Have you met my grandparents? They have all passed on now, but a quick glance back to their lives always shifts perspective and pulls focus in my life.
A Lack of Focus
Thought generation is in bits and pieces this week. Twice this week Will has corrected my driving en-route to school and activities. “Aren’t we supposed to be taking Joe to gymnastics?” I had picked up James but turned a corner away from Joe's house.
“Ah, yes,” I thanked Will as I turned the van around. I believe the van was on auto-pilot to Liam’s school. Wrong place. Wrong time of day. Wrong kid.
“My mom makes wrong turns all the time,” James said. He was clearly un-phased that I had forgotten Joe. “But Dad never does.”
Then this morning, Will stated with hesitation, “I thought Kristine was riding to school with us this morning…”
“Thanks, Will!” Again, I turned the van around.
"Being in the moment" is not me this week. Situations need mulling before action is taken. Schedules need ironed out to get everyone to where they need to go. Little vignettes have been running in my head on a non-stop loop.
This is my third hour sitting in the Quiet Room at the public library to write – two hours yesterday and one, thus far, today. In an attempt to empty my head of those vignettes, I wrote “Put it out of my mind” at the top of a paper, followed by a list of things I cannot resolve or act on when my butt is in this seat.
Then, I reminded myself:
No phone calls. It’s the Quiet Room.
No personal emails. It’s my rule when in the Quiet Room.
No worrying. It’s my writing time.
And, I’m stumped. Not for lack of material, but for lack of focus. For not knowing what to write about. My thought: There needs to be a smoother transition from chief of operations in the house to this writer sitting at a keyboard. As COO within the last hour, I made phone calls, paid bills, returned emails, threw laundry on; then raced out the door to get my butt in this chair so I would have a solid chunk of time to write before picking up my sons from school; made the “forget it” list; flung open the computer… and watched time pass while writing about nothing.
Now, two hours later and still, nothing.
Yes, the transition. It needs to be more fluid and more thoughtful. To reign in the piece of me that belongs right here, in this moment. That woman who writes works in a lower gear than the one who drove here. Maybe the writer will be here next week. If she makes the right turn.
It truly is a Hump Day. And this is a Hump Day Shorter-than-Short.
Digital Natives vs Digital Immigrants
Bill and I have always been fascinated by sub-cultures. Our personal definition of sub-culture refers to unique, niche interests that draw individuals together who have rich experiences creating a culture outside our normal, day-to-day life. In general, although we may dabble in these groups, we aren’t one of them but are in awe of their existence and the passion their people have for their “things.” A couple weeks ago, I volunteered to accompany Liam to the Boston Festival of Indie Games. Bill went last year, and I remembered the fatigue on his face when he returned home, and I remember the excitement on Liam’s face. Gaming. A sub-culture neither Bill nor I are a part of, but we live oh-so-close to the neighborhood.
At parenting and educational conferences over the years, I picked up a couple terms that help distinguish the players in and the watchers of this sub-culture: digital natives and digital immigrants.
Digital natives were born into the world of technology; it’s been with them since birth – the Internet, video games, hand-held devices. iDevices really are intuitive to these people. Our sons Will and Liam are digital natives.
Digital immigrants were born before the wide use of technology. In my senior year of college, our library installed ten computers for 2,100 students. We had to sign up for half-hour slots to use them. I loved the feeling of my fingers dancing over the keys and words streaming out. In fact, had I been born ten years later, I’m sure that writing would have been a career I pursued in my twenties rather than my forties. For Bill and me, iDevices are a kind of necessary evil. Bill and I are digital immigrants.
Used in a sentence, these two digital communities are more often joined by “versus” than “and.” The parent-child relationship of our era falls hard on native vs immigrant. As for the communication surrounding the use of extra-curricular technology in our home, I impale myself regularly on the sword of transition away from technology to something – anything – that doesn’t involve a screen. And each time is as painful as the previous, particularly when the native leaves the computer screen and migrates to the TV. This big screen is seen by the native as “electronics-free.”
My anxiety level rose as the day approached when I would spend hours purposefully visiting this sub-culture of gaming. I envisioned walking into a swarm of digital natives, and not being able to tell anyone to “Turn it off!”
Once parked at MIT, we ran up five floors to the auditorium. Our eyes were glassy in disbelief: mine at the height of the climb, Liam at the multitude of gaming tables set up. Liam, who is ten, didn’t hesitate to ask the game designers if he could try their games. The designers hovered over Liam to watch how he worked his way through their games. Despite age differences of a decade or more, they spoke the same language and were very respectful to one another.
As this was an Indie Fest, these were all independent game designers working to create games that they would hopefully sell via STEAM or some other avenue. I see STEAM as an on-line catalog where gamers can buy access to games they want to play on-line. STEAM requires new games to be voted in by gamers who play the games available on a trial-basis. Once designers attain enough votes, their games are “green-lighted” on STEAM.
All of the designers I met were employed full-time as computer guys – software, hardware, IT, programming – I heard all of those terms tossed in with the words “my day job.” So their passion, their hobby, is game design. Some had worked for months on their games, others for a few years. For many, this festival was the debut of their games and the road to getting players to vote them onto STEAM.
While standing for a good 45 minutes at one table while Liam pursued level after level, a young man and I chatted. Kevin was “a big” in the Big Brother, Big Sister program and his “little” was battling with Liam.
“So, how do you feel about gaming?” he asked. “My girlfriend doesn’t want her (future) kids to have electronics, but I’m OK with them. I was a big gamer myself.”
I shared my strategies of trying to monitor time spent on electronics. I might have mentioned impalement. Then I fessed up, “I think this is Liam’s thing. He’s hard-wired to like computers and programming. No matter how many limits I put on him, he loves this.”
“That’s what my mom and dad tried with me too. Until a certain age, then they gave up and just let me play whenever I wanted to.” Kevin may have seen me cringe.
“So,” he continued, “I’m torn. I get what my girlfriend says, but I loved gaming! What do you think?”
“You’ve held eye contact with me during our whole conversation. And we had a great conversation. No matter your decision, I think your kids will be fine,” I predicted. “Are you a programmer now?”
Kevin’s eyes danced as he explained what he is working on: the internet of things. He described his job as the cutting edge career for programmers. Basically, every day things are connected to the Internet and data flows between the thing and the thing’s company. In the future, will the Malcolms never run out of Northern toilet paper because the Internet connection on the toilet rolls will track what’s purchased, what’s used, and tell Northern when to send a new shipment?
Kevin and the designers who I met are of the digital native sub-culture, which will soon be mainstream. Or, perhaps it already is… So, while I’m not tossing in the hat to controlling how much gaming goes on in our house, I do acknowledge that Liam is most definitely a digital native by the simple fact that he is ten.
Happy Hump Day, from the digital immigrant who will always feel the ping of being a foreigner, despite fifty solid years on this planet.
Me First!
Having been away from the keyboard for a while, it’s tough to decide where to start. I’m picking up at the beginning of our vacation to England, a kind of prequel to the story about our canal navigation. We were flying to England via an overnight flight that originated in Boston then connected to a trans-Atlantic flight out of D.C. We had left just enough time to get to the airport for the 7:00 p.m. flight. I remember thinking how well the packing of a six bags came together. The bags were in the van, and I opened the refrigerator one last time to see if anything really needed attention. Generally, I use this cold box as a preserver of rotting things while we are away, so the garbage in the garage doesn’t reek. My intent of this last look was to identify anything that would need to go into the deep-freeze until our return.
I saw a strange plastic bag laying on top of the egg carton. I was stunned by the contents: my monthly injection of Lupron. An important ingredient in my post-breast cancer 10-year plan. I had picked it up from the pharmacy the day before, and as I left the pharmacy, I had called my doctor’s office to make a morning appointment for the day we flew. The appointment was set – but not written in my calendar. Nearly hysterical, I looked at Bill. “I made sure everyone else was taken care of – except me! ME!”
Bill looked at me, waiting for a plan. I looked at him, trying to think of a plan. “I could do it,” he suggested. I declined. This was an inter-muscular injection. The jab of the 1 ½” needle needed to be done with a bit of gusto, but not too much gusto.
“Let’s go to the ER,” I suggested. This was a pretty straight forward emergency. My flight left in two hours. I wasn’t confident that I could take the injection with me in my carry-on then find a jabber in the UK. I definitely didn’t want to pack it in the cargo. The replacement value was too great. Over $2,000.
In a kind of keep-the-car-running state of mind, I hopped out at the ER. The receptionist looked at me. Clearly not believing I could’ve forgotten this errand. “I’ll see what I can do,” ended with a, “I would need to check you into a room and there is a huge wait. Linda, I think you should try an urgent care.” The airport was directly south of the ER. The closest urgent care was southwest of the ER. While I was in the ER, a gift arrived: a text came saying our flight had been delayed by an hour.
I plugged the urgent care address into the GPS as Bill drove. I called the urgent care office and explained the situation. Again, I could hear confused disbelief that I could have forgotten this task. I lost the call as we pulled into the parking lot. Bill dropped me off at the same door I had walked through for the lumpectomy in August 2009. Surgery and urgent care shared the same entrance at the hospital.
I carried the Lupron kit with me ready to hand it off like a baton in a relay. Two nurses greeted me and said they would try to get the attending to sign off on it, but normally, they administered only injections from their own pharmacy. “Could we see that?” Thank goodness, the hand-off had been made! Fifteen minutes later, one of them returned. “Linda, I’m so sorry but we can’t do it. You could try this organization called Doctor’s Express – here’s the number, or there are step-by-step directions in the package so you could have someone do it for you.” I wanted her to step out of her profession and be my friend. It didn’t happen.
Then and there the moment hit. It wasn’t so much a line in the sand but rather a line drawn with a wide permanent marker across the threshold of the hospital door. I wasn’t leaving the hospital without having the injection. “Could you tell me where the bathroom is?”
A running pep talk started in my head. “God helps them who help themselves.” “You got this, Linda!” “You’ve seen this done hundreds of times!” “This is nothing!” Thank goodness for the little voices in my head.
In the dimly lit public bathroom, I popped open the packaging. The Lupron syringe was in a flat plastic case, measuring about seven inches long and four inches wide. With shaking hands, I pulled out the neatly folded instruction sheet and started to unfold it. And unfolded. And unfolded. Until I had the poster-sized instruction sheet laying across the sink. I did a quick scan to find the main instructions. In one column, there were pictures included. It reminded of me when you bought a new printer and just needed the quick start directions, never mind the manual.
I folded the poster in half and held it closer to my eyes to read it. Then farther away. The writing was so small my contact ensconced eyes couldn’t bring it into focus. I stared at myself in the mirror. I scooped one contact out and threw it into the garbage followed by the second. Now, with the poster pulled close to my nose, I could see the instructions.
I followed them step-by-step. There was only a pushing of saline up the syringe to mix with the medicine. Easy. Then I exposed my right hip, reached back, and jabbed it in. No pain. With seven years of this, the area was probably calloused. I gave the plunger a push all the way and stopped when I heard a bubbling sound. That wasn’t normal. I had emptied the syringe. I picked up all the pieces to this bizarre science experiment and tucked them back into the bag. Including the unopened alcohol wipes. Those would have been a good idea given the public nature of the room.
Blurry-eyed, I floated out of the hospital and to the car. “It’s done,” I told Bill. I handed him the poster of instructions. “You better take this with you in case I start acting funny.” I hadn’t checked to see if I had hit a blood vessel before administering the drug. My body was a limp rag on the passenger seat. And the flight had been delayed another hour; we had plenty of time to get to the airport.
Once at the airport, we found the delay was due to storms up and down the eastern seaboard. If we made it out of Logan, chances were good the flight out of DC wouldn’t get out that evening. The airline had already tentatively booked us on a 6 a.m. flight the next morning. We ditched the plan to fly that night.
Adrenaline surge. Adrenaline drain. Adrenaline surge. Adrenaline drain. My own bed felt good that night.
Now, back into the autumn routine, when I work on our family’s schedule and calendar, I mumble words of a 2-year-old: “Me first!”
First Day of School 2016
Today was Liam’s first day of school. Late last night, I vocalized my incredible success, “I pulled it all together!” My arms flew over my head in Rocky-like victory. It was a solo celebration. No one else seemed as excited as I was.
At 10 p.m. last night, I found Liam’s summer reading book about St. Benedict; it has been missing all summer. Earlier this week, we borrowed a copy from a friend so Liam could be prepared for the first day of class; then an email from the teacher two days ago indicated that her students would actually use the book the first day for an assignment, aka: Liam needed his copy.
I extracted all contents of Liam’s cubby and dumped them into a laundry basket, dug through his crate in the living room, and fingered individual titles on his living room bookshelf. Desperate, I moved to Will’s book shelves. And there it was – on a bookshelf, of all places! The wrong shelf, but on a book shelf! Who is this Mom?
Similarly, Liam's other summer read, Little House in the Big Woods, appeared. From Liam’s crate. But this wasn’t as big a kudos as it wasn’t really lost, just internally misplaced as I had seen it within the last week. Unlike St. Benedict, who had disappeared like a modern miracle upon entering our enclave.
The jumbo book covers from last year dropped into the laundry basket when I scooped out Liam’s cubby. Sure that they were in the house, I had chosen not to repurchase these. But as I laid my hands on them, I remembered Liam’s science book from last year: The book cover was so tight, the front cover would suddenly spring open when the book was just sitting on the table. That took a little getting used to. So, I’m not sure these are really jumbo book covers. Nevertheless, I stuff them in the outside pocket of Liam’s backpack.
At 9:30 last night, I reminded Liam that he still needed to try on his black sneakers to make sure they fit. “You are doing that now? Shouldn’t that have been done this morning?” Bill suggested. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the last 6 pages of the 12-page summer math packet and taken nearly six hours to complete that day.
At 10:15 last night, I remembered the first day of school was a Class A uniform day, formal uniform. I found the good black shoes in Liam’s closet and set them in his room for the next day. To complete this uniform, we just needed a belt – which had also fallen out of the cubby! Ahh… when the stars are in alignment!
As Liam went to bed, I asked him to get dressed when he woke up – before he came down stairs. He did! After explaining that it was a Class A day, I sent him back up for the black dress shoes. They fit. He came down with white socks on and his shirt tucked in. Black socks, please.
Seeing summer boys transform to school boys warms my heart. They look so good in tidy, new clothes. That match. That aren’t stained. That aren't ripped. That aren't too short.
When we pulled up to Liam’s school, he saw a friend being dropped off. “Hi, Michael! Wait for me!” And our last words were, “Could you close the door for me, Mom?” Followed by my nearly unheard, “Have fun!”
I watched as he walked into school with his buddy. They were 5th graders now. And all of them were dressed in the 5th grade Class A shirt, tie, and pants. Except for Liam. Still, he was near perfection in his 4th grade Class A polo shirt, shorts, and black shoes.
As for Will, he and I had a mature heart to heart over the weekend. He is nearly 13 and started 8th grade yesterday. While I had been nudging his independence, I verbally turned the reins over to him, and in just two days, he has stepped up to the challenge. Preparing for school every day – from showering and picking up the bathroom to brushing teeth and getting breakfast – is up to him, and he needs to plan for getting up in time to do what he needs to do.
No longer will I say, “Brush your teeth.” Just know that the consequence of not brushing is dentures at the age of 50. No longer will I say, “Pick up the bathroom.” Know that your future partner will not like this habit. No longer will I pound on my bedroom floor at 11 p.m. as a signal for him to get to bed. No longer will I suggest when he does his homework.
Life is changing. Kids are growing up. And, honestly, I don’t have the brain power to micro-manage more than one child to near perfection, for Linda Malcolm, the writer, is knocking at the door.
Happy Hump Day!
My Hands are on the Steering Wheel, not the Keyboard
My hands are on the steering wheel not the keyboard. The summer swirls around us, doesn't it? Now, as we head into the dog days of summer, I'm heading off the grid for most of the month. Research for fall. Living in the moment. Making summer moments.
Driving to summer happenings, I'm Miss Frizzle to one young friend when I drive the Magic School Bus, aka: the van with automatic doors and a DVD player and an abundance of friends riding along. And soon, I'll be the Midwest aunt shuttling cousins here and there. These escapades send me headlong into the present. A place where we should all spend a little more time with a lot less worry.
So, I leave here to go be. And while I'm being, the dining room table and the laundry room, together with the piles throughout the house from attempted, intermittent, interrupted sorts, will need to wait for a few more weeks. The crab grass in the flower gardens will continue to add to the greenery around the house. The groundhog's salad bar is open until I find bulk cayenne pepper at the end of the month.
In the coming days, I'll be sorting water balloons, beach towels, and campfires with family and friends. I'll take a pen and paper, but if August follows suit of June and July, my hands will remain on the wheel or the rudder.
Titles for the work of fall, when my tools shift from wheel to keyboard, are already surfacing:
"Growing Up Together 1,000 Miles Apart" "Watching an Iowa Boy Surf" "A Trip to the Emergency Room" (Not to worry, this is a humorous story and no one was injured.) "The Real England: Eton Mess" "How to Break Into a Canal Boat" "A Salad Bar Fit for a Groundhog"
I hope your summer stories are also building. I've left a pile of mine for you, in case your reading material is slim. Check out "About Linda Malcolm" for a few favorites.
Linda Malcolm, over and out.
Happy Hump Day.
Henna
Unexpected small things. The tiniest juxtapositions. They feed my soul. And inspire Hump Day Shorts.
Saturday I went to my local farmer’s market. Despite the 95-degree humid morning. Even if I don’t need cheese, corn, or fish, I go. I find cheese, corn, and zucchini. But no fish this Saturday. The people at the market are there by choice – vendors and shoppers. Present by choice makes for a light-hearted, friendly atmosphere. In the middle of this little buzzing commerce, I saw a girl sitting across from a woman. They were close together, and I thought it was probably a face painting stand. Moving in to see the artwork, I saw the woman was drawing a henna design on the little girl’s foot.
While I don’t have a bucket list on paper, having a henna design on my hand is something that often rumbles in the back of my head. I haven’t searched out a henna artist; rather she just appeared on this hot sticky morning. And even though this was intended to be a quick corn and zucchini stop, I sat down and ordered my design.
My henna artist grew up in India. She kind of chuckled when I asked how she learned to do this. It would seem while a little girl growing up in Iowa makes great mud pies from the rain and good, black Iowa dirt, a little girl in India creates henna paste from plants that grow in her backyard. Henna powder, lemon juice, sugar, and eucalyptus oil create the paste used to make these temporary tattoos. Henna design is a finer art than that of globbing mud bowls together.
In ten minutes, I walked away with a piece of art on the back of my hand. And little bits of knowledge about this person and her culture. I love Indian food; she still cooks Indian food every day. She makes her own cheese for sag paneer -- spinach with cheese, and she suggested a new Indian restaurant for me to try. As a follower of Jainism, she is a vegetarian, and the mainstay of her religious beliefs is the honoring of all life, plus absolute peace. Quite contrary to my growing up on a farm where our livelihood relied fair and square on the animals we raised to eat. Absolute peace. Did she fight with her brothers and sisters? I wondered but didn't ask. She was she and I am me.
Honestly, I never go to the market just for vegetables.
Narrow Boat Navigation through Stratford Canal Bridges & Locks
Boats with rudders are steered from the stern of the boat, from the back end. Instead of a steering wheel like we had while sailing with friends 20 years ago in the Caribbean and in the Greek Ionian islands, our narrow boat on the Stratford Canal in England had a three-foot horizontal piece of wood, about waist high to me, pointing toward the bow of the boat. With the steering wheel, the boat went the way you turned the wheel. Not so with the narrow boat. I haven’t researched the rudder to understand the logistics of what’s happening underwater. I just tried to remember as best as I could this if-then statement for the canals: If, for instance, the boat is heading toward the right-hand side bank, then you push the rudder hard in that direction so as not to crash into the bank. I thought this would be the toughest lesson. It wasn’t. Thinking in reverse while steering kicked in pretty quickly.
When we took possession of the “Teddington,” the engineers gave us a walk-through of the boat – focusing largely on the interior. How to flush the toilet. How to make sure the motor runs 5 hours a day so the battery has enough power to keep lights on at night. And to operate the pump that helps flush the toilet. How to fill the water tank with water every day. So there is always enough water to flush the toilet.
As far as traveling, our top speed would be about 4 mph – only the pace of a fast walk. When we come to a lock, we were to slow down and give ourselves time to line the boat up with the opening. With a beautiful English accent, this grandfatherly gentleman smoothly explained how to best navigate into the locks: “Look up the gunnels on one side of the boat and keep that side about an inch-and-a-half way from the wall. If you do this, you don’t have to worry about having enough space on the other side to clear the wall. You’ll be fine.”
That was so straight forward I nearly laughed. Actually, I think we may have started to laugh but then realized he was dead serious. And this was his best advice to us: From the back of a 48-foot boat, using a rudder to steer, stay one-and-a-half inches from the side of the lock. Our boat measured 6’10” wide. Once in the locks, we had about three or four inches between us and either wall.
I was determined to man all aspects of this journey, including captaining the boat, steering down the canal, and operating the locks. I took the rudder the first day, within the first hour. I felt if I didn’t do it soon, I would lose courage altogether. Hence, this action shot in my new red rain coat.
I don’t recall the details of this particular event. Yes, I might have bumped a wall. Yes, it might have been a bit loud. Perhaps this is the one in which I yelled, "Bill, what do I do?" And he replied, "I don't know! You're the captain!"
My maneuvering techniques through bridges and into locks were sometimes noisy ones, but I maneuvered many of them as perfectly as Dad backing a tractor hitch to within an inch of the hole in a wagon tongue.
Back on solid ground, what I remember most is that the bridges and locks were forgiving. Once in the vicinity of the entrance, a little gas – and perhaps a little scraping – would result in perfection. Eventually.
Happy Hump Day.
The Red Rain Coat
I’m heading off the grid for a couple weeks. And taking the family with me. The three of them will probably find a way to stay connected to the dish in the sky, but I’m going to do my best to remain unplugged. Last Sunday, I went Amazon shopping for travel gear. All four of us need rain coats and rain pants. And rain boots. Or, Wellies, as they are called in Bill’s home country. We will be with Bill’s family hiking in Wales for five days next week; then the following week, the four of us will be living on a small narrowboat on the canals near Stratford-on-Avon. (Think basic RV stretched out to 48 feet.) Bill is grimacing: We’ve planned two weeks of outdoor summer vacations in the UK. Hence, the rain gear.
I’ll turn 50 on the narrowboat. When I planned the trip in March, I envisioned sky blue days, sitting on the aft or fore decks, floating down the canal. Hopping out of the boat at the locks to hand crank the gates open. Pushing the gates open to let the boat pass after the water is equal levels on either side of the gate. My American husband, born in the English gloom, has painted the very real potential of gray skies, four of us cramped inside a little boat, tied up on the side of the canal in a downpour, hands slipping on the cranks, and rubber Wellies skidding in the mud as we try to push the gates open.
Even if it is pouring with rain, I will be as dry and bright as can be.
So will Bill. I bought yellow for him. The only option for the boys’ high quality rain-gear, with a week advance notice, was black.
It will be a memorable 50th birthday, and there will certainly be story-worthy moments.
Hoping to fill the story hopper before I go, with a little advance planning and a little magical help of the internet.
Because I am going off the grid.
Happy Hump Day.
The Circus after the Circus
For Bill’s Father’s Day treat, we took him to the Cirque du Soleil show, Kurios. It ended at 7:30 p.m., and we decided to stop at Uno’s on the way home. Uno’s is a family favorite: buttered pasta for Liam, Kraft mac’n’cheese for Will, and a Numero Uno for Bill and me. Actually, Uno’s is one of my favorites because everyone will eat there, so a second meal doesn’t need to be prepared at home after we have dinner out. We weren’t starving but definitely needed some real food to counter the over-priced, sugar-filled snacks we bought at the big top. Liam was a chatterbox throughout the show and a happy little soul afterwards. Piecing the day together, at the Uno’s table, I realized that he had had marshmallows for breakfast, skipped the sandwich I had made him for lunch, and dined on popcorn and a bag of gummy bears at the circus. And, he had just ordered a glass of Dr. Pepper.
We guessed that this was our waitress’ first day on the job. Bill ordered a tall beer and a small beer was delivered. The requested Parmesan cheese and red pepper flakes came as we were eating our second slice of pizza. Will’s fries didn’t make it onto the order. As we ate our food, we all drained our first round of drinks and asked for a second.
Liam picked up his second soda as he was telling a story. With his hands. The lid flew off the glass and the glass flew into the air covering Liam with sweet sticky cola. I pulled my feet closer to the wall: brand new sandals wouldn’t take that brown yuck very well. We sopped up what we could from Liam’s seat and clothes with four paper dinner napkins and eight cocktail napkins. Liam turned to me and said, “I think I handled that pretty well, Mom. I didn’t yell or anything.” Our waitress brought us more napkins and said she would be back with a mop. Five minutes later, she came back to mop the floor. “Where’s the glass, Mom?” We couldn’t find it. And we weren’t offered another.
Liam was hardly fazed by the incident and squatted rather than sit his bum in wet clothes for the rest of the meal. “My shorts are soaked, but my underwear is dry! Isn’t that weird, Mom?” And on he went with his story. I watched a very capable waitress approaching our table and wondered how long she had been waiting tables. How long does it take to learn how to wait tables? She carried herself with a confidence that our waitress lacked. I never have – never could – wait tables.
As this waitress’ tray of drinks passed the center line of our table, she wobbled, and a margarita dumped onto the back of Liam’s seat before shattering on the floor. A beer bottle had done a simple tip to horizontal and beer was jugging over the edge in a foamy beerfall. Three other drinks had toppled, their contents adding to the lake on the floor. Thankfully, the waitress remained upright. I watched the whole slow motion production with wide eyes and a near chortle. One of those situations: I-hope-you-are-OK-because-that-was-hilarious!
She didn’t miss a beat. “What!?! No “Wet Floor” sign?” and then she apologized profusely to all the tables in our area. Our waitress hadn’t marked the floor where Liam’s drink had spilled and where she had mopped. Liam, still squatting said, “Hmm, I smell apple cider, Mom!” I scooched him to the front of the seat and saw remnants of the margarita that had landed under him. It smelled like an apple margarita. With one cocktail napkin, I brushed the slush to the floor where it splashed into the lake of truly mixed drinks. While we waited for someone to clean it up, the family seated behind us, in the shallow flood, stood up to leave. The dad said, “Wow, you’ve had a bit of bad luck at your table! I think we’ll get out of here before the roof caves in!” Yes, we were that family.
Three tables were flooded in for five minutes before someone appeared with the mop. What is with the mop? Why can’t anyone find it and put it to use in good time? I glanced at Bill’s glass of beer. I needed to make a break for it, and his glass was still half full. And his last slice of pizza was half-eaten. As a mom, I’ve inhaled food for 12 years. I’m ready to leave a restaurant the moment I sit down. Bill has not adopted this guaranteed indigestion routine. We left the table with the check in hand, and we helped Liam and Will skim over the wet floor.
At the front, we were confronted by the manager when we tried to pay. “You need to give that to the wait staff! I can’t process it here!” Our alpha male bristled. “We are sitting in a lake of drinks and broken glass all over the floor. We haven’t seen our waitress for five minutes!” I pulled him away to the little wait staff cubby in the back corner where an apologetic waiter helped us pay the bill.
On the way to the car, Liam – in his highly sensory armed little body – said, “Mom, how am I going to get home?”
“Whatever you need to do, Liam, do it. Take your shorts and shirt off if you want to.”
“And my underwear?”
“Why don’t you leave those on,” I suggested as we got into the car. We waited for Liam to get situated, and we laughed at the episode inside the restaurant. We discussed Murphy’s law. Our episode was a bit like a Gumball episode on Cartoon Network.
On the road, Liam suggested, “Mom, please don’t go too fast or too slow. I don’t want to get pulled over by the police. My reputation would be ruined for life!” We laughed. Surely, we could explain why our son was sitting in his underwear in the back seat.
At home, I put the car in the garage. Walking to the house, I saw Liam covering his bum with his shorts and his front with his shirt. Dodging naked from shadow to shadow 20 yards to the back door. “Liam, you forgot your underwear in the car.” I thought I was pointing out the obvious.
Giggling, Liam confessed, “I didn’t wear underwear tonight!”
It all started with marshmallows for breakfast.
Happy Hump Day.
Big Boys
In a Creative Writing seminar some 25 years ago, the instructor gave all of us the first line of another author’s story, and we each had to write a short story using that sentence as the lead-off. I thought of this exercise after reading a Facebook post from one of my cousins last week, and I’m borrowing her first sentence: "What a week!"
Or is it two weeks operating at this velocity? Two concerts, two field days, one final big school project for Liam, three baseball games, a hitting practice at the baseball cages, Will’s gymnastics practices, Bill’s birthday, a Saturday spent detailing three cars, Will’s golf matches and practices. On the weekends, we still go at that pace with piano and trumpet lessons, birthday parties, baseball games, and golf matches. And all around us, I see a multitude of families operating at the same speed.
The speed of life has made it impossible to put a coherent story on paper. Feeling a bit calmer now, I see the tip of summer about to rise.
Malcolm emotions ran high over past couple weeks. Perhaps I should own that: Linda's emotions. Seeing the misery on Will’s face as he detailed the goldfish van. A consequence for a pre-teen misstep. Feeling the misery of having to deal out this consequence and thinking how much I hate seeing him this miserable. Then, thinking he’s _not_ supposed to be enjoying this!. Then wondering, who is feeling worse? And pretty sure, based on the physical exhaustion from the mental parenting, that it’s me.
This reminded me of when Will was two and had a febrile seizure. His lips turned blue; I thought I had lost him. I began giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. And then at the hospital, realized he had been eating grapes at the time and was worried that I had blown a grape into his lung. Chest x-rays proved that had not happened. Two days later, he was happily playing fever-free. I was un-balanced and crying. The emotional stunning left me a wet noodle that spent the next few days just staring at him as he ate, played, and slept -- until a phone call from our adoption agency came a week after the seizure. Will had a little brother in Korea. And would we raise the two of them together? That final weep cleared the physical residue of thinking I had lost Will. I popped like a cork out of a physical sadness into gratefulness.
Today, I barely tilt my head to kiss Will’s forehead. This soon-to-be 8th grader has sprouted another inch-and-a-half since March. The two of us went shopping on our own this week for three pairs of longer shoes, a few pairs of longer shorts, and a couple longer golf shirts. Will's smile and willingness to shop conveyed more than words his gratitude for no longer being the smallest student at his school of 6th - 12th graders.
Will had a friend over Sunday night and as I listened to them chat, I turned away to smile. Both of their voices are deeper. When Liam was in the mix, the contrast of pitches was clear. When Will started 6th grade two years ago, he practiced this voice as he was surrounded by older kids in his class. Now, with that strong lower range, I’m asking him to speak up when we are in the van. And in the same breath, I’m asking Liam not to shriek in the van.
A few weeks ago, Will moved out of the bunk bed in the room he and Liam shared and into his own room. Liam graduated ecstatically to the top bunk where he crawls in bed by himself, and now, after just a quick pat and kiss from me, he goes to sleep. After years of sitting by Liam's bed until his eyes closed, this big boy moment that I thought would never come, appears. Curtly. Simply. Done.
The small children have left our house. As I changed sheets on Will’s bed Monday, this happened:
The 10-year-old pirate sheets served us well.
As my cousin closed her post, so I close this Hump Day Short:
"#exhausted #blessed"
Coupons Are Not Gifts
We are speeding down that spring slope toward summer. I’m letting go of tasks that are not vital and hanging on to the rest in my tightly-gripped paper calendar. Coupons were the first to go.
I’ve been an on-and-off again coupon clipper my whole life. Clipping coupons from the Sunday paper is therapeutic. My grandmas both clipped coupons, and my mom has over the years as well. As did my great-grandma. There is a smug gratification in clipping coupons until the total value of the coupons exceeds the price of the Sunday paper.
The system goes south after that leisurely Sunday afternoon snipping. I’ve found coupons at the bottom of purses crinkled and rubbed until they are barely recognizable. My “current” filing folders have 6-month-old coupons in the folder marked “Coupons.” Leaning against the coffee brewers are envelopes with coupons from the paper, plus little gift card-sized coupons I receive in the mail. That is the last wall I see before I walk out the door, right above the drawer where we keep our keys. And, I rarely grab the stack. I have a plastic zippered pouch in the glove compartment for gift cards to be used, but I hesitate to add coupons to that mix. Instead, if the coupons make it to the van, I place them next to me under my purse. Or with the coins in the compartment where ashtrays used to be. Or in the pocket of the door. For many, their value wanes in the mix of life, and I simply throw them away when I clean out the van. Expired or not, they mix in with other trash and that’s it.
A few times, I’ve been a coupon colonel and made a trip to the store only for coupon purchases. That’s more manageable than integrating specific coupon purchases into my normal grocery shopping list. A coupon list. The system worked – until I handed over the coupons to the cashier to find that I had lost a coupon en-route. Perhaps a 50-cent coupon on 10 cans of mushroom soup? The ire over this mishap overshadowed all the savings I had amassed in the $150 shopping trip to save multiple quarters, dimes, and nickels. How on earth could I lose that coupon? It was like walking by a garbage can and tossing in two quarters.
Sunday after Sunday I don’t clip coupons. Yet when I decide to make the effort, the moment my fingers touch a clipped coupon – that little piece of paper moves from its end life in the recycle bin to a slip with monetary value. From a scrap of paper to one-step away from quarters. Or back to garbage if it hangs in the van for too long.
Yes, coupons are out of my life for the next few weeks or months. If not before, they will definitely make their annual return in January after Christmas shopping expenses hit the books. But for the moment, that stack by the brewer is a reminder of tasks undone. Of no rational value to me. At the moment.
Coupons are not gifts. Regardless of how beautifully they are packaged.
A 25-year-old Piece of Oak
My 1992 living room table sails on the floor of my 1880 dining room. I push the table against the wall and a few days later it has slid down the wave toward the matching china closet. It doesn’t sail symmetrically; one leg is a little closer to the opposite wall. The good leg. The leg across from it on the width twists as if it’s fighting the movement. I lift the tabletop up and pop the leg back into place. Like marbles and pens dropped on the floor, the table is pulled toward the low side of the dining room. After 136 years, I see this and hope our house has finally settled. With any more listing, I envision the original structure detaching from the circa 1970 addition. Bill and I bought the oak table, six chairs, and a china hutch with money we received when we were married nearly 25 years ago. Two chairs are in the garage waiting for a ride to a wood worker to rejuvenate them. Two leaves stand in the basement at the ready to convert the 6-foot long table to a 9-foot long table. The matching china hutch holds many of the goblets also received as wedding gifts. When a fast-paced walk through the dining room makes the crystal clink as if a real toast is underway, I know it’s time to pull the goblets away from the hutch’s mirrored back. They too are within the gravitational pull of the wall opposite the table.
Setting the table when we have company takes more than putting place settings around the circumference of the rectangular slab. Ideally, this is a two-person job: Standing near the wall, Bill and I lift the end of the table, pull it toward the wall then straighten the legs before setting it down. Then we move to the other end of the table, lift it again, and straighten those legs. Finally, I run my hand along the top back of each of the chairs and with my fingernail push in the tiny tacks that poke out. Otherwise, they would scratch or jab our guests.
The tabletop is a source of stress for Bill. It shows its age. The marks from hot bowls and the peeling dry wood reminds me of all the people who have sat at or walked around this table. I think when Bill sees the same imperfections, the table registers as an asset that we haven’t taken care of very well. For his sake, I always keep a tablecloth on it, and if I want to change it for company, I do it quickly and discreetly.
The biggest culprit of that ragged table top is most likely our Curry Open House Nights held when we lived in Rockford, IL, some 16 years ago. With many Brits and cooks in our social circle, we started an annual tradition in the dead of winter. Each February we put the word out: bring an Indian dish to pass and Malcolms will provide Indian Pale Ale (IPA) beer. Indian food only. No exceptions. I had 40 enormous plates that I set out on the fully extended dining room table. The table was filled with mouth-watering Indian dishes from 10 – 20 families. One year I sent out an email asking for everyone to bring serving utensils. As the party grew in size, I knew we would be short on big spoons. One couple, not sure exactly what I was looking for, brought their entire utensil drawer. I think we used ice cream scoops that evening.
Couples, a couple couples, and a few couples have sat down to dinner at this table. Family from Iowa. Family from England. Local family friends. Illinois friends. Massachusetts friends. Friends who traveled great distances to "snack around the Malcolm table." Breakfasts, lunches, and dinners. Science and social studies projects. Uncountable nights and days that tabletop has gathered people together.
At a Christmas cookie swap in December 2014, only a couple invitees were able to come. Still, it was an evening filled with great conversation and laughter. And as I look at this scene, the people that I “see” outnumber the guests who were there. My friends from Rockford who gave us the cork wreath; my dad who brought back a big round platter for me from California when I was a teen; my grandma whose tablecloth is on the table; my mom who gave me the gold stand; my college roommate whose grandmother gave me the recipe for thumbprint cookies; and my sister-in-law who gave me the sugar cookie recipe. A scene filled with memories.
Its joints are loose, but the solid wood should carry us through another 25 years of memories.
Riding the Strands of Fireworks. Deja vu.
A single fuse is lit. A gust of gun powder soars into the sky as one and pops into a sprinkling of sparkling, bright fireworks. It’s not a vision of the 4th of July. It’s the explosion of everyone’s spring activities. Post spring break. Well choreographed are the questions. “Where are you supposed to be tonight?” “Who should you send these pictures to?” “Is this a practice or a game?” “What day does your flight leave?” “Where is your uniform?” “Which baseball shoes are mine?” “Do you have a white shirt and black pants for me?” “What time do you need to be there?” “What you do you want to do for Mother’s Day?” “How many more days are left of school?” And it’s me asking that last question. 21.
Families who have kids in elementary school are riding on the same combustive fuselage.
... All of that might sound familiar: I wrote it May 13th in 2014. It was a deja vu moment when I tried to write the Hump Day Short this week. A couple year's ago, a friend and I were talking about how we liked change, and I told her that I loved the change of seasons. To which she replied, "But it's the same change every year!" So it's a predictable change. That's what this post-spring break era is.
Thursday was the mid-show big firework display. I sketched out my second eight hours of the day on a yellow sticky in half hour increments. I would be leaving the house at 2:00 to drop off Liam's drum at school for band. Then I would scamper around dropping off and picking up until 7:00 p.m. when all four of us would land at the same spot, Will's spring concert at school.
As chauffeur for the day, I decided to dress as a professional driver. I slipped over my head the only dress I own. In low, comfortable heels, I packed a snare drum case, a golf bag, a baseball bag, and a trumpet, then loaded them into the van, together with three changes of clothes and three pairs of shoes. The back of my van looked like the backstage of a production about to go live on stage. I bought sunflower seeds for baseball and Cheeze-its for on-the-road snacks and deodorant and Static Guard for me, the chauffer. My mind was in the game.
As I weaved my way through the scheduled drop-offs and pick-ups, my spirits were high. I landed at the concert a bit smug with the success of my polished five-hour drive. And, while watching my 7th-grader's concert, I counted up to 12. Just five years until Will's last spring concert.
There are a finite number of these days remaining. In a few years, I will be dressed as a spring chauffeur with no place to go. The patterned seasonal changes I so look forward to will take a drastic change.
This morning, a twinge of foreseen pain accompanies my footsteps to the dryer to retrieve Liam's baseball uniform for today's game.
Coloring
I just read this quote by Anthony Hopkins: “We are dying from overthinking. We are slowly killing ourselves by thinking about everything. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. You can never trust the human mind. It’s a death trap.” I’ve thought too much about this topic. It’s time to flush it from my mind.
Adult coloring books.
I’ve tried so hard to understand their allure. I don’t know what words to first put on the page.
A page from a Harry Potter coloring book came home in Liam’s backpack this week. Scholastics Reading Club is promoting the book. The main image on the page is of Harry’s Snowy Owl Hedwig, flying with his wings wide, the tips reaching edge to edge on the paper. In the background are leaves on skinny branches, flowers on pencil-thin stems, and birds tucked into the leaves. Each of these objects is no bigger than the tip of my little finger, the smallest the tip of a pencil. I see 40,000 objects to color. With the help of a microscope.
No. In fact, I see this as a depiction of my brain trying to manage 50,000 inputs and outputs. Out of control and getting all entwined. If I attempted to color this page, I would need a blank sheet of paper next to me where I could write down what I thought of as I colored each leaf. The busyness would spark a massive to-do list:
Collect toilet tube rolls. Stuff lint from trap in dryer into toilet tube rolls. Schedule camping trip summer so Liam can use stuffed toilet tube rolls as kindling. Un-stuff toilet tube rolls for Liam’s recycled robot project at school. Collect paper towel rolls. Stuff lint from dryer into paper towel rolls. Un-stuff paper towel tubes rolls for Will’s Boy Scout model rocket. Put Ziploc bag in laundry room to collect lint.
And that’s just eight little leaves and flowers on the tiniest dryer lint branch.
Psychologists, therapists, and whoever else studies the human brain and human behavior have declared that coloring in these intricate adult coloring books reduces stress and anxiety. Not for me. I’ve flipped the page over so as not to have to look at those leaves. And the Snowy Owl. That is already white. The biggest image on the page doesn’t need to be colored!
I am intrigued by the hobby: I have quietly colored for years. Not often, maybe once every three months. And now, this new mania lends legitimacy to my guilty pleasure.
I’ve fanned pages of many adult coloring books but not found one that I like. Mom gave all of us girls one for Christmas. The images are slightly bigger than the norm, and I have colored a couple pages in it using soft water color pencils. This page took a few sittings.
I noticed when I use colored pencils, a piece of the coloring experience is missing: the childhood smell and smoothness of Crayola crayons. Like opening a can of Play-Doh, I plunge my nose into the box when I flip back the lid. Deep inhaling is part of the therapy.
Other than my tools of choice, the main difference between my passion and this fad is in the object to be colored. For me and my neighbor, who has confessed the same, we like big, simple pictures. Those where we take long sweeping strokes and gradually fill in between the lines. Coloring books with these images are hard to find. There are many “giant coloring books” on the market for kids, but few have giant pictures. I flip through coloring books whenever I walk through children’s book sections at stores. A few months ago, I came across a 224-page book that has perfect images -- no Disney characters and no Super Heroes. Just pages and pages of simple, innocent black outlines.
And with this frog, my choices were no more complicated than the number of greens in a box of 96 Crayola crayons. I wouldn’t want any more choices than this.
The freedom to sweep back and forth in the big white spaces is incredibly relaxing. I can stick close to reality with four shades of green or let my imagination wander and pick the colors willy-nilly.
Plus, I can finish a page in less than five minutes. I can finish a project in less than five minutes and have something to show for it!
It takes nearly five minutes to pick the lint out of five paper towel tubes.
Happy Hump Day.
Bits of the Real Iowa
In Iowa over spring break last week, I pulled into a parking lot and rolled my window down while waiting to meet a friend. I heard familiar birds cackling from a small grove of evergreen trees. The sound pulled my lip into a snarl. Red-winged Blackbirds. They nested in the ditches near Mom and Dad's house when I was growing up. In the spring, they would dive-bomb us kids when we rode our bikes on the gravel road. I was sure that “The Birds” in Alfred Hitchcock’s movie must have been Red-winged Blackbirds. Their call reminded me that there are some things I do not miss about Iowa. I made a note to remember more of those on this trip... No matter the season, if you live on a country road, your vehicle is covered in dust, and you have dust lines on the back of your pants at calf-level and probably the front of your waist – from bumping legs on the car getting into it and leaning against the trunk to put items into it. These lines are telltale signs that you live on a gravel road. Will and his cousin played “Here Comes the Bride” at Mom and Dad’s 50th renewal ceremony. Will loaded his trumpet into the back of our car and leaned right up against the dusty metal. Fortunately, it was a dry day, so a few brushes with my hand knocked off the dust from his bright red polo shirt. A few days before that, it rained heavily. I thought the dust on the car would get washed away – that’s what happens at our house in the Northeast. However, the gravel on Iowa country roads is limestone. Limestone dust becomes clay-like when it gets wet. Then the sun comes out and bakes it onto the cars. A few trips down the road and the car becomes encrusted with more layers. Only a power washer can remove the build-up.
Liam was set on taming a cat at Grandpa and Grandma’s, but they are all full-grown and wild. Liam, Will, and their cousins were able to tame a kitten when we visited in June a couple years ago. It was the runt of a feral litter and it was starving. The four of them nursed it back to health with food and were able to pet him as they fed him. Skippy left the wild and went on to live at my sister’s house. Now, there are seven or eight wild cats on the farm. Their eyes are shifty; they creep up to you because they want food. They prance in and out of Mom and Dad’s feet until fed or yelled at. Any sudden movements, like a bend to pet them, send them nervously scattering. The cats navigate between farms and may disappear from Mom and Dad’s for a few hours before returning to scavenge on dinner table scraps. Liam sees them only as cats with cuddle potential; I see them only as wild animals, never to be tamed, and as a tripping threat to Mom and Dad,
One of the best parts of the day on the farm is early morning. The sunrise on a wide horizon trickles in through the bathroom blinds and pours in through the living room windows when the curtains are pulled to the side. (This is a winter shot taken outside at Mom and Dad's.)
One morning last week, the glow was dazzling. To get a full unobstructed view, I slipped sandals on and opened the back door. I caught a left hook from the smell of pig shit; it knocked the vision of the sunrise right off my horizon. Pigs are big business in Iowa. It used to be if the wind was out of the south the smell was bad. Now with more pig farmers on all sides of Mom and Dad, it’s always lingering in the air. More stringent on some days than others. That morning, I closed the door on it and went back to the living room window.
There you have it. A little piece of the Real Iowa: dive bombing Red-winged Blackbirds, gravel dust and clay on cars, freaky feral cats, and the stench of pig shit.
When we lived near Chicago, Bill and I had a favorite WGN radio segment that played late Friday afternoons: John Williams’ “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.” Looking for the bright side of these rural needles, I turned to youtube, and I found that Red-winged Blackbirds are striking and regal on a computer screen; a dust-filled rear van window can transform to a piece of artwork; a volunteer group is trying to neuter and spay 50 feral cats living in one farmer’s barn; and, as Dad might say, by God, pig shit can smell like vanilla!
Click each of these for a bit of the bright side:
With love from an Iowan.
April Fresh Scent
Shakespeare’s time was before toothbrushes, deodorant, and regular bathing. So people did what they could: washing underwear as often as they could afford; using scented waters and perfumes; and carrying nosegays. Throughout the 1980s, Mom made silk flower bouquets for brides, so I know “nosegay” as a very small hand-held bouquet. It’s presence in the 1500s was the same size, perhaps even just a single fragrant flower. However, in that era, its meaning was very literal: to keep the nose gay. While in crowds of people, all of whom probably had some degree of body odor, the nosegay was held to the nose to help block the unpleasantries.
I have used similar tactics as a parent. I recall a late summer festival a few years ago at Stage Fort Park in Gloucester, Massachusetts. The park is a long sprawling green area right on the ocean. The parking lot is across the road from the playground which was our starting point. After swinging, climbing, and teeter-totting, we moved to the outdoor car show adjacent to the playground. While Bill tried to lure the boys to and through antique, or muscle, or exotic cars – to me all were just shiny vehicles with four wheels, I saw small tents set up in rows just beyond the food booths. An art show. A wide selection of potential made-in-the-U.S.A. Christmas gifts for family and friends in England.
We needed to make our way through lunch and through those food booths to go shopping. The outdoor food aroma was reminiscent of smelling pork chop sandwiches at the Buchanan County Fair in Independence, Iowa. Fried dough and cotton candy sweetening the air at the Topsfield Fair in Massachusetts. Here hugging the Atlantic, the aroma was undoubtedly that of fried clams. Strips or bellies. The smell pulled me like that of corn dogs when I was little – when the carnival rides and food trucks filled the main street in my hometown and when I had just enough money in my pocket to indulge in a couple of those fried dogs on sticks.
Will couldn’t bear to go near the intoxicated atmosphere surrounding the food booths. His sensitive nose smelled an enemy. We stayed on the outskirts of the food booths, staking out a spot near the ocean to picnic. Then Bill dove headlong into that clam haven and emerged with fries for Will and Liam and a basket of clams for him and me to share. We put space between the clams and the fries, but still the noise over the complaints of the smell drowns out the memory of the tastes from that fried clam lunch.
As we finished lunch, I again eyed the art fair. We could only get there by walking through the air that was soaked with fried clams. I told Will to hold his French fries to his nose. We made it through the festival with this improvised nosegay. It was a condensed shopping trip. For the boys, shopping was ranked right up there with the smell of clams.
Before driving home, we took a bathroom break. I followed the stream of women toward the park’s main bathroom. Then, with the wind in the perfect direction, I smelled the sweetest scent. It was from the past. I missed it. I closely followed the woman in front of me while we stood in line, breathing in her trailing air. It wasn’t an expensive perfume. It wasn’t the nostalgic detergent smell of Grandma Murphy’s apartment. It was Downy. The fabric softener.
Liam has had eczema since he was a baby, so the Laundry Maven did double-duty washing adult clothes in regular detergent, followed by a Downy rinse, and only using Dreft for our young sons’ laundry. During the preschool years, I met another mom who mentioned an allergen-free, environmentally-friendly laundry detergent that would work for all Malcolms: Charlie’s Soap. The Laundry Maven took notice and immediately halved the loads of laundry done in one week by washing everyone's clothes together. I became accustomed to the smell of nothingness in our clean laundry. Our clothes are clean, but there is no fresh scent residue when they come out of the dryer.
The place we stayed during February break this year laundered their towels and sheets using a fabric softener in the rinse. With a week of fresh-smelling linens, the Laundry Maven decided to take action: Towels and sheets for the master bedroom would be washed in Charlie’s Soap and a little bit of Downy would be added to the rinse water. Not a lot. Just _enough_.
In the washer, the agitator has a cup on top labeled, “Pour in one capful of fabric softener.” A big jug of Downy still sits in the laundry room. Bottom shelf of the baker’s rack, tucked to the back. The Laundry Maven dusted off the Downy bottle and took off the lid. A gentle tipping of the heavy bottle produced the lurking of a thick blue slug peering its faceless head out of the bottle.
In Grandma Murphy’s words of disgust, “Oooo-gah!”
In Great Grandma Whittier words of frugality, “Waste not, want not.”
In replicating Grandma Mills’ practicality, driven by her mother and teacher Great Grandma Whittier, the Laundry Maven was not long disgusted or perplexed. She brought to the laundry room a 2-cup Pyrex measuring cup and a small whisk. A 2-inch slug flopped into the bottom of the cup. With the addition of a half cup of water and a brisk whisk, the slug melted into a more familiar state of Downy, the fabric softener. A scant quarter cup went in with the load of towels. When they sprung from the dryer, they were again, at long last, April fresh.
The 64-ounce bottle of concentrated Downy slugs should last at least a year.
Happy Hump Day.
Waiting for the UPS Man
I’m at a turning point in the anti-breast-cancer process. It was 23 degrees this morning when I dropped Liam off at school. I have a delivery today that shouldn’t freeze: 3.75 mg of Lupron, so I’m writing at home, waiting for the delivery of this tiny bottle of medicine that I have injected monthly. It shuts down hormones that fed the type of breast cancer I had. It’s an intramuscular injection which translates to a big needle, but after near six years and 72 injections, I barely feel a twinge.
For five years I was part of a study at MGH (Massachusetts General Hospital). I took an aromatase inhibitor orally every day and an injection of Triptorelin every month. The aromatase inhibitor shut down hormones produced throughout my body from various glands and fat cells. The Triptorelin, basically the same as Lupron, shut down hormone production in the ovaries.
Post-study, I still take the aromatase inhibitor and now the Lupron. When I started the study, research showed a 5-year anti-hormone regimen, like Tamoxifen, was effective. By the end of the 5-year study, research had proven that 10 years of post-cancer hormone treatment was more effective and strongly recommended.
The monthly injections have meant a drive into Boston every month. For the first 60 injections, I returned to the infusion suite every month. It was a 30-second appointment that could cost two to six hours round-trip. I spent much of the time convincing myself I could spend the rest of the day in Boston and enjoy the city. That never happened. Ever.
Sometimes I kept the appointment as just that. Walk in, get jabbed, walk out. I was always greeted with a smile and asked how my boys were doing, for the receptionists knew them from the summer injections. The nurse or volunteer would lead me back to the infusion suite with a warm blanket and a bottle of water. “I don’t need those; I’m just hear for a quick injection,” I started to explain. Eventually, I just said thanks and put both aside.
If I could help it in those 76 visits, I did not sit down in the Captain Chemo chair. The over-sized, comfy recliners I had used during my infusion stint. Perhaps in the summer months, when the boys were with me, I rested on the front edge of the chair like a bird perched on the edge of a nest, ready to fly. With every piece of me, I resist sinking back into that chair. Ever.
When I was done with the study, I broke down in my oncologist’s office. He saw the tire tracks on me that the trek to the infusion suite had left. Honestly, I didn’t realize how much they had been imprinting on me until no more trips to the infusion suite were necessary. Being done with the study, I could just go to the doctor’s office at MGH for the injection, and I did that for a little over a year.
A few months ago, my oncologist and I started working on a plan for getting the injection locally. Strangers with bald heads, ports, wigs – they were at my doctor’s office as well. And, generally, I was OK with that. Until my oncologist asked me how I was doing. He’s one of those few people who, apparently, holds truth serum in his voice. “We need to help you get a better quality of life” was his response to my sobbing.
What a strange statement. I have an amazing life. First, I am alive! I have a wonderful family and great people around me. I’m writing. However, the old calendar interpretation snagged me on this one. In my wisdom from age, I now know that just because there is white space on the calendar, I shouldn’t fill it all in; in fact, I put squares around some of that white space and write "Free" in them. Our family needs white space. Down time at home. Spontaneous time to go for a ride with friends to the beach. That little appointment I kept on a strict four-week rotation filled more white space on those days than I realized. White space that I needed – more on some days than others.
I flew to Iowa for a wedding last weekend and sat next to a woman who was a child in Finland during World War II; for safety, she was sent away from her family at the age of five. She was reunited with her mother when she was ten. She said she can’t remember much of her childhood but really "that is OK." I didn’t live through that war, but I do understand what she means. Some memories just aren’t worth holding onto. At some point, you draw a line in the sand and say, “Enough.” Step over the line and move forward.
My UPS man is my line in the sand today. He will deliver the medication and Thursday I will take it to my local doctor, five minutes away. In this one little-big area of my life, I’m looking forward to moving forward… and catching up with my curls. For this is history...
Mind you, while the above is a very personal, raw account of an emotional journey, please know that I would have done this study again in a heartbeat. Thus far, the study has proven that this regimen for pre-menopausal women has a better outcome than the traditional Tamoxifen regimen.
So now, I shall pull on my big girl pants and get on with it. A greater good was served, and that’s what I hold onto moving forward.
Happy Hump Day... The UPS man just pulled up! Honest to Pete!
The Easter Bunny Was Here!
Bill returned from England Monday night. His suitcase was filled with English Easter chocolate from Auntie, Grandma, and friends for the boys, for Bill, and for me. English Cadbury must be made by the same English cows that produce double cream for morning coffee and clotted cream for scones and jam. The creaminess is incomparable. Fresh Cadbury was much needed after a strange visit from the Easter Bunny. Will and Liam’s baskets were filled with little gifts but not a single chocolate bunny in sight. Or chocolate egg. Or sticky peep. However, the Easter Bunny had left his signature bunny trail of jelly beans. From the boys’ bedroom, along the banister, down the stairs, through the dining room and the kitchen, to their baskets in the living room. Liam usually has the trail half-eaten by the time he reaches his basket; however, this year he asked, “What kind of jelly beans are these? They aren’t the usual Jelly Bellies.” After lunch, the magic was gone and I swept up the line of rainbow rabbit poo and tossed it away.
When we left for church that morning, the boys saw there were plastic Easter eggs dotted all over the backyard! That’s not the norm for the Bunny at our house. After church, they went out and collected the eggs. They brought their stash in and emptied the goodies into plastic bowls.
Liam grabbed a handful of his favorite candy, Skittles. With one chew, he pronounced them, “HARD!” Skittles. Lindt Milk Chocolate Truffles. Pink Hershey’s Kisses. Godiva Pearls. Indeed it looked like the Easter Bunny had forgotten to bring Easter candy to the Malcolm house.
In fact, it looked like he had foraged through a cupboard and dug out Halloween, Christmas, and Valentine’s Day candy. Then stuffed them in plastic eggs and planted them out in the yard. The Easter Bunny stopped by after 1:30 a.m.; that’s when I woke up and had a peek outside. There were no eggs out in the yard then. When I glanced out at 3:00 a.m., I could just barely make out the little blobs through my blurry-eyed gaze.
Yup, by the the looks of the candy that the Easter Bunny left, our house must’ve been his last stop. We got the dregs, but it’s the thought that counts. And now, thank goodness... we have the English Cadbury.
The Flat Tire
My Mondays are ear-marked with three things: Food. Clothing. Shelter. I don my work clothes on Mondays and pull the curls into a messy bun, latching down loose ends with bobby pins. My shirt comes off the pile that all have holes in them. After a year or more, I realized that these “moth” holes were from working at the kitchen counter; the buttons on my jeans rubbed through on a dozen shirts. Otherwise, these are perfectly good shirts. Good for cooking, cleaning, and sleeping. My old denim capris are part of the Monday uniform. I think of them as new, but they are thinning. Some spots are rubbing into thin air leaving holes in places unseen – as long as I don’t try to clean under the couch.
Always, my Monday thought is to shower right before school pick-up. Always, I try to get one more task done and that 20 minutes for a shower is eaten up.
The pattern was the same this Monday. I threw on a thick sweater to cover the holes in my shirt and plunged my bare feet into furry snow boots. I tucked the short capris into the tall boots. I added a bit of eye brow pencil and mascara and a touch of bronzer to my cheeks. No way would I unleash the hair after it had been imprisoned all day.
After picking up the kids, I consider pulling myself together for the end of the day. Shower and shampoo. Make-up. Clothes without holes. But ten minutes before I need to carpool Liam and a friend to their gym class, I’m finishing up another task. As I call out, “Everyone in the car!” I am still dressed as I was that morning to take the kids to school: My work clothes to tackle Mondays' responsibilities and tasks under the umbrella of food, clothing, and shelter.
We had to make a short pit stop and as I pulled away from the curb, I felt my tire grind against something. In the rear view mirror, I saw a large lump of pavement. I believe my tire had made a 5 MPH exaggerated rub of this lump against the curb. Fifteen minutes later, I deliver the kids to the gym and know that the thump-thumping I hear and feel isn’t good. The front right tire was flat as a pancake. I limped into a spot where the tow truck could easily latch on to the front of the van.
The AAA dispatcher asked me what year the van was. 2005? 2007? Do you have a spare? I don’t know. Is it in the trunk? I don’t know. Can you look under the rear of the vehicle and see if it’s there? No, there are too many people in the parking lot for me to bend over right now. Shall I put the call in as a tire change with a possible tow? Yes. If the the tow truck driver can find the spare.
I was convinced the tire must be in a compartment under the storage in the rear of the van, aka: under the closet. I emptied the closet into the middle row. Quilts. Loose footballs, baseballs, Frisbees, tennis balls. Yoga mat. Baseball bag. Books. Plastic grocery bags. Plus all the miscellany normally stored in a family's mini-van. The seats were filled up to the headrests.
Forty minutes later the tow truck arrived. The driver looked like he just came on the shift; he was too clean. “So, you don’t know where your spare is?” Nope. We both looked at the floor in the back and agreed it probably wasn’t under the carpet. “OK, just a minute.” And he disappeared back to his truck. Was he calling someone? Referring to a manual?
Walking back to me, he stated, “I believe the spare is under the floor in the middle row.” Oh, where I just stashed all the stuff from the closet? “Yeah, best bet would be to move all that to the back seat.” I did my best to move all of it without bending over. He spotted the flap of carpet on the floor of the middle row. “Yup, just where YouTube said it was.” He took a nut off under a flap and the spare tire fell to the ground.
I stood aside and wrapped my sweater around me. I grabbed Liam’s sweatshirt and wrapped that around my shoulders then threw my purse over my head to hold all the wraps together. I had no gloves. I had no coat.
As it turns out, the driver was a college kid on spring break working for his dad. “I thought your shoes were awfully clean!” I commented. We laughed.
“I may be in college, but I’m not afraid of working and getting a little dirty!”
Me neither. I need appropriate clothes to go certain places, and sometimes I just need comfy clothes that let me get the job done.
In the future, I want to make different choices about what I wear where. And to make sure I have season-appropriate outerwear in the van. The very thing I harp to my kids when they leave in the morning.
Perhaps this will sway them:
A mugshot of a woman whose van closet held everything but the warm clothes she really needed on the cold early-spring late-afternoon when her van broke down with a flat tire.