miguel: And John Kerry is not going to run again?
Vikki: No, I don't think so.
Luisa: Yes, I think he will but he won't get the nomination.
Miguel: Mama, I think you should be president.
Vikki: Really? Why?
Miguel: You wouldn't send people to war.
Vikki: Probably not. I'm not going to run for president, though, because it takes too much money.
Miguel: It costs more than building onto our house?
Vikki: It takes millions of dollars.
Miguel: And you want to spend your millions of dollars on something else?
Yeah, that's it...
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
The Return
We land in Philadelphia and everyone applauds. The children look at me like, "What the hell? What's with the applause?" I look at Luisa with the same expression. Luisa shrugs. We wait until everyone else has left the plane because it makes it easier for us to lumber down the aisles dragging children and bags behind us. We are exhausted but very happy to have the longest flight out of the way. Innocently, we believe that the worst of the trip is over. The smiling, receiving line of flight attendants compliments our children and wishes us well as they are paid to do. Sadly, that is the last pleasant interaction we have with airline/airport personnel for the next three hours.
We step off the plane and wait to pick up our stroller. An airline lackey tells us that only one family member can wait for the stroller. I've never heard of that rule before and we ignore her. She gets serious and insists that I proceed with the children while Luisa waits for the stroller. Miguel bolts ahead and I swing Zeca onto my hip and head out of the jetway. We get to a small hallway with windows on both sides. I must corral both children (not an easy task after they have been sitting on a plane for 8 hours) in this area. There is another family with us and we are all monitored by another staff person. The children begin to talk to each other and laugh and sit together on the window sills. When Zeca finally nestles herself between the 3 other girls there and they sit smiling with their arms around each other, I think the staff person will be powerless against the cuteness and will smile. Instead, she admonishes the father for taking a picture. Our stroller arrives and we make our way into the airport.
It is time to claim our bags and we are anxious to get through customs and recheck them so that we can get some food for the kids. They are getting tired because it is 6:30 p.m. to their little bodies, though it is only midday in Philadelphia. For the next two hours, we sit in the baggage claim area waiting. Our only entertainment other than chasing our manic children is to listen to the calm, female voice that occasionally comes through the loud speaker telling us that the bags from the Lisbon flight will be arriving "momentarily". I believe her for the first half hour but then I grow jaded. The voice had made so many unfufilled that we don't believe her when she tells us the bags have arrived. Only the stampede of our fellow passengers makes us believe. We finally load our bags onto a cart only to head into the first of many lines. We wait in line to have our passports checked. We wait in line to go through customs. We wait in line to get bording passes. We wait in a different line to check our luggage because they can't possibly do that when you get your bording passes...even though they check luggage for flights that are not connecting. The luggage is gone and I suggest to the children that our family deserves a treat for how well we all did. We set off to get that treat only to find another line. We wait in line to have our passports and bording passes checked again. We get through that and I tell the children that we will now get our well-deserved treat and we round the corner and are stopped in our tracks by the mother of all lines - the security checkpoint. Crowds of people standing without moving. When we are 6 feet from the security checkpoint and conveyor belt, we are instructed by a highly irritated pregnant security agent who screams to the masses an incessant litany of instructions. We suck down all the water in the sippy cups and water bottles we have because there are no trash receptacles and we are not going to leave the line to empty them. We remove all of our shoes and place each pair in their own bin, even Zeca's tiny little tennis shoes. We put every bag in a separate bin and load them on the belt which gives the illusion that you may actually be finished with the process in moments. No. They are searching many bags. The pregnant woman shouts, the children squirm, the conveyor belt lurches, the security agents pull people aside for searches. The security agent at the metal detector insists that the children go through the metal detector alone. I can't go through first and have Luisa send the children because there is a terrible back up on the conveyor belt and she is negotiating the stuff. I send Miguel ahead and hope that he stops and waits. Zeca clings to me and will not let me put her down. Finally, I get her to toddle through the gate. I go through last and hope I don't get stopped because I need to keep the kids from wandering off. I make it through, followed quickly by Luisa. A security agent approaches Luisa and tells her there is something concerning in our backpack. Our minds race: Is it the small, metal can with the wooden bead for Zeca to play with? Is it the empty sippy cups? Do we have any metal objects? No, the agents says with a furrowed brow, something else. They are going to search our bag. They take Luisa into a glass room and remove all of the contents of our backpack. They find the dangerous object - a tube of Desitin. They confiscate it and let us go. From exiting the airplane to this moment, it takes over three hours. We are lucky - we have a seven hour layover. Most people miss their connecting flights.
The airport is dirty and rundown. There is a live band and I have to fight the urge to openly mock them. We eat airport Chinese food and the kids fall asleep. We board our flight to Minneapolis and then spend the next 1 hour and 10 minutes taxiing and waiting for permission to take off. It is a very special kind of cruelty. I vow that I will never fly through Philadelphia again.
We are home now and returning to our normal routine. Luisa and I are reluctantly back at work. Zeca returned to daycare and Miguel returns to school on Friday. We had a fabulous vacation...we just have to forget about Philadelphia.
We step off the plane and wait to pick up our stroller. An airline lackey tells us that only one family member can wait for the stroller. I've never heard of that rule before and we ignore her. She gets serious and insists that I proceed with the children while Luisa waits for the stroller. Miguel bolts ahead and I swing Zeca onto my hip and head out of the jetway. We get to a small hallway with windows on both sides. I must corral both children (not an easy task after they have been sitting on a plane for 8 hours) in this area. There is another family with us and we are all monitored by another staff person. The children begin to talk to each other and laugh and sit together on the window sills. When Zeca finally nestles herself between the 3 other girls there and they sit smiling with their arms around each other, I think the staff person will be powerless against the cuteness and will smile. Instead, she admonishes the father for taking a picture. Our stroller arrives and we make our way into the airport.
It is time to claim our bags and we are anxious to get through customs and recheck them so that we can get some food for the kids. They are getting tired because it is 6:30 p.m. to their little bodies, though it is only midday in Philadelphia. For the next two hours, we sit in the baggage claim area waiting. Our only entertainment other than chasing our manic children is to listen to the calm, female voice that occasionally comes through the loud speaker telling us that the bags from the Lisbon flight will be arriving "momentarily". I believe her for the first half hour but then I grow jaded. The voice had made so many unfufilled that we don't believe her when she tells us the bags have arrived. Only the stampede of our fellow passengers makes us believe. We finally load our bags onto a cart only to head into the first of many lines. We wait in line to have our passports checked. We wait in line to go through customs. We wait in line to get bording passes. We wait in a different line to check our luggage because they can't possibly do that when you get your bording passes...even though they check luggage for flights that are not connecting. The luggage is gone and I suggest to the children that our family deserves a treat for how well we all did. We set off to get that treat only to find another line. We wait in line to have our passports and bording passes checked again. We get through that and I tell the children that we will now get our well-deserved treat and we round the corner and are stopped in our tracks by the mother of all lines - the security checkpoint. Crowds of people standing without moving. When we are 6 feet from the security checkpoint and conveyor belt, we are instructed by a highly irritated pregnant security agent who screams to the masses an incessant litany of instructions. We suck down all the water in the sippy cups and water bottles we have because there are no trash receptacles and we are not going to leave the line to empty them. We remove all of our shoes and place each pair in their own bin, even Zeca's tiny little tennis shoes. We put every bag in a separate bin and load them on the belt which gives the illusion that you may actually be finished with the process in moments. No. They are searching many bags. The pregnant woman shouts, the children squirm, the conveyor belt lurches, the security agents pull people aside for searches. The security agent at the metal detector insists that the children go through the metal detector alone. I can't go through first and have Luisa send the children because there is a terrible back up on the conveyor belt and she is negotiating the stuff. I send Miguel ahead and hope that he stops and waits. Zeca clings to me and will not let me put her down. Finally, I get her to toddle through the gate. I go through last and hope I don't get stopped because I need to keep the kids from wandering off. I make it through, followed quickly by Luisa. A security agent approaches Luisa and tells her there is something concerning in our backpack. Our minds race: Is it the small, metal can with the wooden bead for Zeca to play with? Is it the empty sippy cups? Do we have any metal objects? No, the agents says with a furrowed brow, something else. They are going to search our bag. They take Luisa into a glass room and remove all of the contents of our backpack. They find the dangerous object - a tube of Desitin. They confiscate it and let us go. From exiting the airplane to this moment, it takes over three hours. We are lucky - we have a seven hour layover. Most people miss their connecting flights.
The airport is dirty and rundown. There is a live band and I have to fight the urge to openly mock them. We eat airport Chinese food and the kids fall asleep. We board our flight to Minneapolis and then spend the next 1 hour and 10 minutes taxiing and waiting for permission to take off. It is a very special kind of cruelty. I vow that I will never fly through Philadelphia again.
We are home now and returning to our normal routine. Luisa and I are reluctantly back at work. Zeca returned to daycare and Miguel returns to school on Friday. We had a fabulous vacation...we just have to forget about Philadelphia.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
And Away We Go
We are leaving Pocariça tomorrow morning and heading back to Lisbon where we will spend the last three days of our vacation. So, tonight we are packing up our 15 bottles of vinho tinto, 2 bottles of Port and our bottle of cachaça along with all of the souvenirs we bought for people. There will hardly be room for the clothes that we came with and we will have to get an extra suitcase once we get back to Lisbon. When we leave Portugal, we always play a little game called, "How much wine can we get safely back to the U.S."? We have had amazing successes (18 is our record) and terrible tragedies (watching the wine soaked boxes shooting out of the baggage carousel in Chicago, for one). Luisa´s father carefully chooses these wines from his private stock and gives them to us. They represent a connection to him and, obviously, to this place. This makes it all sound so simple but it is of course much more complex than I can explain.
Tomorrow, we begin the Farewell Tour. We will have to try to strike a balance between the familial obligations and entertaining the children if we are to maintain the hard won sanity of the past two weeks. There are aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings and grandparents to visit. We are going to go to the Zoo and want try to go to the beach one last time. I feel unprepared for the rush of the next few days. At this point in our past trips, I have been ready to leave and looked forward to the goodbyes, knowing that each one brought me closer to home. This is the first time in 10 years that I feel that I could stay awhile longer.
This is my last post from here. We won´t have access to the internet once we return to Lisbon. When I get back to Minneapolis, I´m sure I will have lots of stories to share. There is an 8 hour flight ahead of us and the joy of a 7 hour layover in Philadelphia with jet lagged children. Admit it...you´re jealous!
Tomorrow, we begin the Farewell Tour. We will have to try to strike a balance between the familial obligations and entertaining the children if we are to maintain the hard won sanity of the past two weeks. There are aunts, uncles, cousins, siblings and grandparents to visit. We are going to go to the Zoo and want try to go to the beach one last time. I feel unprepared for the rush of the next few days. At this point in our past trips, I have been ready to leave and looked forward to the goodbyes, knowing that each one brought me closer to home. This is the first time in 10 years that I feel that I could stay awhile longer.
This is my last post from here. We won´t have access to the internet once we return to Lisbon. When I get back to Minneapolis, I´m sure I will have lots of stories to share. There is an 8 hour flight ahead of us and the joy of a 7 hour layover in Philadelphia with jet lagged children. Admit it...you´re jealous!
Friday, August 25, 2006
Uno
We have played a lot of Uno with Miguel since we have been in Portugal. It has become part of his bed time ritual. He has picked it up quickly and is pretty darn good at it for 5 years old. He is starting to get some of the strategy of the game and plays his cards well. I know he plays well because he can´t yet hold his cards up without me seeing them.
Tonight, we had time for 6 games. He won the first 3 easily. Then, I took the fourth. He took the fifth. In our final game, I was down to three cards when he called Uno. I looked over into his hand and saw that his last card was a Wild card. It didn´t matter what I played, so, I just threw down a card. He looked at me, shook his head dejectedly and said, "I guess I´ll have to draw. I can´t play". I said, "Miguel! Your last card is a Wild card. You know that you can play!" He said, "Mama, I have had a lot of winning and I want you to be able to win some too."
Tonight, we had time for 6 games. He won the first 3 easily. Then, I took the fourth. He took the fifth. In our final game, I was down to three cards when he called Uno. I looked over into his hand and saw that his last card was a Wild card. It didn´t matter what I played, so, I just threw down a card. He looked at me, shook his head dejectedly and said, "I guess I´ll have to draw. I can´t play". I said, "Miguel! Your last card is a Wild card. You know that you can play!" He said, "Mama, I have had a lot of winning and I want you to be able to win some too."
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Caldeirada de Enguias
This is a delicacy in Portugal and one that we have every time we visit. It is a a juicy stew filled with potatoes, tomatoes, a lot of garlic and onions and eels. Yes, eels. The first time we had the eel stew, Luisa´s father and stepmother took us to a nice restaurant on the coast, a place known for its Caldeirada de Enguias. While they spoke with the waiter and excitedly placed our order, I went to my happy place, a place that did not have eels on the menu. I grew up in Kansas. Land locked. The only kind of fish I had was Mrs. Paul´s and the primary ingredient in fish sticks in actually textured vegetable protein. My family was all about the meat and potatoes and the cow reigned supreme in my childhood home. This is the context in which my palate developed. Fish and seafood are a gastronomical stretch for me. You try to feed me an eel and I get downright edgy. When the stew arrived at the table, the smell was phenomenal. The onions and garlic drew me in and I was ready to devour the whole pot until I looked into my bowl and something looked back at me. Heads or tails? Hey, with this stew, you get both! As I chanted silently to myself "you can do this, you can do this", I began removing the spines from my eels. I couldn´t poke around forever, I had to eventually take a bite. When I did, I was shocked to find that it tasted absolutely fabulous. I loved it. I ate several bowls of eel stew that day and brought smiles to the faces of my in-laws.
Every time we have visited since then, Luisa´s father and stepmother plan a day for us to have eel stew and I dread it every single time. Intellectually, I know that I will like it but there is just something about the thought of it that has me dragging my heels to the table. We had our Caldeirada de Enguias today and, once again, I enjoyed it. Zeca loved it. All of the vegetables that she normally eats in mass quantities sat untouched as she begged for more and more eels. Miguel ate his eels just fine, though he was more interested in examining the spines up close. I ate two heaping helpings. It did seem that there were a few more little eel faces looking at me than I remembered from previous times but I did my best to ignore them. We ate our stew and toasted with champagne and I´m set for a couple more years.
Every time we have visited since then, Luisa´s father and stepmother plan a day for us to have eel stew and I dread it every single time. Intellectually, I know that I will like it but there is just something about the thought of it that has me dragging my heels to the table. We had our Caldeirada de Enguias today and, once again, I enjoyed it. Zeca loved it. All of the vegetables that she normally eats in mass quantities sat untouched as she begged for more and more eels. Miguel ate his eels just fine, though he was more interested in examining the spines up close. I ate two heaping helpings. It did seem that there were a few more little eel faces looking at me than I remembered from previous times but I did my best to ignore them. We ate our stew and toasted with champagne and I´m set for a couple more years.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Slip Me Some Skin
A few days after arriving in Portugal, I noticed that I had developed a rash on the underside of my right forearm. There were numerous tiny, bright red bumps that didn´t itch. I shrugged and didn´t really give it much thought. Then, a few days later as I was washing my face, I noticed that it felt rough. I rubbed a bit more and the full horror hit me - my face was covered in a very fine rash. Now, I can live with a rash on the underside of one arm but when something hits my face, I freak. I could think of nothing other than possible causes for the rash and possible cures for the rash. The children popped into the bathroom asking for breakfast and I thought, "Breakfast? Breakfast!? Mama needs a dermatologist stat!" Having sensitive skin and having passed the gene for this onto our children, I always travel with my assortment of topicals - lotions, anti-fungal cream, hydrocortisone cream, antibiotic ointment, zit cream. I bring them all. I just couldn´t figure out which of these would be most appropriate for my entire face, neck and ears. Yeah, you read that right. Ears. I opted for nothing at first, thinking that I must first determine the cause of the rash before treating it. Then, when it worsened, I decided that it was simply extreme dryness and tried Eucerin. It did not improve. Then, I decided it was dryness brought on by the sun and the salt. My mother-in-law gave me some type of special sensitive skin lotion that smells like lemons and she is now my new best friend. As horrifying as my face rash has been to me, I am perfectly willing to admit that it is not noticeable to anyone else. Still, I know it is there and it is a rash.
I think one face rash is sufficient for a family of four while on vacation. The Gods of Skin must think otherwise because both children have now developed bumps on their faces. What could be better than 3 out of 4 family members having rashes on the most prominent parts of their bodies, you might ask? Well, let me tell you - each person having unique bumps. None of us are similarly rashy. Miguel has a couple of big pink bumps on his face. Zeca has several small red bumps on hers. We have already covered mine in depth. Luisa insists that Miguel has mosquito bites and Zeca has melga bites. Yeah right. Like I am going to believe there are two different biting bugs and each type has selected only one of our children as prey. And melgas? Never heard of them. I think she knows something. I think she knows the real cause of all of this and is keeping me in the dark because she doesn´t think that I can handle the truth. It´s leprosy, isn´t it?
I think one face rash is sufficient for a family of four while on vacation. The Gods of Skin must think otherwise because both children have now developed bumps on their faces. What could be better than 3 out of 4 family members having rashes on the most prominent parts of their bodies, you might ask? Well, let me tell you - each person having unique bumps. None of us are similarly rashy. Miguel has a couple of big pink bumps on his face. Zeca has several small red bumps on hers. We have already covered mine in depth. Luisa insists that Miguel has mosquito bites and Zeca has melga bites. Yeah right. Like I am going to believe there are two different biting bugs and each type has selected only one of our children as prey. And melgas? Never heard of them. I think she knows something. I think she knows the real cause of all of this and is keeping me in the dark because she doesn´t think that I can handle the truth. It´s leprosy, isn´t it?
Monday, August 21, 2006
To Market To Market
We left out children with their grandparents this morning, assuming that they could figure out ways to communicate with each other long enough for us to have a little time alone. There is a fair in Cantanhede, the city just up the road, and it was in full swing by the time we got there. There were people everywhere and most of them had cars. Thankfully, they were tiny European cars so we were able to find a place to park because you can fit about 2,000 of them in a postage stamp of a parking lot. Hey, and when the parking lot is full, they all just park on the sidewalk anyway. Parking? HA - we laugh at parking!
We crossed the street to enter the fairgrounds and by fairgrounds I mean big, dusty, gravelly parking lot. Let the deluge of the sense begin! We were moving slowly with the crowds. The sun was hot and there was no shade. I think I may have mentioned that there is the tiniest bit of reluctance by men here to wear deoderant. Yeah, did I mention the sun? I thought so. There were people shouting prices, clapping for attention from customers, on tables yelling to everyone. One man jumped on the back of a truck and started screaming through a megaphone. I have no idea what any of them were saying but I knew they must be telling me about their low, low prices. There was clothing, table linens, housewares, produce, farm equipment, pottery, furniture and live animals. They have everything that you could possibly want. How many times have I been out shopping for bras and thought to myself, "Now, if I could only buy a live chicken, I would be set"? Yeah, well, it wouldn´t be a problem for me here. We bought a soccer jersey for a friend but nothing else, though I did have my eye on a gigantic, hand carved wooden spoon. Gigantic - like three feet long. I could have stirred a whole lot of something with a spoon that big.
We took our leave of the fair and had to go to another little market to get tomatoes for Luisa´s stepmother. I´m not sure why she needed the tomatoes because there was a whole pile on the counter but Luisa was going to do as she was told. Fernanda instructed Luisa to go to the market, look for a stall in which they were selling vegetables, find the third woman from the right and get the tomatoes from her...to tell her that Fernanda had sent her. This was one of the rare moments in which I was happy that I don´t speak much Portuguese because there is no way in hell I wanted to have any responsibility in solving this mystery. After knocking three times on a small door, uttering the words as instructed and doing the secret handshake while blindfolded, Luisa got the tomatoes. She then had to get bread but, apparently, there is no secret society for bread procurement so we just walked up to the bread stall and bought it. Luisa also bought me a chocolate eclair. We then left the little market and waded through the crowds. I am embarrassed to say that I didn´t wait until we got in the car to eat the eclair. I am even more embarrassed to say that I ate it in the most graceless fashion. I split the top from the bottom and licked out the goo and the chocolate was melting all over my hands and pieces were falling on my shirt and I was licking my lips and despite all the bras and the live chickens, I think I might have been more of a spectacle. I am sure that every single person I passed thought, "I bet she is American".
We crossed the street to enter the fairgrounds and by fairgrounds I mean big, dusty, gravelly parking lot. Let the deluge of the sense begin! We were moving slowly with the crowds. The sun was hot and there was no shade. I think I may have mentioned that there is the tiniest bit of reluctance by men here to wear deoderant. Yeah, did I mention the sun? I thought so. There were people shouting prices, clapping for attention from customers, on tables yelling to everyone. One man jumped on the back of a truck and started screaming through a megaphone. I have no idea what any of them were saying but I knew they must be telling me about their low, low prices. There was clothing, table linens, housewares, produce, farm equipment, pottery, furniture and live animals. They have everything that you could possibly want. How many times have I been out shopping for bras and thought to myself, "Now, if I could only buy a live chicken, I would be set"? Yeah, well, it wouldn´t be a problem for me here. We bought a soccer jersey for a friend but nothing else, though I did have my eye on a gigantic, hand carved wooden spoon. Gigantic - like three feet long. I could have stirred a whole lot of something with a spoon that big.
We took our leave of the fair and had to go to another little market to get tomatoes for Luisa´s stepmother. I´m not sure why she needed the tomatoes because there was a whole pile on the counter but Luisa was going to do as she was told. Fernanda instructed Luisa to go to the market, look for a stall in which they were selling vegetables, find the third woman from the right and get the tomatoes from her...to tell her that Fernanda had sent her. This was one of the rare moments in which I was happy that I don´t speak much Portuguese because there is no way in hell I wanted to have any responsibility in solving this mystery. After knocking three times on a small door, uttering the words as instructed and doing the secret handshake while blindfolded, Luisa got the tomatoes. She then had to get bread but, apparently, there is no secret society for bread procurement so we just walked up to the bread stall and bought it. Luisa also bought me a chocolate eclair. We then left the little market and waded through the crowds. I am embarrassed to say that I didn´t wait until we got in the car to eat the eclair. I am even more embarrassed to say that I ate it in the most graceless fashion. I split the top from the bottom and licked out the goo and the chocolate was melting all over my hands and pieces were falling on my shirt and I was licking my lips and despite all the bras and the live chickens, I think I might have been more of a spectacle. I am sure that every single person I passed thought, "I bet she is American".
Saturday, August 19, 2006
I Think We´ll Stick with Twister
As we finished breakfast this morning, Miguel took his sister by the hand and led her from the kitchen. His voice was so tender and she looked up at him, all smiles and trust. The sun was shining through the kitchen window and we were sipping our coffee, glowing as we watched our beautiful children. Then, we heard Miguel say, "O.k. Zeca, let´s play slavery!" I sputtered coffee, Luisa and I stared at each other in disbelief and the glow vanished. It always happens this way. We are contentedly watching our children and thinking that they are gorgeous and talented and amazing and, slowly, we begin to think that no other children in the history of the world have ever done/looked/sounded like this and then - BAM. Reality hits. The universe has a way of keeping parents humble.
I assumed that Miguel had no idea what slavery was and had simply created a game using the word. So, in my most serious tone, I asked him if he knew what slavery was. He said that he did and launched into a long explanation of slavery including the concepts of ownership, perceived superiority, cruelty, abuse, separation of families and many of the other horrors. He then told me a story that he had heard in school about a young girl escaping to the north and the signs that were used to show that it was safe for travel and how she walked barefoot at night through pine needles before she made it to safety. As he described it all, I had to admit - it sounded pretty exciting. It sounded like an incredible adventure. Still, there will be no more playing slavery.
Luisa and I are white, middle class lesbian feminists that move in almost entirely white circles. There are no people of color in our inner circle and the people of color that we do know are only acquaintances. We live in the heart of the city in a neighborhood that is very racially diverse but we don´t hang out with our neighbors. We are aware of how white are lives are and I, for one, am sometimes freaked out by it. I am not well versed in the political issues around race and racism. I don´t talk much about it because I don´t want to look stupid and because I am never really challenged to do so. I do want my children to be more enlightened than I am but I often feel like I am in uncharted territory when it comes to discussions about race. Miguel notices skin color and sometimes describes people by the color of their skin, not with judgement but as true differentiation. I can generally handle that pretty well, though I would prefer he not do it loudly in public. It´s when he says things like, "Let´s play slavery" or "Dark skinned people can´t see me" - well, I fucking lose my mind. My rational mind tries to calmly grapple with the origin of the statement while the emotional part of me recoils in shock and then starts pacing, fueled by Liberal White Woman Guilt. My response can generally go in only two directions: Stepford Mother or Linda Blair. I can say, "My sweet little sugar plum...why would you ever say or think such a thing?" with a gentle pat on the head and a little sparkle in my eye or I can allow my head to spin and start spewing all sorts of things that have the express purpose of scaring the shit out of him to make sure that he never says such a thing again. I´m sure there are other options but I am still evolving as a parent, so, I go with Stepford Mother. Somehow, these talks do end up being conversations and seem productive in the end.
I started this post with the intention of writing about freedom. Luisa and I have been talking about how free our children have been since we have been here. Instead I opened with a snappy little anecdote about slavery and a discussion of race. Huh. I guess I´ll save that other topic for another day...
I assumed that Miguel had no idea what slavery was and had simply created a game using the word. So, in my most serious tone, I asked him if he knew what slavery was. He said that he did and launched into a long explanation of slavery including the concepts of ownership, perceived superiority, cruelty, abuse, separation of families and many of the other horrors. He then told me a story that he had heard in school about a young girl escaping to the north and the signs that were used to show that it was safe for travel and how she walked barefoot at night through pine needles before she made it to safety. As he described it all, I had to admit - it sounded pretty exciting. It sounded like an incredible adventure. Still, there will be no more playing slavery.
Luisa and I are white, middle class lesbian feminists that move in almost entirely white circles. There are no people of color in our inner circle and the people of color that we do know are only acquaintances. We live in the heart of the city in a neighborhood that is very racially diverse but we don´t hang out with our neighbors. We are aware of how white are lives are and I, for one, am sometimes freaked out by it. I am not well versed in the political issues around race and racism. I don´t talk much about it because I don´t want to look stupid and because I am never really challenged to do so. I do want my children to be more enlightened than I am but I often feel like I am in uncharted territory when it comes to discussions about race. Miguel notices skin color and sometimes describes people by the color of their skin, not with judgement but as true differentiation. I can generally handle that pretty well, though I would prefer he not do it loudly in public. It´s when he says things like, "Let´s play slavery" or "Dark skinned people can´t see me" - well, I fucking lose my mind. My rational mind tries to calmly grapple with the origin of the statement while the emotional part of me recoils in shock and then starts pacing, fueled by Liberal White Woman Guilt. My response can generally go in only two directions: Stepford Mother or Linda Blair. I can say, "My sweet little sugar plum...why would you ever say or think such a thing?" with a gentle pat on the head and a little sparkle in my eye or I can allow my head to spin and start spewing all sorts of things that have the express purpose of scaring the shit out of him to make sure that he never says such a thing again. I´m sure there are other options but I am still evolving as a parent, so, I go with Stepford Mother. Somehow, these talks do end up being conversations and seem productive in the end.
I started this post with the intention of writing about freedom. Luisa and I have been talking about how free our children have been since we have been here. Instead I opened with a snappy little anecdote about slavery and a discussion of race. Huh. I guess I´ll save that other topic for another day...
Thursday, August 17, 2006
The Rain in Spain
O.k. we are not in Spain but nothing rhymes with Portugal. It was rainy and cold again today. It reminds me of fall, a season that I absolutely adore when it is, you know, actually the proper time of year. I´m not a big fan of fall when I am on my summer vacation. We spent the whole day trying to find things to do and, in the process, had a pretty good day. Miguel spent time with his grandfather, Luis, feeding the pigeons. These are not random birds but racing pigeons and Luis takes them seriously. I am sitting here surrounded by the trophies that prove it. I don´t know what all Miguel and Luis do out there but it took up a lot of time this morning and Miguel felt very useful. Miguel and Zeca played in the yard for awhile making soup with water, rocks, sticks and weeds. The mess and the wet clothes made me edgy but also made me remember all the times I did the very same thing as a child. I realized that I don´t let my kids get dirty often enough. As I was letting go of my issues of control and starting to smile and enjoy watching them play, Zeca found an old chicken bone in the yard with some fatty meat still attached and promptly put it in her mouth. That was that. Then, we decided to go to the beach and walk around. We knew it was too cold to swim but we needed to get away from the house for awhile. As we were walking to the car, Miguel and I noticed snails...really cool snails with long shells (not the round spirals of my youth). We watched them for awhile and I realized that I´ve never seen a snail in Minneapolis. We must not have them there. I could have watched them for a long time but Zeca was strapped in her car seat (to prevent her from eating the beautiful snails) and she was not happy to sit there while we explored nature. We headed to the beach and the waves were enormous. They were those large, foamy waves that truly crash like misty thunder on the beach. There was a red flag flying today which means that the conditions are dangerous - no swimming because of the large waves and strong undertow. After walking around awhile, hunting for sea shells and finding mostly those of lupini beans, we headed back to the house. The lawn care people were working at Quinta da Loia today. One of the most striking images of my day was looking into the back yard and seeing an older woman in a dress that came to mid-calf with an impressively large gas powered weed whacker strapped on to her. The dress and the weed whacker - I had to stop and watch. The rest of the day is a blur of playing ball outside, playing cards, chasing Zeca and eating. Then, the kids went to bed...easily.
The weather is supposed to improve and we are hoping that we will be able to swim soon. Miguel is ready to get back in the water and, even today with the clouds and the need for jackets said, "You know what today is? A beautiful day for the pool!" We are hoping that Miguel´s eternal optimism is finally rewarded.
The weather is supposed to improve and we are hoping that we will be able to swim soon. Miguel is ready to get back in the water and, even today with the clouds and the need for jackets said, "You know what today is? A beautiful day for the pool!" We are hoping that Miguel´s eternal optimism is finally rewarded.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
Relief
We didn't do much today. It was a holiday so we didn't go to the beach. It was too cold anyway. We spent the day here at Quinta da Loia. When I considered blogging tonight, I thought I might skip it since we had no grand adventures. Sure, I could write about playing soccer in the yard with Miguel and watching Zeca dig in the dirt but that's hardly what people expect when they think of a European vacation. It's not even what I think about when I think about a vacation here. Somehow, I get sucked into thinking that it should be all castles, cobblestone, history, vineyards and sidewalk cafes. Once again, I have realized that I am a person that can get caught up in the idea of something rather than the actual experience of it. Tsk tsk...shame on me. So, I am blogging because of this realization.
I am sitting here at my father-in-law's desk. It's one of those enormous, wooden desks that makes you feel as if you are engaged in something of importance even when you are not. I am looking east and watching the sun set. It was a cloudy and cool day here and the clouds are purple, pink and orange dancing across the tops of the eucalyptus trees. The children are in bed and it is quiet. Not too shabby, huh?
I have been thinking about the word relief and its many meanings. On this trip, I have certainly been relieved of some of my responsibilities...my work, my duties around the house, our routine. I've also been relieved to realize that I am enjoying my time here. Most people probably wouldn't understand how I could possibly be surprised by that, so, let me explain. When we came here last, I was about 11 weeks pregnant and was tired and nauseous and petulent. The food, the smells, the isolation, the overwhelming sense of displacement were magnified by the pregnancy. My biggest pregnancy related craving was for the familiar and I couldn't have it. It was such a strong experience that when we planned this trip, I felt sick all over - worried that I could never overcome the way I felt the last time. The relief came on our first trip to the beach this time. I stood in the ocean up to my waist, waves crashing into my back, the sun on my shoulders. I looked toward the sand where Luisa and the children were happily playing and I felt true joy for the first time in several months. A tremendous relief on many levels. It's a relief that things are going so well...that the children ate heaping platefuls of squid today without saying a word...that the children have eagerly sought out the grandparents they see so little...that I have it in me to try to speak and that my Portuguese is better than I remember. It's a relief to know that after all that has happened this year I can still be happy.
I am sitting here at my father-in-law's desk. It's one of those enormous, wooden desks that makes you feel as if you are engaged in something of importance even when you are not. I am looking east and watching the sun set. It was a cloudy and cool day here and the clouds are purple, pink and orange dancing across the tops of the eucalyptus trees. The children are in bed and it is quiet. Not too shabby, huh?
I have been thinking about the word relief and its many meanings. On this trip, I have certainly been relieved of some of my responsibilities...my work, my duties around the house, our routine. I've also been relieved to realize that I am enjoying my time here. Most people probably wouldn't understand how I could possibly be surprised by that, so, let me explain. When we came here last, I was about 11 weeks pregnant and was tired and nauseous and petulent. The food, the smells, the isolation, the overwhelming sense of displacement were magnified by the pregnancy. My biggest pregnancy related craving was for the familiar and I couldn't have it. It was such a strong experience that when we planned this trip, I felt sick all over - worried that I could never overcome the way I felt the last time. The relief came on our first trip to the beach this time. I stood in the ocean up to my waist, waves crashing into my back, the sun on my shoulders. I looked toward the sand where Luisa and the children were happily playing and I felt true joy for the first time in several months. A tremendous relief on many levels. It's a relief that things are going so well...that the children ate heaping platefuls of squid today without saying a word...that the children have eagerly sought out the grandparents they see so little...that I have it in me to try to speak and that my Portuguese is better than I remember. It's a relief to know that after all that has happened this year I can still be happy.
Monday, August 14, 2006
In Portugal
We are here. We were not affected by the Terrorist Plots but thanks to all of you who asked. In fact, I had not heard about said plots until I spoke with my mother who started the conversation with, "Oh my god, I´ve been SO worried about you!" I asked why and she told me about the terrorist stuff and I assured her that we are probably safer here in little Portugal. I still don´t know what´s been going on in the world...I am on VACATION, don´t you know?
I am rather bleary eyed from our drive up north and our visit to Obidos today. Oh yeah, and the wine. Plus, I am sitting here typing this on a lap top that rests on a desk that is about two feet higher than the chair. I feel like a toddler sitting at my father´s desk. So, this entry will be simple and there will be no pictures. Here are some random thoughts on things so far...
1)People are not very nice to small children running amok in airports. The people who are not nice just might include parents of such children.
2)You can survive two flights totalling 11 hours with two young children and your period.
3)Why do European men shun deoderant and why do they always stand right above my seat on the plane?
4)Everyone smokes in Portugal. Miguel pretended to smoke his Chupa Chupa stick today.
5)The bread is so good. Seriously, there is nothing like it. Why can I buy a bag of fresh bread here for a couple bucks and have to spend 5 on a single loaf of Artisan bread at home? We can figure out how to package meals with meat that need no refrigeration but we can´t figure out how to make great bread at a good price. I am going to eat my weight in bread while I´m here. Zeca feels the same way...that´s all she had for dinner tonight.
6)When you are 27 and you have no children, walking along castle walls without any railing is amazing and awe-inspiring. When you are 37 and you are walking those same walls with a fearless and twitchy 5 year old, it makes you want to vomit.
And, on that note, I will sign off. I hope to have more coherent thoughts as they days go by and maybe even a picture or two to share. Until then, boa noite.
I am rather bleary eyed from our drive up north and our visit to Obidos today. Oh yeah, and the wine. Plus, I am sitting here typing this on a lap top that rests on a desk that is about two feet higher than the chair. I feel like a toddler sitting at my father´s desk. So, this entry will be simple and there will be no pictures. Here are some random thoughts on things so far...
1)People are not very nice to small children running amok in airports. The people who are not nice just might include parents of such children.
2)You can survive two flights totalling 11 hours with two young children and your period.
3)Why do European men shun deoderant and why do they always stand right above my seat on the plane?
4)Everyone smokes in Portugal. Miguel pretended to smoke his Chupa Chupa stick today.
5)The bread is so good. Seriously, there is nothing like it. Why can I buy a bag of fresh bread here for a couple bucks and have to spend 5 on a single loaf of Artisan bread at home? We can figure out how to package meals with meat that need no refrigeration but we can´t figure out how to make great bread at a good price. I am going to eat my weight in bread while I´m here. Zeca feels the same way...that´s all she had for dinner tonight.
6)When you are 27 and you have no children, walking along castle walls without any railing is amazing and awe-inspiring. When you are 37 and you are walking those same walls with a fearless and twitchy 5 year old, it makes you want to vomit.
And, on that note, I will sign off. I hope to have more coherent thoughts as they days go by and maybe even a picture or two to share. Until then, boa noite.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Vacation
Ah, vacation…relaxation, freedom from responsibility, quiet and sleep. I can almost hear the ocean waves gently lapping at the sandy beach, can almost taste the Portuguese wine and the crusty bread, can almost hear the children screaming – wait, children screaming? Oh, that’s right - I have children and that changes the whole vacation thing a bit. Vacationing is now parenting in a different place…with jet lag. This doesn’t mean that going on a vacation with your family is not fun – it’s just tiring. You see, children have their own ideas about vacation and they think vacation is all about the FUN!
Miguel: When are we going to do something fun?!?
Me: We just spent the morning at the beach and the afternoon at the pool. Wasn’t that fun?
Miguel: Yes, but what’s the next fun thing?!?
Me (spoken quietly to self): A glass of wine, a novel and about 18 hours of sleep.
Children expect a lot during vacation. They expect raucous good times, lots of activity and unusual amounts of ice cream. They do not expect rules or bedtimes or anything that can be construed as limiting to the FUN. Quiet, calm, sleep – they are, apparently, the harbingers of FUN doom. They are reviled by the vacationing child. This is, of course, unfortunate for the vacationing adults.
So, we are about to embark on one of these adventures. We leave for Portugal tomorrow at 12:35 p.m. There will be long plane rides and layovers and much wrangling of children. We will get to engage in fabulous games like “Contain the Toddler in the Airplane Seat with Minimal Amounts of Screaming” and “A Gazillion Questions” (because “20 Questions" is for wimps). We will arrive in Lisbon* on Thursday morning, haggard and mumbling to ourselves. Don’t worry about the children though, they’ll be raring to go. Let the FUN begin!
*We will spend the first few days in Lisbon before traveling up north to Pocariça. Once we are there, I will be blogging. I hope to have interesting things to say but, if nothing else, you can read about the food, the wine and how much sand Zeca has eaten...
Miguel: When are we going to do something fun?!?
Me: We just spent the morning at the beach and the afternoon at the pool. Wasn’t that fun?
Miguel: Yes, but what’s the next fun thing?!?
Me (spoken quietly to self): A glass of wine, a novel and about 18 hours of sleep.
Children expect a lot during vacation. They expect raucous good times, lots of activity and unusual amounts of ice cream. They do not expect rules or bedtimes or anything that can be construed as limiting to the FUN. Quiet, calm, sleep – they are, apparently, the harbingers of FUN doom. They are reviled by the vacationing child. This is, of course, unfortunate for the vacationing adults.
So, we are about to embark on one of these adventures. We leave for Portugal tomorrow at 12:35 p.m. There will be long plane rides and layovers and much wrangling of children. We will get to engage in fabulous games like “Contain the Toddler in the Airplane Seat with Minimal Amounts of Screaming” and “A Gazillion Questions” (because “20 Questions" is for wimps). We will arrive in Lisbon* on Thursday morning, haggard and mumbling to ourselves. Don’t worry about the children though, they’ll be raring to go. Let the FUN begin!
*We will spend the first few days in Lisbon before traveling up north to Pocariça. Once we are there, I will be blogging. I hope to have interesting things to say but, if nothing else, you can read about the food, the wine and how much sand Zeca has eaten...
Friday, August 04, 2006
Step Away from the Meerkats
Every weekday, I take the light rail to the Hennepin County Government Center where I work. As we approach the Government Center Station, the train’s crappy speaker system turns on and the driver gruffly announces, “Please remember to use the cross walks at this station”. Nothing says “good morning” like an aural assault. Sometimes I use the crosswalk and sometimes I don’t. My mama taught me to look both ways before crossing and I have gotten pretty good at it in the past 37 years. Should I suffer Death by Southbound Train, I take full responsibility for it - it would be my own damn fault. Similarly, Hennepin County has replaced the bricks in the courtyard twice because people slipped on them in the snow, fell and then sued the County. Millions of dollars have been spent replacing bricks because, it turns out, that most pavers get a little slippery when icy. Crazy, I know. Maybe we need the county commissioners to stand in the courtyard on winter mornings announcing, “It is icy. Please wear winter boots.”
Enter the meerkats. Yesterday, the staff at the Minnesota Zoo euthanized 5 meerkats because a 9 year old girl climbed onto a rock, put her hand down behind the protective glass in the exhibit and was bitten by a meerkat. This shouldn’t be that surprising. These aren’t kittens in a pet store. These are wild animals – plastic rocks and protective glass aren’t part of their natural habitat. You poke at a wild animal and the shocking truth is that it may bite you. In my mind, the parents needed to take some responsibility here. It is impossible to watch a child every moment, so, I don’t blame them for the daughter climbing the exhibit and for her attempt to touch the meerkat. The part that I cannot accept is that the parents then refused to allow their daughter to receive the rabies vaccine. There are laws and policies and all sorts of stuff that governs action in these type of cases and the Department of Health ordered the animals to be killed. The meerkats had no choice, the Department of Health had no choice and the staff at the zoo had no choice. The only ones with a choice were the parents and they chose to avoid any personal consequences for the incident.
The idea of personal responsibility seems to have been lost here in the United States. In Portugal, you can climb on the edge of a castle wall and do a little jig and no one will say a word. There aren’t ropes to keep you out or signs to advise you. They operate on the basic principle that people should use some common sense and, if they don’t, then they should bear responsibility for the outcome. In the U.S., when people do something stupid, they look around for someone to blame or expect others to clean up the mess. Maybe the parents should have had to kill the meerkats themselves – that might have changed their decision.
Read the article here: Minnesota Meerkats
Enter the meerkats. Yesterday, the staff at the Minnesota Zoo euthanized 5 meerkats because a 9 year old girl climbed onto a rock, put her hand down behind the protective glass in the exhibit and was bitten by a meerkat. This shouldn’t be that surprising. These aren’t kittens in a pet store. These are wild animals – plastic rocks and protective glass aren’t part of their natural habitat. You poke at a wild animal and the shocking truth is that it may bite you. In my mind, the parents needed to take some responsibility here. It is impossible to watch a child every moment, so, I don’t blame them for the daughter climbing the exhibit and for her attempt to touch the meerkat. The part that I cannot accept is that the parents then refused to allow their daughter to receive the rabies vaccine. There are laws and policies and all sorts of stuff that governs action in these type of cases and the Department of Health ordered the animals to be killed. The meerkats had no choice, the Department of Health had no choice and the staff at the zoo had no choice. The only ones with a choice were the parents and they chose to avoid any personal consequences for the incident.
The idea of personal responsibility seems to have been lost here in the United States. In Portugal, you can climb on the edge of a castle wall and do a little jig and no one will say a word. There aren’t ropes to keep you out or signs to advise you. They operate on the basic principle that people should use some common sense and, if they don’t, then they should bear responsibility for the outcome. In the U.S., when people do something stupid, they look around for someone to blame or expect others to clean up the mess. Maybe the parents should have had to kill the meerkats themselves – that might have changed their decision.
Read the article here: Minnesota Meerkats
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
Little House on the Park
We lived in a town home, 3 houses, two mobile homes (insert trailer park jokes here) and an apartment by the time I was 12. Each time we moved, my mother would unpack our things, arrange the furniture, hang up the same pictures that, in retrospect, were no reflection of her and then go about her normal routine as if nothing had changed. I never once saw her show any regret about leaving a place or joy in the prospect of a new one. Each place was simply a place to live, never a place in which to create a life.
In early 1996, Luisa and I decided to buy a house. I don’t remember how we made this decision but I think my mother’s repeated insistence that we were throwing our money away on rent might have had something to do with it. Also, our good friends had just bought a house and that seemed so, well, cool. So, we started looking at houses in their neighborhood, Powderhorn Park. We looked at two houses. One house could have been used as a set for horror films and the other house was cute. The cute house lacked many of the things we wanted…an open front porch, a fireplace and other important things such as cabinets and counters and square footage. I’m not prone to the witchy-woo-woo but when I walked into the cute house, I felt at peace. I immediately told Luisa of my peaceful, easy feeling and announced that this was the house for us. She looked at me like I was a crazy person, which is not that uncommon. “Shouldn’t we look around?” she asked. “It’s not what we are looking for”, she said. “No”, I insisted, “This is the house we are going to buy”. Now, Luisa is no push over. There were more conversations about the house and we did eventually look at one more very ugly house with silver reflective wallpaper covered in pussy willows. Maybe she feared the pussy willows, maybe I wore her down. Either way, we bought the house, the small imperfect house in the sketchy part of town. And by "sketchy" I mean the first time my parents visited, they drove up to find the windshields of every single parked car on the street shattered. Gang initiation, it turns out. My stepfather sat stoically in their van. My mother clutched her purse. As we walked in, my mother said in her most chipper voice, “You didn’t mention that your new house was in the inner city”. Inner city was nice because I know she was thinking “hood”.
We have lived in this house for 10 years now. We have built community and created a family in this house. I nursed both of our babies here, sitting in our bedroom watching the wind blow through a beautiful elm in the backyard. Our children took their first steps here. We have built our identity as individuals, as a couple and now as a family around this house and the park and all of our amazing friends who have moved here as well. This is why we both sat down and cried when we realized that our house had become too small for our family and why, eventually, we realized that we couldn’t leave. Yes, we could have found another great house and maybe we would have been lucky enough to stay in the neighborhood. We could have unpacked our things and arranged the furniture and gone about our routines but it would not have been the same. We have created a life here and that seems amazing to me, this woman who lived most of her life feeling disconnected. I may take up cross-stitching just so I can make a little plaque for our entry way that says, “Home is where the heart is” in pink and country blue. Well, let’s not go that far.
This terribly boring missive is really just an excuse to show off the pictures of our finished addition and to sing the praises of our contractor, Paul Pope of Pope Builders. Paul not only made our vision a reality but did a fabulous job. Oh, and he left us gifts when he was finished. Good work and presents - maybe I should cross-stitch him a little somethin’, maybe a haiku. So, check out my construction photos on Flickr in the sidebar (Oooo, I am so fancy now).
In early 1996, Luisa and I decided to buy a house. I don’t remember how we made this decision but I think my mother’s repeated insistence that we were throwing our money away on rent might have had something to do with it. Also, our good friends had just bought a house and that seemed so, well, cool. So, we started looking at houses in their neighborhood, Powderhorn Park. We looked at two houses. One house could have been used as a set for horror films and the other house was cute. The cute house lacked many of the things we wanted…an open front porch, a fireplace and other important things such as cabinets and counters and square footage. I’m not prone to the witchy-woo-woo but when I walked into the cute house, I felt at peace. I immediately told Luisa of my peaceful, easy feeling and announced that this was the house for us. She looked at me like I was a crazy person, which is not that uncommon. “Shouldn’t we look around?” she asked. “It’s not what we are looking for”, she said. “No”, I insisted, “This is the house we are going to buy”. Now, Luisa is no push over. There were more conversations about the house and we did eventually look at one more very ugly house with silver reflective wallpaper covered in pussy willows. Maybe she feared the pussy willows, maybe I wore her down. Either way, we bought the house, the small imperfect house in the sketchy part of town. And by "sketchy" I mean the first time my parents visited, they drove up to find the windshields of every single parked car on the street shattered. Gang initiation, it turns out. My stepfather sat stoically in their van. My mother clutched her purse. As we walked in, my mother said in her most chipper voice, “You didn’t mention that your new house was in the inner city”. Inner city was nice because I know she was thinking “hood”.
We have lived in this house for 10 years now. We have built community and created a family in this house. I nursed both of our babies here, sitting in our bedroom watching the wind blow through a beautiful elm in the backyard. Our children took their first steps here. We have built our identity as individuals, as a couple and now as a family around this house and the park and all of our amazing friends who have moved here as well. This is why we both sat down and cried when we realized that our house had become too small for our family and why, eventually, we realized that we couldn’t leave. Yes, we could have found another great house and maybe we would have been lucky enough to stay in the neighborhood. We could have unpacked our things and arranged the furniture and gone about our routines but it would not have been the same. We have created a life here and that seems amazing to me, this woman who lived most of her life feeling disconnected. I may take up cross-stitching just so I can make a little plaque for our entry way that says, “Home is where the heart is” in pink and country blue. Well, let’s not go that far.
This terribly boring missive is really just an excuse to show off the pictures of our finished addition and to sing the praises of our contractor, Paul Pope of Pope Builders. Paul not only made our vision a reality but did a fabulous job. Oh, and he left us gifts when he was finished. Good work and presents - maybe I should cross-stitch him a little somethin’, maybe a haiku. So, check out my construction photos on Flickr in the sidebar (Oooo, I am so fancy now).
Monday, July 31, 2006
Canoeing
My life is like a canoe. It glides along nicely with virtually no wake, as long as everyone keeps their hands in the boat and no one tries to stand up. Right now, the boat is a rockin’. The kids just want to be kids and I find myself urging them to be quiet and still. Our children are not of the quiet and still variety. Ours are more of the loud and antsy variety and no amount of urging is going to change that. Miguel is always singing loudly or asking questions or practicing Olympic dismounts from stationary objects. Zeca has been pinching and biting and pulling hair when she is not hurling things across the room when we dare to suggest that perhaps she shouldn’t do those things. Sugar and spice, my ass.
It feels like Luisa has the map and the compass and she keeps us moving. The children are standing up in my pretty, sleek canoe and they are laughing and slapping the water with the oars. We’re all drenched in water and I have a wet leaf stuck to my face. I’m sitting in the back, dragging my oar and thinking, “Wow, now I know why my family likes to wear beer cans around their necks…”* We have gone through a lot in recent months…construction on our home, a death in the family and, now, we are preparing for a long trip abroad. I need to relax. Maybe I should just strap on the life jackets and let the canoe flip. The water might feel refreshing.
*Picture these because, you know, the beer is then closer to your mouth.
It feels like Luisa has the map and the compass and she keeps us moving. The children are standing up in my pretty, sleek canoe and they are laughing and slapping the water with the oars. We’re all drenched in water and I have a wet leaf stuck to my face. I’m sitting in the back, dragging my oar and thinking, “Wow, now I know why my family likes to wear beer cans around their necks…”* We have gone through a lot in recent months…construction on our home, a death in the family and, now, we are preparing for a long trip abroad. I need to relax. Maybe I should just strap on the life jackets and let the canoe flip. The water might feel refreshing.
*Picture these because, you know, the beer is then closer to your mouth.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
At the Lake
As a child, I spent most weekends at our cabin on the Lake of the Ozarks fishing, swimming, boating and exploring the woods. I was a bookish, woodsy tomboy. Well, I was a bookish, woodsy, fearful tomboy. You see, Missouri is full of poisonous snakes and if the water moccasins don't get you the copperheads will. I once saw a copperhead chase down and kill a baby bunny. This made quite an impression on me, so, I tried to stay away from snakes and places where there might be snakes and places that snakes might have given a passing glance. My mother was not afraid of snakes. Once, I saw her kick a snake off the dock. She didn’t kick and cower as I might have done - she was matter of fact and walked on without looking back. Another time, I watched as a copperhead was approaching her while she burned some brush. I was in a panic and, without a change of expression or missing a puff on her Viceroy Long, she scooped it up with her rake and tossed it into the fire. I remember my mom wading into a mass of tall weeds in the lake to pull them and clear the beach. When she insisted that I join her, I gently suggested that perhaps we should not invade the home of venomous snakes. She shrugged her shoulders and told me to get in the damn water. I did get in the water, partly because she seemed magically brave and partly because I feared her the tiniest bit more than I feared the snakes.
I reflect on these times when we go to our friends’ cabin as we did this past weekend. I wonder what my children will remember about these trips, what they will remember about me. I doubt that they will remember me as heroic or larger than life. I do hope that they remember my encouragement to confront their fears but also the comfort that I gave when they couldn’t. I hope that they remember how much we delighted in the natural world and how free they felt in those moments. More than anything, I hope that they will remember how my arms felt draped around their shoulders, how my fingers felt going through their hair and how much I laughed. If they remember me this way, I can do without bravery. I can do without heroic.
One thing they won’t remember from this past weekend is my tearful fit when I caught a fish and it swallowed the hook and the hook poked through its eye from the inside. They won’t remember the needle nose pliers and the eye bulging and the fish blood and the eventual horrible, floppy death. They won’t remember me putting the dead fish in a Curious George bucket and going out in the canoe in the rain (without a bra, no less) with Luisa and our friend, Peggy, to take the dead fish far away from the beach so that they didn’t have to see it the next morning. They also won’t remember how we then spent 10 minutes looking at the top of a tree, thinking there was an eagle on the very top because our friends had been gesturing wildly to us. They won’t remember that it turned out to be a bunch of leaves and they won’t remember that our friends were actually gesturing at a muskrat that was swimming right in front of our canoe. Considering they missed this whole incident because they were sleeping, I may still have a shot at heroic. Nah, probably not.
I reflect on these times when we go to our friends’ cabin as we did this past weekend. I wonder what my children will remember about these trips, what they will remember about me. I doubt that they will remember me as heroic or larger than life. I do hope that they remember my encouragement to confront their fears but also the comfort that I gave when they couldn’t. I hope that they remember how much we delighted in the natural world and how free they felt in those moments. More than anything, I hope that they will remember how my arms felt draped around their shoulders, how my fingers felt going through their hair and how much I laughed. If they remember me this way, I can do without bravery. I can do without heroic.
One thing they won’t remember from this past weekend is my tearful fit when I caught a fish and it swallowed the hook and the hook poked through its eye from the inside. They won’t remember the needle nose pliers and the eye bulging and the fish blood and the eventual horrible, floppy death. They won’t remember me putting the dead fish in a Curious George bucket and going out in the canoe in the rain (without a bra, no less) with Luisa and our friend, Peggy, to take the dead fish far away from the beach so that they didn’t have to see it the next morning. They also won’t remember how we then spent 10 minutes looking at the top of a tree, thinking there was an eagle on the very top because our friends had been gesturing wildly to us. They won’t remember that it turned out to be a bunch of leaves and they won’t remember that our friends were actually gesturing at a muskrat that was swimming right in front of our canoe. Considering they missed this whole incident because they were sleeping, I may still have a shot at heroic. Nah, probably not.
Friday, July 21, 2006
So Gay
Last night, I was guiding Miguel through his bedtime routine (read: using the parental cattle prod to get his ass in bed) and I was picking up a few of his treasures off of the floor (you know, a tiny blob of yellow yarn...an eraser...a small globe key chain*). He was wearing a key around his neck on a ribbon. He got this key when he visited the Aboretum earlier this week and we have been told that this special key unlocks the secret garden. Anyway, he asked if I was going to put his key away. I told him that I wouldn't put it away because it was special to him. Then, the following conversation took place...
Miguel: What if I had something gay? Would you take that and put it away?
Me (neck still hurting from whipping around with tremendous speed): What?! What does that mean?
Miguel (playing with his key, unaware of the shocked mama eyes fixed upon him): You know, gay. Stupid.
Me (taking deep, cleansing breaths): Do you know what "gay" means? Did you know that "gay" actually refers to women who love other women and men who love other men? So, mãe and I are gay. We are two women who love each other.
Miguel: Well, I love you too so I'm gay.
Me: The fact that you love me doesn't make you gay. Again, being gay is about women loving women and men loving men.
Miguel: Then, I am gay with Augie (one of his best friends from way back).
Me: That may be true but the important thing to remember is that using the word "gay" to mean stupid is hurtful to people who are gay. Do you understand?
He said that he did. I'm not so sure. The fact that he then gleefully yelled, "Hey Zeca, you're gay" could be the confounding factor in my assessment. I thought Miguel had a basic understanding of gayness because of, you know, having GAY** parents and hanging out with so many GAY people and going to GAY pride and all. I knew the time would come when we would talk about this word, a word so easily thrown around playgrounds today, but I always thought he would be hurt by it, not use it so comfortably himself. I now know that I was wrong to assume so much. A few months ago, I wrote about the bubble bursting and I think it is beginning. Fucking YMCA day camp.
*A cute aside...as he was holding the globe keychain in the palm of his hand, he said, "Look mom, I am a god...I am holding the whole world in my hand".
**I don't actually identify as "gay". I prefer "lesbian" or "queer". I always think of Gay Women as lesbians who play a lot of golf and go on cruises. Gay Women wear visors, I'm pretty sure of it. I own no visors. This is not intended to offend the Gay Women who may be reading this. You are all lovely. Of course, as a good friend of mine used to say, "Label jars not people".
Miguel: What if I had something gay? Would you take that and put it away?
Me (neck still hurting from whipping around with tremendous speed): What?! What does that mean?
Miguel (playing with his key, unaware of the shocked mama eyes fixed upon him): You know, gay. Stupid.
Me (taking deep, cleansing breaths): Do you know what "gay" means? Did you know that "gay" actually refers to women who love other women and men who love other men? So, mãe and I are gay. We are two women who love each other.
Miguel: Well, I love you too so I'm gay.
Me: The fact that you love me doesn't make you gay. Again, being gay is about women loving women and men loving men.
Miguel: Then, I am gay with Augie (one of his best friends from way back).
Me: That may be true but the important thing to remember is that using the word "gay" to mean stupid is hurtful to people who are gay. Do you understand?
He said that he did. I'm not so sure. The fact that he then gleefully yelled, "Hey Zeca, you're gay" could be the confounding factor in my assessment. I thought Miguel had a basic understanding of gayness because of, you know, having GAY** parents and hanging out with so many GAY people and going to GAY pride and all. I knew the time would come when we would talk about this word, a word so easily thrown around playgrounds today, but I always thought he would be hurt by it, not use it so comfortably himself. I now know that I was wrong to assume so much. A few months ago, I wrote about the bubble bursting and I think it is beginning. Fucking YMCA day camp.
*A cute aside...as he was holding the globe keychain in the palm of his hand, he said, "Look mom, I am a god...I am holding the whole world in my hand".
**I don't actually identify as "gay". I prefer "lesbian" or "queer". I always think of Gay Women as lesbians who play a lot of golf and go on cruises. Gay Women wear visors, I'm pretty sure of it. I own no visors. This is not intended to offend the Gay Women who may be reading this. You are all lovely. Of course, as a good friend of mine used to say, "Label jars not people".
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Potty Talk
Do you sit on the toilet in public bathrooms and talk on your cell phone? Good, then it wasn’t you I just heard chatting happily on the phone with your pants around your ankles. Gives the phrase, "Can you hear me now?" a whole new meaning...
Friday, July 14, 2006
What's the Matter with Kansas?
I still remember Kansas Day in elementary school. We would spend the day coloring pictures of the state flag, meadowlarks, log cabins, bison and Jayhawks. All of these things were the defining symbols of our great state. When I think of Kansas, I don’t think of an imaginary red, white and blue bird. I think of barbecue. We really should have colored pictures of smoked meats and sweet and spicy sauces. I’m starting to think that good barbecue is about the only good gastronomical thing in the state.
Going back to Kansas reminds me that I have become a person with particular tastes. Some people might call this snobbishness but those people don’t read this blog, right? I’m particular. Right? Well, during my visit to Kansas City this time, my diet was less than ideal. Less than ideal, in this case, means that I ate vegetables only twice during the visit – twice in 9 days. I will come clean with you – I ate at McDonald’s…A LOT. I counted up my McMeals so that I could write this confessional. I ate two bacon, egg and cheese biscuits with hash browns and large Diet Cokes. I ate one breakfast burrito - cold. I ate two 3 piece chicken selects meals with large fries and large Diet Cokes. I ate one crispy chicken classic sandwich meal which also included large fries and a large Diet Coke. Did I mention that the visit only lasted 9 days? I’m no Morgan Spurlock but I think that shit is BAD for you. It is not surprising that I returned to Minneapolis with the worst case of heartburn and reflux I have had in 10 years. My partner and my children were subjected to a shorter version of this diet and my 16 month old had the foul, oddly colored diarrhea to prove it. The other terrible outcome of our life with Ronald McDonald is that our son, the very son who does not want to eat lunch provided at his camp because there are no vegetables and only white bread, said, “McDonald’s has the best food!” We might have to hire a deprogrammer that can take him to a hotel somewhere and feed him raw vegetables and tofu until he becomes the child he used to be. If this is how mainstream America really eats, then it is no wonder why we can’t compete in the global market.
The food was bad enough but there was also the coffee. I will admit I am a bean-buying, self-grinding snooty coffee drinker. I buy the good stuff a fair amount of the time and buy Starbucks when I can’t seem to make it to Linden Hills to visit the Coffee Guy. In KC, I discovered that the color brown actually has a taste...uh huh, Folgers. I drank Folgers coffee for 9 days. Two cups almost every morning for 9 days and it was definitely not the best part of waking up. One night when we were on the night shift caring for my stepfather, I decided that Folgers probably isn’t really that bad and that the problem was simply that my mother makes weak coffee. So, I used the amount of Folgers that I use when I grind my beans…a tablespoon per cup o’ coffee. If you are wondering if there can be anything worse than Folgers coffee, there is – strong Folgers coffee. When I came back to work on Wednesday, I spent half of the morning in Starbucks caressing and sniffing bags of beans.
Oh, I could go on…the beer, individually wrapped cheese slices, puddin’ cups and Jell-O salads but I am going to head home and have a heapin’ helpin’ of green beans and a Summit Pale Ale. Tomorrow morning, I’ll have a great cup of coffee and chant, “There’s no place like home…there’s no place like home…”
Going back to Kansas reminds me that I have become a person with particular tastes. Some people might call this snobbishness but those people don’t read this blog, right? I’m particular. Right? Well, during my visit to Kansas City this time, my diet was less than ideal. Less than ideal, in this case, means that I ate vegetables only twice during the visit – twice in 9 days. I will come clean with you – I ate at McDonald’s…A LOT. I counted up my McMeals so that I could write this confessional. I ate two bacon, egg and cheese biscuits with hash browns and large Diet Cokes. I ate one breakfast burrito - cold. I ate two 3 piece chicken selects meals with large fries and large Diet Cokes. I ate one crispy chicken classic sandwich meal which also included large fries and a large Diet Coke. Did I mention that the visit only lasted 9 days? I’m no Morgan Spurlock but I think that shit is BAD for you. It is not surprising that I returned to Minneapolis with the worst case of heartburn and reflux I have had in 10 years. My partner and my children were subjected to a shorter version of this diet and my 16 month old had the foul, oddly colored diarrhea to prove it. The other terrible outcome of our life with Ronald McDonald is that our son, the very son who does not want to eat lunch provided at his camp because there are no vegetables and only white bread, said, “McDonald’s has the best food!” We might have to hire a deprogrammer that can take him to a hotel somewhere and feed him raw vegetables and tofu until he becomes the child he used to be. If this is how mainstream America really eats, then it is no wonder why we can’t compete in the global market.
The food was bad enough but there was also the coffee. I will admit I am a bean-buying, self-grinding snooty coffee drinker. I buy the good stuff a fair amount of the time and buy Starbucks when I can’t seem to make it to Linden Hills to visit the Coffee Guy. In KC, I discovered that the color brown actually has a taste...uh huh, Folgers. I drank Folgers coffee for 9 days. Two cups almost every morning for 9 days and it was definitely not the best part of waking up. One night when we were on the night shift caring for my stepfather, I decided that Folgers probably isn’t really that bad and that the problem was simply that my mother makes weak coffee. So, I used the amount of Folgers that I use when I grind my beans…a tablespoon per cup o’ coffee. If you are wondering if there can be anything worse than Folgers coffee, there is – strong Folgers coffee. When I came back to work on Wednesday, I spent half of the morning in Starbucks caressing and sniffing bags of beans.
Oh, I could go on…the beer, individually wrapped cheese slices, puddin’ cups and Jell-O salads but I am going to head home and have a heapin’ helpin’ of green beans and a Summit Pale Ale. Tomorrow morning, I’ll have a great cup of coffee and chant, “There’s no place like home…there’s no place like home…”
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Eulogy
On July 4, 2001, I watched my son take his very first breath. Five years later, almost to the very hour, I watched my stepfather take his last. There are many things that I could say about my stepfather but there isn't any easy or concise way to explain what he meant to me. So, I thought I would share a letter that he wrote to me on my 30th birthday. I hope the letter will show you the kind of man he was and the kind of love he showed us all.
August 31, 1998
Hi Vikki
I know you don't wish to hear about it but that dreaded "30" has crept up on you just as it did with us all! Anyway, Happy Birthday with all my thoughts and love just for you!
As a stepfather, I reflect back to many, many happy thoughts of you as a small girl, the things we did together. I can still see you clearly fighting to get up on a pair of little red skis. Oh, how you cried, "I can't do this!" The lake went up about a foot from all those tears! Then, a few years later, I was so proud of you when you skied slalom. You were so determined then as you are now!
Another time, we went car shopping for your first car and came upon that very ugly duckling you named Freddy Fiat. You said, "I can't drive a clutch. I can't drive a stick shift". But, we went down on Swartz Road one evening and you drove and drove until you mastered the stick shift. This brought on even more tears.
Then came the day Mom and I drove you to a college in far away Iowa. We took all of your worldy possessions into your dorm and made small talk before letting you off by the library. We said our goodbyes and you said, "I'll be fine". As we drove off, I looked in the rear view mirror to see you walk away and, now, I can tell you it was my turn to have tears in my eyes!
As always, you have been determined to complete what you set out to do and I am sure more tears came with the struggle. I can only hope the next thirty plus years are as kind to you as they have been to me and that you will have as many good memories of the past as I have.
August 31, 1998
Hi Vikki
I know you don't wish to hear about it but that dreaded "30" has crept up on you just as it did with us all! Anyway, Happy Birthday with all my thoughts and love just for you!
As a stepfather, I reflect back to many, many happy thoughts of you as a small girl, the things we did together. I can still see you clearly fighting to get up on a pair of little red skis. Oh, how you cried, "I can't do this!" The lake went up about a foot from all those tears! Then, a few years later, I was so proud of you when you skied slalom. You were so determined then as you are now!
Another time, we went car shopping for your first car and came upon that very ugly duckling you named Freddy Fiat. You said, "I can't drive a clutch. I can't drive a stick shift". But, we went down on Swartz Road one evening and you drove and drove until you mastered the stick shift. This brought on even more tears.
Then came the day Mom and I drove you to a college in far away Iowa. We took all of your worldy possessions into your dorm and made small talk before letting you off by the library. We said our goodbyes and you said, "I'll be fine". As we drove off, I looked in the rear view mirror to see you walk away and, now, I can tell you it was my turn to have tears in my eyes!
As always, you have been determined to complete what you set out to do and I am sure more tears came with the struggle. I can only hope the next thirty plus years are as kind to you as they have been to me and that you will have as many good memories of the past as I have.
All my love,
Les
Sunday, July 02, 2006
Going to Kansas City
It was just a month ago when my family spoke of platelets, white blood cell counts and hemoglobin numbers. There was chemo and transfusions and hope for a few of those good days the doctors kept promising with each new treatment. Then, about a week ago, my stepfather said that he wanted nothing more. I was relieved and was ready for his pain to be over.
I was safe in Minneapolis with my own family and friends. I had geographical and emotional distance which lend themselves nicely to my defense mechanism of choice: intellectualization. I could provide support and suggest questions for the hospice nurse and social worker. I could review with my mother the health care directives that my stepfather had signed. I could do what I have always done in our family...I could guide them. I had made peace with the fact that I would never see my stepfather alive again. I planned to come down as soon as he died to help make arrangements and to provide support for my mother and sister. Then, something I never expected happened...my mother asked me to come help her care for him in his last days.
I came up with a long list of reasons why I could not help. I have no vacation or sick time. I have two small children. Our house is under construction and it's pretty chaotic right now. In the end, I realized that I needed to do it. So, I made arrangements with my supervisor to take Family Medical Leave and began planning with my family. I planned to fly to Kansas City for the last week of his life. I would keep in touch with the hospice nurse so that I would have information to help me decide when it was the right time to go.
I did not expect that time would come so quickly. I did not expect that my sister would call me on Friday morning and tell me that he had gotten much worse. I did not expect to miss my son's birthday. Yet, here I am in Kansas City, blogging on my mother's computer. I don't know what the next several days will hold.
I was safe in Minneapolis with my own family and friends. I had geographical and emotional distance which lend themselves nicely to my defense mechanism of choice: intellectualization. I could provide support and suggest questions for the hospice nurse and social worker. I could review with my mother the health care directives that my stepfather had signed. I could do what I have always done in our family...I could guide them. I had made peace with the fact that I would never see my stepfather alive again. I planned to come down as soon as he died to help make arrangements and to provide support for my mother and sister. Then, something I never expected happened...my mother asked me to come help her care for him in his last days.
I came up with a long list of reasons why I could not help. I have no vacation or sick time. I have two small children. Our house is under construction and it's pretty chaotic right now. In the end, I realized that I needed to do it. So, I made arrangements with my supervisor to take Family Medical Leave and began planning with my family. I planned to fly to Kansas City for the last week of his life. I would keep in touch with the hospice nurse so that I would have information to help me decide when it was the right time to go.
I did not expect that time would come so quickly. I did not expect that my sister would call me on Friday morning and tell me that he had gotten much worse. I did not expect to miss my son's birthday. Yet, here I am in Kansas City, blogging on my mother's computer. I don't know what the next several days will hold.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Boy or Girl
It starts early, the need to define children by their gender. The pink or blue cards on the hospital bassinets, the color coded baby blankets and onesies. My 9 pound baby boy was described as a “linebacker” and my 9 pound baby girl was simply a “big girl”. The hospital is only the beginning…the assumptions people make based on gender never end, the need to categorize people continues throughout life. Because of all of this, I believed that the environment was the primary determinant of gender expression. I believed that, in the absence of gender expectations, there would be no absolutes. Then, I had children.When we saw that penis in the ultrasound, we were excited by the opportunity to raise an incredible man to send out into the world. We believed that our son, raised by two lesbians, would be free to express himself in any way he chose. We would encourage him to wear pink, to slap on a pair of fairy wings, to flit about in meadows and to play with dolls. Our son would be strong and sensitive – he would take on the world but be able to process his emotions with the best of ‘em. When we allowed him to express himself, however, he became a different person than we imagined. There are no fairy wings – there are basketball jerseys and soccer uniforms. There is very little flitting about on tip toes - there is running and jumping and shouting. He doesn’t want to wear pink – he likes bolder colors. People see him out in the world and say he is “all boy”. We cringe because we know he fits the stereotype. He is the strong and sensitive boy we hoped for, though the image of what that looks like has changed for us. Ultimately, he is just Miguel. This is who he is.
When I got pregnant the second time, we assumed we would have another boy and I was excited to have a shot at a different boy experience. That was not to be – we had a girl. Zeca is only 16 months old and we don’t know who she will become. For now, she is chubby cheeks, brown eyes, strong legs and a stout package of determination. In public, people refer to her as “he” and it’s hard to know if it is the lack of hair or her way in the world. I fight the urge to tell people that she is not actually a “he”. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter because she’ll be put into a box soon enough. For now, we choose her clothes and her style but someday that will change and we no longer pretend to know what she will look like. We hope for certain things but prepare ourselves for others.
Gender expression is so much more complicated than nature versus nurture. The two can never be separated. I have come to realize that if I truly want my children to be free to express themselves, I must allow all possibilities – not just those that fit with my politics. It’s hard. I still picture that sports-shunning, fairy boy and I can’t help but hope for a girl that frowns at the frills and bows but, ultimately, they are my children and I adore them in all of their complexity.
Taking Shape
I haven't posted any pictures or updates on our addition lately. We have been busy choosing light fixtures, fans, paint colors, flooring and woodwork. The recent progress has been dramatic and it seems like most things will be finished in the next couple of weeks. They are painting the rooms right now. Next week, they are laying the hardwood floors and doing the tile. The carpet for the upstairs master bedroom will be last. They will also finish the external siding next week. Check out our new bedroom!
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
My Apologies to Betty Friedan
This morning, as I was buckling Miguel into his car seat, I said, "I love you so much! Do you know that?" He asked, "Do you love me even though I killed a spider?" I said that I did but would prefer that he didn't kill things because every living thing has a purpose in the world. We then discussed the roles that various insects and animals play in keeping balance in life. We discussed aphids and ladybugs, mosquitos and bats and lions and gazelles. He then asked, "What do people do?" While my cynical mind turned over a multitude of terrible things we do in the world, he spoke again, "I know what a mom is supposed to do...clean the house!"
Friday, June 23, 2006
Let the Chips Fall...
Last week, I ate a bag of Frito Lay Fritos and I glistened like a shiny salt lick for the rest of the day. I don’t know why I chose the Fritos – I never ate them as a child and that is my usual impetus for bad food choices. Today, I went to grab a sandwich and decided to pick up some chips to go with it. The only chips offered at the deli were Miss Vickie’s. I had never heard of Miss Vickie’s chips and, despite the fleeting thought that Vikki eating Vickie’s chips might somehow bring bad luck, I picked up a bag of Lime and Black Pepper chips. I’ve never really come across this particular flavor combination despite Miss Vickie’s assurance that she “crafted this recipe to bring you the flavor of a less hurried time”. I’m not sure what about a black pepper and potato limeade brings back the days of old but I could be missing something, being all hurried and modern as I am. As I crunched and cringed, I did a little research on the brand. I wondered, “Who is this Miss Vickie and why is everything on her chip bags written in English and French?” Well, I did not find the answers to those burning questions but I did find out that Miss Vickie’s chips are made by Frito Lay. My bad chip choices have come full circle.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Priorities
It’s easy to drown in the details of daily life. We lose ourselves in lunches to be prepared, appointments to schedule, laundry, dishes, errands to run – an endless set of tasks on our mental “to do” lists. Sometimes, it feels like there are countless things to remember, countless things to do to keep a household with two young children running smoothly. I leave those details behind only to go to work and drown in the chaos and drama created by co-workers who have Borderline Personality Disorder. I clench my jaw and become consumed with lost files, tense e-mail conversations and fears about my professional reputation. It is easy to don the negativity like a ratty old jacket, zipped up tight. It’s easy, so very easy, to be lost.
Then, something happens. I return home and my partner is making food for a picnic and the children are excitedly circling. We go to Lake Harriet and the evening is impossibly perfect, filled with children and friends, laughter and conversation. We get to watch our goofy boy perform on stage, get to hear him sing like we know he can but hasn’t in a single rehearsal. We get to see our baby, who is becoming more of a little girl every day, walk unsteadily down a hill, lose her balance and roll the rest of the way down only to stand up at the bottom and laugh. We see our children hugging and kissing their friends, their arms draped casually over each others shoulders, a comfort that is truly a gift. We watch the children playing tag and their smiles are large enough to make my headache fade and my jaw relax and my lips curl into a smile for the first time since waking. The sun is setting over the lake and we must all say goodbye. The children call out to each other as we walk to our cars and they are content. They say goodbye without tantrums or begging because they are full, their time together has been enough. We drive home, my partner’s hand on my leg, our son sleeping in the back seat, our daughter babbling and playing with her toes and I am, once again, overcome with the realization that there is nothing more important than a sense of belonging. There is nothing more important than recognizing that you are surrounded by so much love. We carry our children into the house and they settle into their beds. The house falls quiet and, as we sit together and reflect on the beauty of this evening, I find that I am free from that ratty old jacket. My body holds no more tension and everything is in perspective…
Then, something happens. I return home and my partner is making food for a picnic and the children are excitedly circling. We go to Lake Harriet and the evening is impossibly perfect, filled with children and friends, laughter and conversation. We get to watch our goofy boy perform on stage, get to hear him sing like we know he can but hasn’t in a single rehearsal. We get to see our baby, who is becoming more of a little girl every day, walk unsteadily down a hill, lose her balance and roll the rest of the way down only to stand up at the bottom and laugh. We see our children hugging and kissing their friends, their arms draped casually over each others shoulders, a comfort that is truly a gift. We watch the children playing tag and their smiles are large enough to make my headache fade and my jaw relax and my lips curl into a smile for the first time since waking. The sun is setting over the lake and we must all say goodbye. The children call out to each other as we walk to our cars and they are content. They say goodbye without tantrums or begging because they are full, their time together has been enough. We drive home, my partner’s hand on my leg, our son sleeping in the back seat, our daughter babbling and playing with her toes and I am, once again, overcome with the realization that there is nothing more important than a sense of belonging. There is nothing more important than recognizing that you are surrounded by so much love. We carry our children into the house and they settle into their beds. The house falls quiet and, as we sit together and reflect on the beauty of this evening, I find that I am free from that ratty old jacket. My body holds no more tension and everything is in perspective…
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Camp
Miguel and his friend, Luca, started at Camp Kici Yapi on Monday. Miguel loved camp so much that he came home after the first day and told us that he was sad. We asked why and he said that he was sad because there were only 4 more days of camp left. On Monday, Luisa dropped him off. Yesterday, The Mistress of the Flans dropped him off. Today, it was my turn and we talked about it this morning.
Miguel: You haven’t dropped me off at the bus yet, have you?
Me: No, today is the first time.
Miguel: Are you excited to see me ride the bus by myself?
Me: Of course.
Miguel: I go all by myself. You don’t go with me.
Me: (Miguel now snuggling in my lap) I know. Would you like to stay home and cuddle with me all day instead?
He quickly pulled back and looked me straight in the face, his smile unsure and his head tilted in suspicion. He responded, “nahhhh” and gave a nervous laugh. We cuddled until leaving for camp. We picked up Luca and, as we drove to the Y, they chanted:
Cherries on cheesecake
Cherries in a pie
Cherry bus is number 1
And we’re the reason why!
Yay Cherry Bus!
Their smiles were incredible, so full of joy and so carefree. Their bodies vibrated with happiness and I could feel it when I rubbed against their little bodies. We waited on the sidewalk for the bus to come and they did their own thing. I watched them talking to other kids, watched Miguel play so sweetly with a little girl close in age to his sister, watched them twitch and dance in anticipation. The bus arrived and before I could envelope them in my arms for hugs and goodbyes, they were out of reach. Luca was already in her seat and Miguel was on the stairs of the bus. He looked back at me, gave me the biggest smile of the day – the smile that said, “Do you see me? Can you believe this?” and I smiled back. He scrambled onto the bus and into his seat. He poked his face out of the bus window and yelled, “Did I forget anything?” As much as I wanted to tell him that he forgot to hug me, I yelled back, “Honey, you have everything you need!” The bus pulled quickly away and I could see him waving to me as they turned the corner and disappeared.
Miguel: You haven’t dropped me off at the bus yet, have you?
Me: No, today is the first time.
Miguel: Are you excited to see me ride the bus by myself?
Me: Of course.
Miguel: I go all by myself. You don’t go with me.
Me: (Miguel now snuggling in my lap) I know. Would you like to stay home and cuddle with me all day instead?
He quickly pulled back and looked me straight in the face, his smile unsure and his head tilted in suspicion. He responded, “nahhhh” and gave a nervous laugh. We cuddled until leaving for camp. We picked up Luca and, as we drove to the Y, they chanted:
Cherries on cheesecake
Cherries in a pie
Cherry bus is number 1
And we’re the reason why!
Yay Cherry Bus!
Their smiles were incredible, so full of joy and so carefree. Their bodies vibrated with happiness and I could feel it when I rubbed against their little bodies. We waited on the sidewalk for the bus to come and they did their own thing. I watched them talking to other kids, watched Miguel play so sweetly with a little girl close in age to his sister, watched them twitch and dance in anticipation. The bus arrived and before I could envelope them in my arms for hugs and goodbyes, they were out of reach. Luca was already in her seat and Miguel was on the stairs of the bus. He looked back at me, gave me the biggest smile of the day – the smile that said, “Do you see me? Can you believe this?” and I smiled back. He scrambled onto the bus and into his seat. He poked his face out of the bus window and yelled, “Did I forget anything?” As much as I wanted to tell him that he forgot to hug me, I yelled back, “Honey, you have everything you need!” The bus pulled quickly away and I could see him waving to me as they turned the corner and disappeared.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Ethics 101
Good morning class. We have a very interesting ethical dilemma to consider today. Yes, in the back, Mr. Taylor is it? Yes, you’ll have a chance to argue your points. Take out your notebooks and let’s get started!
Let’s say that you decide to return to work full-time and that you must put your youngest child in day care. You have never used a day care center before, so, you search the city you live in for the ideal place for your child. You see all sorts of places that seem to have taken their decorating tips, and possibly some of their staff, from Russian orphanages. After an extensive search, you find the perfect place for your child. The environment is beautiful, the center follows the Montessori philosophy, and all of the people you meet appear to be kind, loving people. You sign up on the spot, despite the high cost.
Your child starts at the center when she is 9 months old and everything is working out well. She bonds with her caregivers. The teachers prove themselves to be the lovely people you thought they were. Your child thrives. The months pass by and your child is now 15 months old. You spend a morning hanging out in your child’s classroom and discover that your child’s teachers do not have health insurance. The management of the day care center will only pay half of the cost of insurance, so, neither of the teachers can afford it because they are also underpaid. One of the teachers is an older woman who tells you that she cannot afford to pay for the doctor’s visit to get the prescription for her blood pressure medication renewed. You ask what she will do and she tells you that she will have to stop taking the medication. They cannot qualify for Minnesota Care because the employer pays a certain amount of their health insurance costs. You may assume that the teachers did not disclose these things to you to gain your sympathy or assistance. This conversation took place in the context of a larger conversation about how the world has gone to shit…ahem, I mean that the world is facing a set of unique challenges.
Now, what do you do in this situation? Do you:
a)Do nothing because it’s not your fault and there is nothing that you can do anyway
b)Ignore the issue and spend more time talking to the teachers about the weather
c)Discuss your concerns about fair pay and health insurance with the management in hopes of creating change, though you may cause trouble for the staff or be asked to leave a day care center that you really like and your child likes
d)Research alternative health care options for the staff and present your findings to them
e)Remove your child from the school in protest, though you have been told that issues of fair pay and health insurance occur in every day care center
f)Research unions for day care workers and provide that information to the staff
g)Stop talking to the teachers and wear dark glasses when you drop off and pick up your child
h)Eat lots of chocolate
There are many more options and you could certainly do any combination of the options listed above. What would you do and why? Please leave your assignments in my comment box and, if you have questions, I’ll be in the corner eating a candy bar…
Let’s say that you decide to return to work full-time and that you must put your youngest child in day care. You have never used a day care center before, so, you search the city you live in for the ideal place for your child. You see all sorts of places that seem to have taken their decorating tips, and possibly some of their staff, from Russian orphanages. After an extensive search, you find the perfect place for your child. The environment is beautiful, the center follows the Montessori philosophy, and all of the people you meet appear to be kind, loving people. You sign up on the spot, despite the high cost.
Your child starts at the center when she is 9 months old and everything is working out well. She bonds with her caregivers. The teachers prove themselves to be the lovely people you thought they were. Your child thrives. The months pass by and your child is now 15 months old. You spend a morning hanging out in your child’s classroom and discover that your child’s teachers do not have health insurance. The management of the day care center will only pay half of the cost of insurance, so, neither of the teachers can afford it because they are also underpaid. One of the teachers is an older woman who tells you that she cannot afford to pay for the doctor’s visit to get the prescription for her blood pressure medication renewed. You ask what she will do and she tells you that she will have to stop taking the medication. They cannot qualify for Minnesota Care because the employer pays a certain amount of their health insurance costs. You may assume that the teachers did not disclose these things to you to gain your sympathy or assistance. This conversation took place in the context of a larger conversation about how the world has gone to shit…ahem, I mean that the world is facing a set of unique challenges.
Now, what do you do in this situation? Do you:
a)Do nothing because it’s not your fault and there is nothing that you can do anyway
b)Ignore the issue and spend more time talking to the teachers about the weather
c)Discuss your concerns about fair pay and health insurance with the management in hopes of creating change, though you may cause trouble for the staff or be asked to leave a day care center that you really like and your child likes
d)Research alternative health care options for the staff and present your findings to them
e)Remove your child from the school in protest, though you have been told that issues of fair pay and health insurance occur in every day care center
f)Research unions for day care workers and provide that information to the staff
g)Stop talking to the teachers and wear dark glasses when you drop off and pick up your child
h)Eat lots of chocolate
There are many more options and you could certainly do any combination of the options listed above. What would you do and why? Please leave your assignments in my comment box and, if you have questions, I’ll be in the corner eating a candy bar…
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Top Ten
When I became a parent, I knew I would say things I swore I would never say to my kids. Realistically, I knew I might let loose with the occasional "Because I said so" or "Because I am your mother" or "I've had it". Here are a few of the things I have said that I never could have imagined...
10. Stop pulling my eye lids!
9. We do not stand on top of tables.
8. You cannot go to school wearing only a belt.
7. Please stop putting your sister in that box.
6. Yes, I'm sure Spider Man has a penis under his suit.
5. Please don't rub your butt on my pillow.
4. If you lick your sister one more time, you are going to your room!
3. Spiders don't go grocery shopping.
2. No pickin', no pokin', no flickin' (boogers, of course)
And, the number one thing I never could have imagined saying...
1. When you are an adult, you can ask someone to touch your ravioli penis.
Friday, May 26, 2006
The Good, The Bad and The Pathogically Messy
As you know, we have been adding on to our house. In March, Paul Pope (Pope Builders) began tearing off our old 3 season porch and building a new, two story, two room addition and half bath. Paul and his crew have been easy to work with, reliable - a joy, really. In honor of Pope Builders, I have written a haiku:
A Haiku for Pope Builders
You come to my house
Build two huge rooms and a bath
Lovely work – no mess
Check out the most recent pic of their fabulous work:
A Haiku for Pope Builders
You come to my house
Build two huge rooms and a bath
Lovely work – no mess
Check out the most recent pic of their fabulous work:
We have never really had a good experience with a contractor. We generally have the Local News Insider Exposé kind of experience. We had our bathroom remodeled in 1999 and, let's just say, we were out of our house for five weeks and the whole bad experience culminated with our bikes being stolen. You may be wondering, "How can a bathroom remodel lead to bike theft?" Yeah, it boggles the mind doesn't it? Anyway, yesterday, we had a guy (not affiliated with Pope Builders) come to spray our living room and dining room ceilings with that textured stuff. I came home yesterday to a complete mess. Most of the furniture and floors were covered in a 1/4 inch of white dust. Plastery gunk had been tracked all the way upstairs and was ground into the carpet runner. The glop was all over the landing and on our beautiful bathroom tile. It was ground into our bath mat. We found plaster in our antique claw foot tub. I'm pretty sure they invented utility sinks in basements for that purpose. I just don't understand the thought process: "Should I mix plaster in this person's clawfoot tub cast in 1913 or should I mix it in the grungy utility sink in the basement? I think I'll go with the nice tub." The man splashed water all over the toilet and bathroom floor. Inexplicably, there was plaster on my hostas in the front yard. He did not bother to clean any of this up. Miguel, at the tender age of 4, walked into the house and said, "What a mess!" Now, if a 4 year old can figure that out, why can't a contractor? We had to go out to dinner, come home to put our dusty children in their beds and spend the rest of our evening cleaning. Luisa called the guy today and informed him that it would be best for all concerned if he did not return. Oh, I didn't mention that he only did one of the two ceilings? Yeah. So, in honor (or dishonor, I suppose) I offer the following haiku:
A Haiku for Mark the Ceiling Sprayer
You spray one ceiling
Mix plaster in my cool tub
Children think you’re dumb
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Over Easy
I was on my way to the elevator when I saw a co-worker coming towards me. He smiled broadly and said loudly, "Eighteen eggs this morning!" Turns out, he was not sharing the news of a rather impressive breakfast. No, this was the number of eggs retrieved from his wife's ovaries this morning. Considering I barely know this man and have never had anything resembling a personal conversation with him, I think I would prefer "hello" from here on out.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Waves
It’s strange what can make you wistful. By “you”, of course, I mean “me” but I’m trying to be inclusive here. One moment, you are going 50 miles per hour in the bow of a speedboat, a gaggle of laughing children around you and you can’t help but laugh too because you have never seen anything funnier than children’s cheeks flapping in the wind while they sing Scooby Dooby Doo at the top of their lungs. The next moment, you are crying - not because of the 50 mile per hour wind and bugs in your eyes but because of a big ol’ wave of nostalgia that drags you out of the moment. You remember another boat and other people laughing and as your mind is perusing that other speedboat – the speedboat in a past life – your eyes finally land on the driver of that boat. The driver just happens to be your father and he is smiling and laughing his deep and subtle laugh that rumbles and resonates in your chest. In that moment, you realize that your father is one of the few people in life that made you feel really safe and you start to cry because 
you are going to lose him very soon. Then, just like that, you hear the children screaming again, screaming because waves are so incredible and because speed and Scooby Doo are so darn funny. You are back in the moment and can laugh again. You wrap your arms around those children and you sing along and the moment is somehow sweeter.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Extreme Makeover
1. Blog Edition
As you can see, I have made some dramatic changes around here. I know I have broken one of the main blogging commandments - Thou shalt not change things too often. Still, I wanted a new look. I plan on sticking with this one for awhile. Let me know what you think. Those of you who lurk here (and you know who you are) - take this as an invitation to actually leave a comment.
2. Government Center Edition
It's day two here on the flooded 14th floor. Here are a few pics of the new look in my work place.
If you think the pictures look great, you should smell the new look.
3. Addition Edition
I came home last night to the most dramatic progress on our addition yet. When they first dug the foundation, I was convinced that the addition was going to be too small. Now, I am having a hard time wrapping my head around the enormity. You can barely even see the old house.
As you can see, I have made some dramatic changes around here. I know I have broken one of the main blogging commandments - Thou shalt not change things too often. Still, I wanted a new look. I plan on sticking with this one for awhile. Let me know what you think. Those of you who lurk here (and you know who you are) - take this as an invitation to actually leave a comment.
2. Government Center Edition
It's day two here on the flooded 14th floor. Here are a few pics of the new look in my work place.
If you think the pictures look great, you should smell the new look.
3. Addition Edition
I came home last night to the most dramatic progress on our addition yet. When they first dug the foundation, I was convinced that the addition was going to be too small. Now, I am having a hard time wrapping my head around the enormity. You can barely even see the old house.
4. Oldest Child Edition
When we picked up Miguel from school yesterday, we received the following note from his teacher:
Dear Mothers,
Miguel will need a good shampoo tonight to remove the shoe polish.
Fondly,
Mrs. Raasch
Should this ever happen* to your child, let me just tell you - that shit doesn't come out. No matter how much shampoo you use. No matter how hard you scrub. It does - not - come - out.
*The word "happen" of course implies that your child was an innocent victim to a drive-by polishing. I can't really say that this "happened" to my son. There was no other party involved in the polishing. No other child did this to him. No other child encouraged him to do this. No, my son decided to polish his head all by himself. You can imagine our pride...
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Catastrophe Team
A water main burst on the 14th floor of the Government Center and half of it is flooded. I work on the 14th floor. Let me just say that the carpet here is very old. The maintenance staff no longer regularly vaccum because of budget cuts. We have had a terrible mouse infestation since I started here 9 years ago. Water...mouse urine...dirt - imagine the smell that the giant fans are blowing around in here.
There are men wandering around wearing black t-shirts that read "Catastrophe Team". If I could get one of those shirts, this would all be worthwhile.
There are men wandering around wearing black t-shirts that read "Catastrophe Team". If I could get one of those shirts, this would all be worthwhile.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Mothers' Day
At 1 a.m. Miguel yells for me from his bedroom. He relays the details of a horrible nightmare in which he built something and someone knocked it down. I assure him that he was dreaming, that neither building nor knocking has occurred. Zeca also wakes up but she is crying, standing up in her crib rattling the bars. We can only assume she has had a terrible dream in which someone built something and she knocked it down. She is wracked with guilt and Luisa gives her a pacifier and a back rub.
At 5:45 a.m., Miguel wakes up and begins yelling for us. I go in to tell him that it is too early and that he needs to go back to sleep. He tells me that it is Mother’s Day and he wants to make coffee for us…got up early to make coffee for us…needs to make coffee for us right now. By 6:15 a.m., we are all downstairs and I am supervising the making of my Mother’s Day coffee. By 6:30 a.m., I am cleaning up the mess made during the making of the Mother’s Day coffee. At 7 a.m., Luisa and I are preparing breakfast for the children. By 7:30 a.m., we are cleaning up the breakfast dishes. We each grab a Luna Bar and try to have coffee. We sit down to read the paper but there are many demands for attention which detract from the reading of the newspaper. I manage to look through a few ads and Luisa manages a couple of editorials. Zeca is removing all of the books from the bookshelf. Miguel is playing prairie dog on the couch which involves throwing all of the cushions on the floor. By 8 a.m., toys are strewn all over the entire downstairs. Interestingly, neither child is actually playing with any toys. It is raining outside and we are all bored.
The hours between 8 a.m. and 10 a.m. are a blur of Luisa nagging Miguel, me nagging Luisa, Zeca crying because she is not allowed to destroy various objects in the house and Miguel occasionally yelling at us that we are the meanest mothers in the world and will not be getting Mother’s Day cards next year. I begin to grit my teeth and glower. I consider locking myself in the bathroom but decide Luisa would rather deal with moody me than be left alone with the children. We decide to go to Ikea to get a dresser for Zeca and to drop Miguel off at the ball pit where he can climb and jump.
We drop Miguel off at the Ikea ball pit, plop Zeca in a cart and proceed into the store. Ikea is virtually empty and I imagine all of the other mothers having their Mother’s Day brunches or breakfast in bed or receiving numerous bouquets of flowers or gorging on chocolates in their beds. Zeca cries because she doesn’t want to sit in the cart. I explain to her calmly that she must remain in the cart. She continues to cry. I give her cranberries and she stops crying. We select a dresser and return to the ball pit to pick up Miguel. It’s lunch time and we have no food at home for lunch. Cranberries do not an entree make and there is nothing else in the diaper bag. We decide to eat at the Ikea cafeteria. We find a table among the elderly mothers that seem to have come to Ikea just for the Swedish Meatballs. We sit down to enjoy our Festival of Carbs, though “enjoy” is generous. As we leave Ikea, Miguel asks when we are going to do something fun.
We return home and put Zeca down for her nap. Miguel goes to his room for “quiet time” which consists of him yelling “Happy Mother’s Day” to Luisa from his bedroom window while she mows the lawn. He gets louder and louder so that she can hear him over the mower. While Luisa mows the lawn, I pick up all of the toys and take out the trash. I also make the grocery list. When Luisa finishes the lawn, she comes inside and I take Miguel to do the grocery shopping. While we are shopping, Luisa does the bills.
We return from shopping and Luisa puts the groceries away while I call my mother to wish her happy Mother’s Day. She says nothing about the card I sent, nor the Visa gift card I got for her. I finally ask her if she received them. She says that she did and that she doesn’t even know how to use the Visa gift card. There is a five minute discussion of how to use the card that concludes with her saying “humph” rather than anything resembling a thank you. I am fuming and call my sister to complain. My sister is very sweet to me. While I luxuriate in my sister’s kindness, the children wander around the house leaving a wake of toys in their path. I get off the phone and begin making lasagna for dinner. We decide to invite our friends (Raquel, Susan and their daughter Luca) over for dinner because they just returned from Ohio and probably don’t have food at their house. They say they will be over right after they unpack. Miguel spends the next 45 minutes asking us when they are going to get there.
They arrive and we have a lovely dinner and a bottle of wine. Miguel plays with Luca and Zeca performs all of her most adorable tricks. We have snippets of adult conversation…the first of such snippets all day. At 7:30 p.m., Luisa puts Zeca to bed and Miguel and Luca play quietly in his room. We have actual adult conversation. My jaw unclenches…could be the wine, could be the conversation. Around 8 p.m. the “clean up the mess in the bedroom” negotiations begin. I go up to check it out and am horrified to see that nearly every inch of Miguel’s floor is covered in books, toys and clothing. I tell the children to clean it up. They come down at 8: 15 p.m. and say that it is clean. I don’t believe them but I am tired and don’t care anymore. Our friends leave and I take Miguel up to bed. I walk into his room and it is immaculate. He is beaming and says, “See, I told you I would do something nice for you today”. I want to cry. We snuggle into his bed and he tells me in a fake French accent…”Zee keeds, zey like to eat zee boogers”. I respond in the same accent, “Zat eeze gross”. We laugh. He rubs my cheek and says he loves me. I hold his small hand and tell him that I love him too. He drifts off to sleep. The house is finally quiet. I go back downstairs where Luisa is doing the dishes. I pick up all the toys and make the coffee for the next day. We prepare tomorrow’s lunches. We sit down at 9 p.m.
Just another day for these mothers…
ADDENDUM:
Luisa called to suggest that, perhaps, my account of the day was the tiniest bit harsh. I didn't mean to describe a day that would drive people to drink or to give the impression that we are bitter, unhappy people. I was simply struck with the difference between the Mother's Day that is marketed by Hallmark and an actual day in the life of a mother with small children. So, I offer the following disclaimer:
Vikki and Luisa are happy, well-adjusted women raising two wonderful children. They love their children (and each other) dearly and would not change their lives for anything.
There, I've disclaimed. Besides, how I could I not love these little people...
At 5:45 a.m., Miguel wakes up and begins yelling for us. I go in to tell him that it is too early and that he needs to go back to sleep. He tells me that it is Mother’s Day and he wants to make coffee for us…got up early to make coffee for us…needs to make coffee for us right now. By 6:15 a.m., we are all downstairs and I am supervising the making of my Mother’s Day coffee. By 6:30 a.m., I am cleaning up the mess made during the making of the Mother’s Day coffee. At 7 a.m., Luisa and I are preparing breakfast for the children. By 7:30 a.m., we are cleaning up the breakfast dishes. We each grab a Luna Bar and try to have coffee. We sit down to read the paper but there are many demands for attention which detract from the reading of the newspaper. I manage to look through a few ads and Luisa manages a couple of editorials. Zeca is removing all of the books from the bookshelf. Miguel is playing prairie dog on the couch which involves throwing all of the cushions on the floor. By 8 a.m., toys are strewn all over the entire downstairs. Interestingly, neither child is actually playing with any toys. It is raining outside and we are all bored.
The hours between 8 a.m. and 10 a.m. are a blur of Luisa nagging Miguel, me nagging Luisa, Zeca crying because she is not allowed to destroy various objects in the house and Miguel occasionally yelling at us that we are the meanest mothers in the world and will not be getting Mother’s Day cards next year. I begin to grit my teeth and glower. I consider locking myself in the bathroom but decide Luisa would rather deal with moody me than be left alone with the children. We decide to go to Ikea to get a dresser for Zeca and to drop Miguel off at the ball pit where he can climb and jump.
We drop Miguel off at the Ikea ball pit, plop Zeca in a cart and proceed into the store. Ikea is virtually empty and I imagine all of the other mothers having their Mother’s Day brunches or breakfast in bed or receiving numerous bouquets of flowers or gorging on chocolates in their beds. Zeca cries because she doesn’t want to sit in the cart. I explain to her calmly that she must remain in the cart. She continues to cry. I give her cranberries and she stops crying. We select a dresser and return to the ball pit to pick up Miguel. It’s lunch time and we have no food at home for lunch. Cranberries do not an entree make and there is nothing else in the diaper bag. We decide to eat at the Ikea cafeteria. We find a table among the elderly mothers that seem to have come to Ikea just for the Swedish Meatballs. We sit down to enjoy our Festival of Carbs, though “enjoy” is generous. As we leave Ikea, Miguel asks when we are going to do something fun.
We return home and put Zeca down for her nap. Miguel goes to his room for “quiet time” which consists of him yelling “Happy Mother’s Day” to Luisa from his bedroom window while she mows the lawn. He gets louder and louder so that she can hear him over the mower. While Luisa mows the lawn, I pick up all of the toys and take out the trash. I also make the grocery list. When Luisa finishes the lawn, she comes inside and I take Miguel to do the grocery shopping. While we are shopping, Luisa does the bills.
We return from shopping and Luisa puts the groceries away while I call my mother to wish her happy Mother’s Day. She says nothing about the card I sent, nor the Visa gift card I got for her. I finally ask her if she received them. She says that she did and that she doesn’t even know how to use the Visa gift card. There is a five minute discussion of how to use the card that concludes with her saying “humph” rather than anything resembling a thank you. I am fuming and call my sister to complain. My sister is very sweet to me. While I luxuriate in my sister’s kindness, the children wander around the house leaving a wake of toys in their path. I get off the phone and begin making lasagna for dinner. We decide to invite our friends (Raquel, Susan and their daughter Luca) over for dinner because they just returned from Ohio and probably don’t have food at their house. They say they will be over right after they unpack. Miguel spends the next 45 minutes asking us when they are going to get there.
They arrive and we have a lovely dinner and a bottle of wine. Miguel plays with Luca and Zeca performs all of her most adorable tricks. We have snippets of adult conversation…the first of such snippets all day. At 7:30 p.m., Luisa puts Zeca to bed and Miguel and Luca play quietly in his room. We have actual adult conversation. My jaw unclenches…could be the wine, could be the conversation. Around 8 p.m. the “clean up the mess in the bedroom” negotiations begin. I go up to check it out and am horrified to see that nearly every inch of Miguel’s floor is covered in books, toys and clothing. I tell the children to clean it up. They come down at 8: 15 p.m. and say that it is clean. I don’t believe them but I am tired and don’t care anymore. Our friends leave and I take Miguel up to bed. I walk into his room and it is immaculate. He is beaming and says, “See, I told you I would do something nice for you today”. I want to cry. We snuggle into his bed and he tells me in a fake French accent…”Zee keeds, zey like to eat zee boogers”. I respond in the same accent, “Zat eeze gross”. We laugh. He rubs my cheek and says he loves me. I hold his small hand and tell him that I love him too. He drifts off to sleep. The house is finally quiet. I go back downstairs where Luisa is doing the dishes. I pick up all the toys and make the coffee for the next day. We prepare tomorrow’s lunches. We sit down at 9 p.m.
Just another day for these mothers…
ADDENDUM:
Luisa called to suggest that, perhaps, my account of the day was the tiniest bit harsh. I didn't mean to describe a day that would drive people to drink or to give the impression that we are bitter, unhappy people. I was simply struck with the difference between the Mother's Day that is marketed by Hallmark and an actual day in the life of a mother with small children. So, I offer the following disclaimer:
Vikki and Luisa are happy, well-adjusted women raising two wonderful children. They love their children (and each other) dearly and would not change their lives for anything.
There, I've disclaimed. Besides, how I could I not love these little people...
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Overheard in the Government Center Elevator
Woman (to man): You are retiring soon, right?
Man: Yes, August of 2007
My subconscious: It is hot in here and someone has been smoking.
Woman: You don’t have it down to the days?
Man: 449 days
My subconscious: Why do so many middle aged men working for Hennepin County wear Hawaiian print shirts?
Woman: And have you settled on a place to retire?
Man: Yes, we have decided on Bismarck.
My subconscious: Hmmm…there must be another Bismarck. Maybe there is a Bismarck in Germany…
Woman: Do you have family in North Dakota?
My subconscious: Man – Be gentle when you mock her for thinking that you would move to North Dakota.
Man: No, it’s #28 on Kiplinger’s list of great places to live.
My subconscious: Retiring to North Dakota?!? Please, if there is a god, don’t let me work at the county so long as to believe life would be better in Bismarck.
Man: Yes, August of 2007
My subconscious: It is hot in here and someone has been smoking.
Woman: You don’t have it down to the days?
Man: 449 days
My subconscious: Why do so many middle aged men working for Hennepin County wear Hawaiian print shirts?
Woman: And have you settled on a place to retire?
Man: Yes, we have decided on Bismarck.
My subconscious: Hmmm…there must be another Bismarck. Maybe there is a Bismarck in Germany…
Woman: Do you have family in North Dakota?
My subconscious: Man – Be gentle when you mock her for thinking that you would move to North Dakota.
Man: No, it’s #28 on Kiplinger’s list of great places to live.
My subconscious: Retiring to North Dakota?!? Please, if there is a god, don’t let me work at the county so long as to believe life would be better in Bismarck.
Friday, May 05, 2006
A Fast One
Remember how I was complaining about my boring workday and how the most exciting thing I did was wrestle with an industrial size stapler? Well, I'm yearning for that simpler time...
We are incredibly busy at work. If you sell Cuisinarts on commission, busy is great news. If you are a social worker who investigates abuse, not so much. We are investigating record numbers of abuse/neglect/exploitation cases right now which does not say much about the current state of the world.
I have 20 cases to close and about 20 more to open. I hate it when work gets in the way of blogging.
So, I just wanted to post some exciting pictures to keep you all updated on the construction progress at my house. I was looking in through what will be the windows and actually pictured art on the walls. I am way past the angst of the fork in the road and am downright thrilled.
We are incredibly busy at work. If you sell Cuisinarts on commission, busy is great news. If you are a social worker who investigates abuse, not so much. We are investigating record numbers of abuse/neglect/exploitation cases right now which does not say much about the current state of the world.
I have 20 cases to close and about 20 more to open. I hate it when work gets in the way of blogging.
So, I just wanted to post some exciting pictures to keep you all updated on the construction progress at my house. I was looking in through what will be the windows and actually pictured art on the walls. I am way past the angst of the fork in the road and am downright thrilled.
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
911
Luisa and I are in the kitchen preparing dinner. Zeca is hanging on to my pant leg, begging for food. We hear beeping from the living room, the sounds of the buttons on the cordless phone. I enter the living room and find Miguel sitting on the couch with the phone in his hand.
Me: Miguel, what are you doing?
Miguel: I'm going to call 911.
Me: If you call 911 and the police come to the house and there is no emergency, you will get into a lot of trouble.
Miguel: When the police come to arrest you, do they already know which jail they are going to take you to?
Me: Honey, the police don't usually take kids to jail.
Miguel: So, they would probably just take me to juvy?
Who is this kid hanging out with?
Me: Miguel, what are you doing?
Miguel: I'm going to call 911.
Me: If you call 911 and the police come to the house and there is no emergency, you will get into a lot of trouble.
Miguel: When the police come to arrest you, do they already know which jail they are going to take you to?
Me: Honey, the police don't usually take kids to jail.
Miguel: So, they would probably just take me to juvy?
Who is this kid hanging out with?
Monday, May 01, 2006
Too Much
I haven’t slept well in days. Zeca and I both have bad colds, Miguel seems to have lost the ability to cover himself at night and, on Saturday night, I had those 7 tiny pomegranate martinis and 2 beers. That said, I don’t have high hopes for wit and coherence here. Lower your expectations right now.
Saturday night was the Lake Country School auction. I’ve gone to this event for years and always have a fabulous time. I mill about bidding on the silent auction items. I stop by the Marketplace and buy some Lake Country apparel and paraphernalia. I chat, joke and laugh with people I barely know (which is no easy task for an introvert). I feel all bubbly and happy and a part of something bigger than myself. I even start to feel like I am just like everyone else there, like we all have so much in common. Then, the live auction begins.
The big ticket item at the auction this year was a trip for six to a private home in Telluride, Colorado. The trip included travel by private jet, gourmet meals (including one provided by a top chef), private ski lessons, skiing or other outdoor activities and massages. The estimated value of the trip was $14,500 and it was donated by a family at the school. The bidding began at around $3,000 (I can’t remember exactly because of the aforementioned martinis). My friends and I stood in awe as the people around us kept raising their hands and the bidding…$5,000, $10,000, $15,000 – sold for $17,000. Then, five minutes later the family that donated the trip decided to offer another to the second highest bidder, the guy who bid $16,500. In moments, the school had raised $33,500. I could never offer such a trip (let alone, two) nor could I ever afford to bid on such a trip. It is fun to be around that kind of money but it also made me a bit sick to my stomach. Granted, it could have been the pomegranate martinis and all the free pork but I really think it was the wealth.
On the outside, I am a middle class, educated professional but, inside, I am working class just like my parents. My mother grew up poor – didn’t have an indoor bathroom poor, lost everything in a flood poor, three to a bed poor. She graduated from high school and became a typesetter for a printing company. My father owned a small bar in our working class neighborhood. As a kid, I remember a generalized feeling of stress around issues of work, insurance and money but my basic needs were always met. I remember being told that I could not have certain things because we did not have the money for them but those were extra things, not needed things. I never knew that my parents could barely make ends meet. I didn’t know that my mother hocked her jewelry one year to buy me Christmas presents. I didn’t know that she had to work overtime to pay for my guitar lessons. Even though my parents shielded me from some of the hard truths, somehow, that working class experience still shaped the person I have become. Even though I probably make more than my parents made combined, I worry more about money than just about anything else. I worry that we don’t have enough money, that we won’t have enough tomorrow, that we can’t do the things we need to do for our children. Sometimes, for an added twist (and because I am so good at this), I worry that we have too much, that we do too much for our children, that they are spoiled and will grow up feeling entitled. I alternate between an overwhelming sense of privilege and associated guilt and a desperate sense that tomorrow is the day when everything will fall to pieces and I will have to make my children’s clothes out of paper bags and duct tape.
So, it’s surreal for me to stand next to a person who can bid $17,000 for a vacation, seemingly without much thought. I have to force myself to focus on the school. I can’t allow my mind to wander or my working and middle class sensibilities begin to plot an uprising. It’s just too much…too much money, too much comfort, too much ease – just too much. I have to remind myself that the money is for this very special school. I have to think about the values of Lake Country and that those values have nothing to do with wealth and privilege. I have to think about the school’s focus on independent thought and community service. I have to think about my son’s love of his school and I have to reflect on all that it has given him. Then, I can applaud the winning bidders. I can laugh and drink and play Twister – my middle class self all tangled up with the rich.
Saturday night was the Lake Country School auction. I’ve gone to this event for years and always have a fabulous time. I mill about bidding on the silent auction items. I stop by the Marketplace and buy some Lake Country apparel and paraphernalia. I chat, joke and laugh with people I barely know (which is no easy task for an introvert). I feel all bubbly and happy and a part of something bigger than myself. I even start to feel like I am just like everyone else there, like we all have so much in common. Then, the live auction begins.
The big ticket item at the auction this year was a trip for six to a private home in Telluride, Colorado. The trip included travel by private jet, gourmet meals (including one provided by a top chef), private ski lessons, skiing or other outdoor activities and massages. The estimated value of the trip was $14,500 and it was donated by a family at the school. The bidding began at around $3,000 (I can’t remember exactly because of the aforementioned martinis). My friends and I stood in awe as the people around us kept raising their hands and the bidding…$5,000, $10,000, $15,000 – sold for $17,000. Then, five minutes later the family that donated the trip decided to offer another to the second highest bidder, the guy who bid $16,500. In moments, the school had raised $33,500. I could never offer such a trip (let alone, two) nor could I ever afford to bid on such a trip. It is fun to be around that kind of money but it also made me a bit sick to my stomach. Granted, it could have been the pomegranate martinis and all the free pork but I really think it was the wealth.
On the outside, I am a middle class, educated professional but, inside, I am working class just like my parents. My mother grew up poor – didn’t have an indoor bathroom poor, lost everything in a flood poor, three to a bed poor. She graduated from high school and became a typesetter for a printing company. My father owned a small bar in our working class neighborhood. As a kid, I remember a generalized feeling of stress around issues of work, insurance and money but my basic needs were always met. I remember being told that I could not have certain things because we did not have the money for them but those were extra things, not needed things. I never knew that my parents could barely make ends meet. I didn’t know that my mother hocked her jewelry one year to buy me Christmas presents. I didn’t know that she had to work overtime to pay for my guitar lessons. Even though my parents shielded me from some of the hard truths, somehow, that working class experience still shaped the person I have become. Even though I probably make more than my parents made combined, I worry more about money than just about anything else. I worry that we don’t have enough money, that we won’t have enough tomorrow, that we can’t do the things we need to do for our children. Sometimes, for an added twist (and because I am so good at this), I worry that we have too much, that we do too much for our children, that they are spoiled and will grow up feeling entitled. I alternate between an overwhelming sense of privilege and associated guilt and a desperate sense that tomorrow is the day when everything will fall to pieces and I will have to make my children’s clothes out of paper bags and duct tape.
So, it’s surreal for me to stand next to a person who can bid $17,000 for a vacation, seemingly without much thought. I have to force myself to focus on the school. I can’t allow my mind to wander or my working and middle class sensibilities begin to plot an uprising. It’s just too much…too much money, too much comfort, too much ease – just too much. I have to remind myself that the money is for this very special school. I have to think about the values of Lake Country and that those values have nothing to do with wealth and privilege. I have to think about the school’s focus on independent thought and community service. I have to think about my son’s love of his school and I have to reflect on all that it has given him. Then, I can applaud the winning bidders. I can laugh and drink and play Twister – my middle class self all tangled up with the rich.
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