Mom's view:
I took driver’s education when I was sixteen. I vaguely remember a sandy haired man who had seemed pretty laid back at the beginning of the course looking at me warily and saying something like, “I’m a little afraid of your driving.” I was afraid of my driving too. More than a little. There was something horribly powerful about driving a car. It was a little like standing at the edge of a cliff – the thought that I could throw myself, or someone else, off of it filled me with paralytic dread. It was the same thing with a car. You could turn your wheel once and end up in someone else’s lane, putting an end to both you and them. You could drive off of bridges, cliffs, hills, highways, into lakes, people, animals, other people’s houses, windows, fences, or a brick wall. One turn of the wheel. It was terrifying.
I ended up driving like a puppet, in choppy bursts that were deeply unsettling to those in the passenger seats. I gripped the wheel like it was the only thing between me and world destruction, sweating profusely and probably muttering a little. The whole thing wasn’t pretty.
Fortunately, I found out I’d gotten accepted at NYU and would be able to rely on public transportation. I promptly dropped out of driver’s ed, putting an abrupt end to the madness, and I suspect my instructor and all of my fellow drivers breathed long, satisfying breaths of relief. I know I did. I remember vigorously waving at the gold driver’s ed car as it left the school driveway, feeling extra fond of it since I no longer had to actually drive the thing. It was great, that feeling.
Fast forward 2 years, after a crack addict pounded my face into a mushy blob and sliced up my hand so badly that I needed plastic surgery on it (I lived in NYC in the Koch years). Suddenly, even the lure of socially acceptable public transportation no longer made me want to set foot within 10 feet of New York. What’s a girl to do? She goes to Iowa!!!! Iowa is the opposite of NYC. Instead of crack addicts, they have cows. Cows make a lot more sense than humans.
Needless to say, the public transportation system isn’t all that great in Iowa. In fact, it’s pretty well non-existent. You can get around the University of Iowa area without a car, but if you’d ever like to go anywhere else in Iowa, you need a car. On the other hand, here’s another way Iowa is different from NYC. Empty roads. Lots of them. It’s a perfect place to learn how to drive.
After I picked up the trick to the whole thing, which involved a lot of driving wildly into corn stalks and, the day I got my license, having 3 accidents in rapid succession (one pulling out of the car dealership lot with my newly fixed used car – hit a beamer; one pulling out of my mom’s driveway – hit my mom’s beamer; and one running into the lamppost with the riding lawn mower trying to make up the whole multiple accidents thing to my mom by mowing her lawn, at which point she told me to go in the house, turn off all the lights, and lay down), I realized how freeing driving could be.
Let’s say I’m sitting around in my house in ____________, which is pretty close to the East Coast, and I think to myself, “Hey, I’d really like to see the Grand Canyon!” It really doesn’t require a whole lot. As long as I have a reasonably well-functioning car, the gas money, and a few changes of clothes in a duffle bag, I’m there. Of course, in my case, I would also need to make arrangements for ___________, board the dog and cat, close up the house, and take vacation time from work, but those are all traps of my own making. There was plenty of time before I had a child and there will be plenty of time after he leaves from college for me to scatter myself to the winds, if I so choose. That’s an amazingly cool thought to me.
Some people don’t really care about such things, as I have found out on numerous occasions. Those conversations go something like this.
“Isn’t it cool that if you wanted to go to California all you’d have to do is jump in a car and go?”
“California! Why would I want to go there?”
“It’s just an example. You could go anywhere.”
“Why would I want to go anywhere else? I have everything I need right here.”
“Well, you could always come back.”
“Then why leave?”
You get my drift. But for me, the allure of having the world at my fingertips is pretty inspiring. I would hate to give that all up. In fact, I’ve seen two grandparents have to finally give up driving, and it’s perhaps the saddest thing I’ve ever seen. From that point on, they had to rely on someone else for everything. The ability to hop in a car and take care of business is such a small thing. You barely notice it until it’s gone. But when it is, I think a part of you dies. And it’s a good part, that one that might jump off the couch and drive up a mountain. It’s the part that smacks most of the energy of life.
_________________ is 5 years away from being able to legally drive, and that thought fills me with dread since I’ve seen him drive a golf cart and, like my driver’s ed teacher, I’m a little scared of his driving. I’ve been encouraging him to save for his first car nonetheless, because I figure the kind of freedom you get from driving is wasted on the middle aged. You need to take advantage of it while you’re young.
_______________ doesn’t quite understand the point of the whole thing yet. He still really thinks it’s about the car itself, and he spends a lot of time focusing on car related details like cost, coolness, or speed. I understand the desire to buy a car you look good in, but like our bodies, the car is only the shell. He hasn’t had that moment of clarity, hasn’t had the walls of his world fall away from him and the rest of it open wide. When he does, a part of him will be born. (And the part of me that actually sleeps will die).
Son's view:
When I first get a car I want a Jetta. The reason I want a Jetta is because they are stylish, affordable, and an overall good car. I can’t wait to start driving because of all the freedom I will have. It will be fun. But, my dream car is a 09’ mustang with a six pack and a v8 400 horse power engine. That probably isn’t real but sounds awesome. Yeah. That’s right.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Resolution: Get a Goal.
Mom's view:
I love New Year’s goals. I know many people hate them, for various reasons, but I think they are wonderful. Then again, I’m a list maker by nature. I like the neatness of condensing life’s ambitions onto the pre-lined paper I got for free in a charity run swag bag. Groceries needed: 20 lines. Home improvements needed: 10 lines (Yeah, right! More like 50 lines. This is a list I haven’t made yet because it will invariably make me want to cry). Things I need to remember to do on Monday: 5 lines. Goals for improvement in the New Year: 3 lines. It’s nice having my imperfections whittled down to this concise rendering, rather than the usual cloud of words roaming through my head on a never-ending reel.
Also, you’ll note I use the word “goals”, rather than resolutions. A resolution sounds more amorphous to me, and I like having something concrete to try to attain. For instance, if you say something like “I’m going to eat healthier,” it’s definitely a resolution, but it’s way too open to various interpretations. What does that even mean? If you say, however, “I’m going to become a vegan,” it’s a clear goal, despite being wholly unappealing to most.
So here they are, my three goals for 2010:
1) Run less than an 8 minute mile in a 5 k by spring.
2) Quit playing ostrich when it comes to home improvements and just do them already. (Interesting fact: I couldn’t remember which bird buried their head in the sand so I had to Google it. It’s the ostrich, except that’s a myth. They just lay flat when they sense danger and because their head is light colored, it blends with the sand and just looks like they’ve buried it. Nonetheless, laying down flat on the ground (or in my case, the sofa) is close enough for purposes of this analogy.)
3) Finally quit the sugar. Maybe.
Actually, all of these are a maybe, truth be told. I just don’t get all that hung up on instant success. I’m one of those people who tries to live well in general – It’s not like I’m spending 364 days out of the year in a Bacchanalian orgy and then on day 365 all of a sudden trying to change my diet and cut down on the rampant drinking (and fyi, less drinking is never on my list of resolutions). Also, I think most worthwhile goals aren’t something you can realistically achieve in the course of a year. Nonetheless, I see the end of the year as the perfect time to take stock and measure progress. The date has its own significance, so it’s not hard to remember (like a self-imposed anniversary or something) and there is enough time between each mile marker to really make a change, if one is to be made.
For instance, in 2008, my New Year’s goal was to eat better and work out every day up until I went to Florida at the end of February, at which point I would be incredibly svelte and awesome looking in a bathing suit. I defined the goal poorly (if only I’d left out the last part!), and consequently failed miserably. I looked white and doughy in my bathing suit, much like I would have looked on January 1st had I just gone to Florida then.
But here’s the thing. Up until January, 2008, I barely worked out at all. Since January, 2008, I not only have continued working out, but I keep getting better at it. I kept a journal during the course of that resolution, in which I documented the exercise I was doing each day, the number of calories I was eating, and how I felt about all of it. I found it recently, and I couldn’t believe how pathetic it was.
Sample entry:
Instead of salad, had 2 bowls Honey Nut Cheerios for dinner last night. Walked 2 miles on incline. Ate 2 Portugese rolls with butter and jelly, tea with milk, chicken Caesar wrap, 5 fun packs of m&m’s. Should only eat banana and piece of cheese for dinner. I’m really tired today. This exercising is wearing me out and I’m not losing any weight.
Yes, I’m serious. It may look stupid all spelled out that way, since I was clearly never going to lose weight on this regimen, but sometimes it takes a journal to make us confront the obvious.
Anyway, the point isn’t the initial failure. It’s that this goal started me on something that I haven’t yet quit. After several months of lolling around pathetically on a treadmill, I started trying different things, including running. One day, I crashed an interval training class and I was hooked. I started doing interval training, weight training, running and yoga, and my best time last year was a 5k in 26:43. That’s an average time of 8:36 minutes per mile, which is how I got to my goal for this year. I still don’t weigh any less, since I love to eat, but I look better since the weight training cuts down on the whole doughy thing.
My predictions for this year? Because I’m well on my way to goal number 1 and I’ve defined it so narrowly, I may actually achieve this one. Goal number 2? There’s no chance. Even if I had the money to make all needed home improvements in 2010, I wouldn’t have the time given the vagaries of the weather where I live. I just want to keep myself thinking about that one, and budgeting accordingly. As for the last one? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll start a journal.
Son's view:
New Year’s resolutions. Definition: something people don’t stick to. Let’s take the Y for example; people’s resolutions are to get in shape. They go to the Y for a couple months, and then they just don’t come back. This is not because they are in shape but because they were dreaming about chocolate ice cream while they ran. My resolution this year was to be cooler. Now I am already so cool that I don’t need to do anything. Simple.
P.S. another definition for you: ___________ = coolest man ever (young man)
I love New Year’s goals. I know many people hate them, for various reasons, but I think they are wonderful. Then again, I’m a list maker by nature. I like the neatness of condensing life’s ambitions onto the pre-lined paper I got for free in a charity run swag bag. Groceries needed: 20 lines. Home improvements needed: 10 lines (Yeah, right! More like 50 lines. This is a list I haven’t made yet because it will invariably make me want to cry). Things I need to remember to do on Monday: 5 lines. Goals for improvement in the New Year: 3 lines. It’s nice having my imperfections whittled down to this concise rendering, rather than the usual cloud of words roaming through my head on a never-ending reel.
Also, you’ll note I use the word “goals”, rather than resolutions. A resolution sounds more amorphous to me, and I like having something concrete to try to attain. For instance, if you say something like “I’m going to eat healthier,” it’s definitely a resolution, but it’s way too open to various interpretations. What does that even mean? If you say, however, “I’m going to become a vegan,” it’s a clear goal, despite being wholly unappealing to most.
So here they are, my three goals for 2010:
1) Run less than an 8 minute mile in a 5 k by spring.
2) Quit playing ostrich when it comes to home improvements and just do them already. (Interesting fact: I couldn’t remember which bird buried their head in the sand so I had to Google it. It’s the ostrich, except that’s a myth. They just lay flat when they sense danger and because their head is light colored, it blends with the sand and just looks like they’ve buried it. Nonetheless, laying down flat on the ground (or in my case, the sofa) is close enough for purposes of this analogy.)
3) Finally quit the sugar. Maybe.
Actually, all of these are a maybe, truth be told. I just don’t get all that hung up on instant success. I’m one of those people who tries to live well in general – It’s not like I’m spending 364 days out of the year in a Bacchanalian orgy and then on day 365 all of a sudden trying to change my diet and cut down on the rampant drinking (and fyi, less drinking is never on my list of resolutions). Also, I think most worthwhile goals aren’t something you can realistically achieve in the course of a year. Nonetheless, I see the end of the year as the perfect time to take stock and measure progress. The date has its own significance, so it’s not hard to remember (like a self-imposed anniversary or something) and there is enough time between each mile marker to really make a change, if one is to be made.
For instance, in 2008, my New Year’s goal was to eat better and work out every day up until I went to Florida at the end of February, at which point I would be incredibly svelte and awesome looking in a bathing suit. I defined the goal poorly (if only I’d left out the last part!), and consequently failed miserably. I looked white and doughy in my bathing suit, much like I would have looked on January 1st had I just gone to Florida then.
But here’s the thing. Up until January, 2008, I barely worked out at all. Since January, 2008, I not only have continued working out, but I keep getting better at it. I kept a journal during the course of that resolution, in which I documented the exercise I was doing each day, the number of calories I was eating, and how I felt about all of it. I found it recently, and I couldn’t believe how pathetic it was.
Sample entry:
Instead of salad, had 2 bowls Honey Nut Cheerios for dinner last night. Walked 2 miles on incline. Ate 2 Portugese rolls with butter and jelly, tea with milk, chicken Caesar wrap, 5 fun packs of m&m’s. Should only eat banana and piece of cheese for dinner. I’m really tired today. This exercising is wearing me out and I’m not losing any weight.
Yes, I’m serious. It may look stupid all spelled out that way, since I was clearly never going to lose weight on this regimen, but sometimes it takes a journal to make us confront the obvious.
Anyway, the point isn’t the initial failure. It’s that this goal started me on something that I haven’t yet quit. After several months of lolling around pathetically on a treadmill, I started trying different things, including running. One day, I crashed an interval training class and I was hooked. I started doing interval training, weight training, running and yoga, and my best time last year was a 5k in 26:43. That’s an average time of 8:36 minutes per mile, which is how I got to my goal for this year. I still don’t weigh any less, since I love to eat, but I look better since the weight training cuts down on the whole doughy thing.
My predictions for this year? Because I’m well on my way to goal number 1 and I’ve defined it so narrowly, I may actually achieve this one. Goal number 2? There’s no chance. Even if I had the money to make all needed home improvements in 2010, I wouldn’t have the time given the vagaries of the weather where I live. I just want to keep myself thinking about that one, and budgeting accordingly. As for the last one? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll start a journal.
Son's view:
New Year’s resolutions. Definition: something people don’t stick to. Let’s take the Y for example; people’s resolutions are to get in shape. They go to the Y for a couple months, and then they just don’t come back. This is not because they are in shape but because they were dreaming about chocolate ice cream while they ran. My resolution this year was to be cooler. Now I am already so cool that I don’t need to do anything. Simple.
P.S. another definition for you: ___________ = coolest man ever (young man)
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The Family Bone.
Mom's View:
As I was growing up, we always had pets in the house. At least a dog, and sometimes a couple of dogs or a dog and a cat. We weren’t allowed to have reptiles or rodents, and my mom hid the ant farm my aunt bought us before we could even order the tenants. But we did have some tropical fish in the kitchen. As I recall, they were ever rotating due to untimely deaths and fish cannibalism.
Our first dog was called Squeaky, named because all she could do was squeak when she was found at the garbage dump as a puppy. A Good Samaritan rescued her and her siblings, and my mother was sold the minute she opened her door to the Samaritan’s knock. Squeaky was part beagle and part rat terrier (I think), had a solid temperament (except when my little brother tried to kiss her on the lips during her nap), and was my first introduction to mortality.
After Squeaky, we had a purebred golden retriever named Chambertin (my parents’ favorite wine at the time. I know. I know. My parents were yuppies before the phrase was coined, if you must know). She was a sweet, obedient dog, and she spent hours in the backyard retrieving the tennis balls my brother hit during impromptu batting practices. She was a constant presence during my childhood, playing in the snow, walking alongside us as we traipsed through the woods on various adventures, sleeping next to the woodstove during down times.
Stormy, a kitten found by a truck driver in the middle of the highway during a rainstorm, came home at some point during Cham's reign. Clever name, right? I can make fun of it because I’m the one who named her. She had to be bottle fed and was never particularly social given her traumatic beginnings. But whenever I was sick, she parked herself on the end of my bed until I felt better. In fact, I knew I was getting better when I woke up alone. Then there was Mochi (Grey Persian who stared at lightbulbs), Porsche (dog so smart she was a little scary), Corey (dog so dumb she was a little scary), and my mom’s current dog, Derby. Derby’s a schnoodle who loves neck rubs. I didn’t live with the last three, but they’re still part of the family, right?
Given this history, it’s not hard to imagine why I’ve always had my own pets since I first moved out of the house and lived on my own. My first foray into pet ownership was a complete disaster and was deeply unfair of me. Roy was a guinea pig I bought during my freshman year at college, and who was shuffled from person to person after my college dorm roommate told me she wasn’t interested in having a pet (I thought she was being unreasonable at the time if that gives you any indication of what I was like when I was young). I took him with me when I sublet an apartment (really, it was a tenement with a bathtub in the kitchen) on the Lower East Side for the summer. I had no idea what a guinea pig liked, and I have to imagine that the poor guy was pretty depressed the whole time he was forced to live with me. One night, during a party, someone poured beer in his cage. While I’d like to say that was an aberration, I’m guessing that was only one of the many indignities poor Roy was forced to suffer in my care.
As it turns out, I was the victim of a violent crime that summer, and I left the city and my apartment without Roy. A good friend, whom I similarly abandoned in a crappy position, told me she found a school or something that took him, which I’m grateful for now but at the time was too self absorbed to appreciate. I actually still think about Roy and I apologize to him for being a horrible pet parent. I’m also sorry to my friend, but that’s probably the subject of a different post.
Since Roy, I’ve had numerous pets, all of whom I’ve treated much better than Roy, and most of whom would be deemed society’s rejects were they humans. Take Moses, for example. Moses lived on the city streets, and kept showing up on a friend’s porch after he’d been beaten up. She’d feed him for a couple of days and tend his wounds, and then when he felt better he’d leave again. I captured him in a box when he showed up with his ear half ripped off, a hole through one leg, and half his fur gone and dragged him to the vet for medical treatment and neutering.
A couple of days later, I went back to pick him up.
“He’s not a particularly nice cat, is he?” The vet handed him back to me dubiously.
I shrugged and went home.
He actually was a particularly nice cat. He just didn’t like a vet cutting his balls off.
Unless you’ve grown up with pets or simply owned a lot of them, I don’t think you have the same feeling about them that I do. When you’ve lived long enough in a house with – at various times - your parents, your brother, your sister, your husband, your kids and your pets, you tend to think of the latter as a part of your family. They are no more and no less important than anyone else. You recognize their unique personality traits, and you mourn them when they die.
When Moses got cancer six years after I first brought him home, I was beside myself. I kept him alive probably longer than I should have because I wanted to try anything I could. I had him tested; I considered chemo. I considered anything that might give him some additional, quality, life. Finally, when all appeared fruitless, I made the hard choice to let him go.
A few weeks later, I was at a birthday party for one of _____________’s friends, and I was talking to his parents. I told them about how I’d had a difficult summer because I’d lost Moses to cancer. The friend’s mother shrugged.
“So you’ll get a new cat.”
And that pretty much stalled the conversation right there. Moses wasn’t “a cat”. He wasn’t a generic classification that could easily be replaced. He was Moses! He slept on the dining room table in a patch of sunlight. He followed me all over the house when I was home. He agitated the dog and then got mad at her for getting wound up. Moses! You know. That guy.
She didn’t know.
But I do, and for that, I’m grateful.
Son's View:
I think that pets rock. They are the only thing that really let you pet it. If I asked my mom if I could pet her she would say no. I am conducting a test in which I ask
_________: “mom can I pet your hair?”
Mom: “what?”
_________: “can I pet your hair?”
Mom: “why? No! What are you doing?!”
_________: “nothing, tee hee.”
Now I am going to ask our new cat Ruby if I can pet her hair.
_________: “can I pet your hair Ruby?”
Ruby: “Meow (translation: Yes)”
_________: “thank you.”
R: “purrrrrrrrrrrrr.”
See, pets keep it short and simple.
As I was growing up, we always had pets in the house. At least a dog, and sometimes a couple of dogs or a dog and a cat. We weren’t allowed to have reptiles or rodents, and my mom hid the ant farm my aunt bought us before we could even order the tenants. But we did have some tropical fish in the kitchen. As I recall, they were ever rotating due to untimely deaths and fish cannibalism.
Our first dog was called Squeaky, named because all she could do was squeak when she was found at the garbage dump as a puppy. A Good Samaritan rescued her and her siblings, and my mother was sold the minute she opened her door to the Samaritan’s knock. Squeaky was part beagle and part rat terrier (I think), had a solid temperament (except when my little brother tried to kiss her on the lips during her nap), and was my first introduction to mortality.
After Squeaky, we had a purebred golden retriever named Chambertin (my parents’ favorite wine at the time. I know. I know. My parents were yuppies before the phrase was coined, if you must know). She was a sweet, obedient dog, and she spent hours in the backyard retrieving the tennis balls my brother hit during impromptu batting practices. She was a constant presence during my childhood, playing in the snow, walking alongside us as we traipsed through the woods on various adventures, sleeping next to the woodstove during down times.
Stormy, a kitten found by a truck driver in the middle of the highway during a rainstorm, came home at some point during Cham's reign. Clever name, right? I can make fun of it because I’m the one who named her. She had to be bottle fed and was never particularly social given her traumatic beginnings. But whenever I was sick, she parked herself on the end of my bed until I felt better. In fact, I knew I was getting better when I woke up alone. Then there was Mochi (Grey Persian who stared at lightbulbs), Porsche (dog so smart she was a little scary), Corey (dog so dumb she was a little scary), and my mom’s current dog, Derby. Derby’s a schnoodle who loves neck rubs. I didn’t live with the last three, but they’re still part of the family, right?
Given this history, it’s not hard to imagine why I’ve always had my own pets since I first moved out of the house and lived on my own. My first foray into pet ownership was a complete disaster and was deeply unfair of me. Roy was a guinea pig I bought during my freshman year at college, and who was shuffled from person to person after my college dorm roommate told me she wasn’t interested in having a pet (I thought she was being unreasonable at the time if that gives you any indication of what I was like when I was young). I took him with me when I sublet an apartment (really, it was a tenement with a bathtub in the kitchen) on the Lower East Side for the summer. I had no idea what a guinea pig liked, and I have to imagine that the poor guy was pretty depressed the whole time he was forced to live with me. One night, during a party, someone poured beer in his cage. While I’d like to say that was an aberration, I’m guessing that was only one of the many indignities poor Roy was forced to suffer in my care.
As it turns out, I was the victim of a violent crime that summer, and I left the city and my apartment without Roy. A good friend, whom I similarly abandoned in a crappy position, told me she found a school or something that took him, which I’m grateful for now but at the time was too self absorbed to appreciate. I actually still think about Roy and I apologize to him for being a horrible pet parent. I’m also sorry to my friend, but that’s probably the subject of a different post.
Since Roy, I’ve had numerous pets, all of whom I’ve treated much better than Roy, and most of whom would be deemed society’s rejects were they humans. Take Moses, for example. Moses lived on the city streets, and kept showing up on a friend’s porch after he’d been beaten up. She’d feed him for a couple of days and tend his wounds, and then when he felt better he’d leave again. I captured him in a box when he showed up with his ear half ripped off, a hole through one leg, and half his fur gone and dragged him to the vet for medical treatment and neutering.
A couple of days later, I went back to pick him up.
“He’s not a particularly nice cat, is he?” The vet handed him back to me dubiously.
I shrugged and went home.
He actually was a particularly nice cat. He just didn’t like a vet cutting his balls off.
Unless you’ve grown up with pets or simply owned a lot of them, I don’t think you have the same feeling about them that I do. When you’ve lived long enough in a house with – at various times - your parents, your brother, your sister, your husband, your kids and your pets, you tend to think of the latter as a part of your family. They are no more and no less important than anyone else. You recognize their unique personality traits, and you mourn them when they die.
When Moses got cancer six years after I first brought him home, I was beside myself. I kept him alive probably longer than I should have because I wanted to try anything I could. I had him tested; I considered chemo. I considered anything that might give him some additional, quality, life. Finally, when all appeared fruitless, I made the hard choice to let him go.
A few weeks later, I was at a birthday party for one of _____________’s friends, and I was talking to his parents. I told them about how I’d had a difficult summer because I’d lost Moses to cancer. The friend’s mother shrugged.
“So you’ll get a new cat.”
And that pretty much stalled the conversation right there. Moses wasn’t “a cat”. He wasn’t a generic classification that could easily be replaced. He was Moses! He slept on the dining room table in a patch of sunlight. He followed me all over the house when I was home. He agitated the dog and then got mad at her for getting wound up. Moses! You know. That guy.
She didn’t know.
But I do, and for that, I’m grateful.
Son's View:
I think that pets rock. They are the only thing that really let you pet it. If I asked my mom if I could pet her she would say no. I am conducting a test in which I ask
_________: “mom can I pet your hair?”
Mom: “what?”
_________: “can I pet your hair?”
Mom: “why? No! What are you doing?!”
_________: “nothing, tee hee.”
Now I am going to ask our new cat Ruby if I can pet her hair.
_________: “can I pet your hair Ruby?”
Ruby: “Meow (translation: Yes)”
_________: “thank you.”
R: “purrrrrrrrrrrrr.”
See, pets keep it short and simple.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Home for the Holidays.
Mom's view:
Every year around this time I watch my very most favorite Thanksgiving movie, “Home for the Holidays.” I know most people prefer “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles,” which is hysterical, I’ll grant you. But to me, no movie has ever captured the sweet discomfort of a large family get together better than “Home for the Holidays.” I cringe every time I see it. This year, _______________ watched it with me.
For anyone who hasn’t had the joy of watching this movie, it’s about a fortyish single mom (Holly Hunter) who is going home for Thanksgiving dinner. Right before she leaves, she loses her job, makes out with her (ex) boss and finds out her teenaged daughter is planning on losing her virginity over the holiday. She is rapidly getting sicker with a cold, loses her coat in the airport, and is deposited in this condition in a Midwestern town to a nervous mother (Anne Bancroft) and a good natured but somewhat chuckleheaded father (Charles Durning).
The cast of characters is rounded out by the gay, hysterically funny brother (Robert Downey Jr.), who is the black sheep of the family in numerous ways, the uptight, self-appointed watchdog sister (I forget this one’s name but I love her) and her similarly uptight family, and spinster Aunt Glady (also don’t know her real name), an eccentric woman who drinks too much and says grossly inappropriate things at the family dinner. The movie’s theme is families: how much we are different, how little we understand each other, and how much, ultimately, we belong to one another. Although I’m always horrified at the beginning of this movie, by the end the family’s craziness has become familiar and I find myself feeling a little nostalgic already.
The only completely unbelievable thing about the film is the fact that Robert Downey Jr. brings along a gorgeous, semi-normal guy (Dylan McDermott) who has seen Holly Hunter’s picture and wants to get to know her. I think the point of this is that the producers wanted to make sure we didn’t all go home and slit our wrists. If this was my family, someone would have brought over a reclusive neighbor with stained pants because they felt sorry for him and he would be the one who found me unbearably attractive. I’m just saying.
Anyway, ___________________ and I are going down to Florida this year to spend Thanksgiving with my mom and stepfather, my stepsister, and her two daughters. We have four divorces between us. I’ll also see my father (two divorces) and my grandmother on his side (widow). My ex-husband lives in Florida, and will be coming to Thanksgiving dinner as well. Even pared down to its most elemental form, it sounds crazy doesn’t it? And when you get into the nuances, it’s even more tricky.
As in “Home for the Holidays,” there will be issues. Someone will be mad at someone else, someone will be hurt, someone will drink too much, and someone will say the wrong thing. Actually, it’s quite possible that I’ll be responsible for all of these things. By the end of the trip, though, I will be sad to go. Because whatever its form, this is my family, and they belong to me. Whether they like it or not.
Son's view:
I liked this movie. I liked how the movie was set up in chapters. The family was funny and all the times the brother did something stupid it made me laugh. The mom was funny and when she took off her wig I thought that she was an evil old lady. My favorite part of the movie was when the brother told her to get into the car and then he drove away.
Every year around this time I watch my very most favorite Thanksgiving movie, “Home for the Holidays.” I know most people prefer “Planes, Trains, and Automobiles,” which is hysterical, I’ll grant you. But to me, no movie has ever captured the sweet discomfort of a large family get together better than “Home for the Holidays.” I cringe every time I see it. This year, _______________ watched it with me.
For anyone who hasn’t had the joy of watching this movie, it’s about a fortyish single mom (Holly Hunter) who is going home for Thanksgiving dinner. Right before she leaves, she loses her job, makes out with her (ex) boss and finds out her teenaged daughter is planning on losing her virginity over the holiday. She is rapidly getting sicker with a cold, loses her coat in the airport, and is deposited in this condition in a Midwestern town to a nervous mother (Anne Bancroft) and a good natured but somewhat chuckleheaded father (Charles Durning).
The cast of characters is rounded out by the gay, hysterically funny brother (Robert Downey Jr.), who is the black sheep of the family in numerous ways, the uptight, self-appointed watchdog sister (I forget this one’s name but I love her) and her similarly uptight family, and spinster Aunt Glady (also don’t know her real name), an eccentric woman who drinks too much and says grossly inappropriate things at the family dinner. The movie’s theme is families: how much we are different, how little we understand each other, and how much, ultimately, we belong to one another. Although I’m always horrified at the beginning of this movie, by the end the family’s craziness has become familiar and I find myself feeling a little nostalgic already.
The only completely unbelievable thing about the film is the fact that Robert Downey Jr. brings along a gorgeous, semi-normal guy (Dylan McDermott) who has seen Holly Hunter’s picture and wants to get to know her. I think the point of this is that the producers wanted to make sure we didn’t all go home and slit our wrists. If this was my family, someone would have brought over a reclusive neighbor with stained pants because they felt sorry for him and he would be the one who found me unbearably attractive. I’m just saying.
Anyway, ___________________ and I are going down to Florida this year to spend Thanksgiving with my mom and stepfather, my stepsister, and her two daughters. We have four divorces between us. I’ll also see my father (two divorces) and my grandmother on his side (widow). My ex-husband lives in Florida, and will be coming to Thanksgiving dinner as well. Even pared down to its most elemental form, it sounds crazy doesn’t it? And when you get into the nuances, it’s even more tricky.
As in “Home for the Holidays,” there will be issues. Someone will be mad at someone else, someone will be hurt, someone will drink too much, and someone will say the wrong thing. Actually, it’s quite possible that I’ll be responsible for all of these things. By the end of the trip, though, I will be sad to go. Because whatever its form, this is my family, and they belong to me. Whether they like it or not.
Son's view:
I liked this movie. I liked how the movie was set up in chapters. The family was funny and all the times the brother did something stupid it made me laugh. The mom was funny and when she took off her wig I thought that she was an evil old lady. My favorite part of the movie was when the brother told her to get into the car and then he drove away.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
I Scream. You Scream.
Mom's view:
I was asking for it by picking the topic “Perfect Mom” right after Rake Wars 2009, clearly, because I think I sounded like an ogre in ___________’s post. I was really bothered by it, but when I went to work a friend quickly disabused me of the notion that it was as meaningful as I thought.
“It’s just because he wrote it while you were upset with him about the raking. If you’d picked the same topic the day after Christmas it would have been a whole different post.”
I confirmed this with __________, later on. “Remember your post about the perfect mom?”
“Yeah.”
“What if you’d written that the day after Christmas?”
He paused. “I might have focused more on the good things.”
Note to self: Do not be so stupid in the future.
Still, an unsettled feeling lingers, primarily revolving around the part where ______________ asked that I quit yelling at him so much because it scared him. This is despite the fact that I outed myself as a yeller in my own post, and despite the fact that I know the reason it scares him is because I don’t do it very often. It doesn’t bother me that he asked me to quit telling him what to do, which I laughed about, or that he asked me to quit being cranky, which I also laughed about. It bothers me that he talked about the fact that I yell. It bothers me a lot.
So I have to ask myself, “Why?”
I read an article not too long ago in my favorite newspaper, the NYT, about yelling. The article proposed a theory that yelling was the new spanking, which is something I immediately discounted.
“They’re not the same at all,” I told the computer. (In case you’re having trouble making the leap, I was reading the paper online).
I abhor spanking. I draw a clear line in the sand when it comes to physically reprimanding children, as I don’t see what possible purpose it serves. My argument against spanking is this: As far as I can tell, my purpose as a parent is to teach my child how to be an independent, moral, thoughtful adult. Punishment should teach, not hurt. If I spank my child, I’m acting in a violent way, out of anger, and it’s not teaching my child anything. When I am forced to deal with a difficult client or co-worker, I do not end the issue by slapping them. I work to come to a resolution that is thoughtful and appropriate. Why would I give any less to my child, whom I supposedly love?
Something like that. And that sounds really super mature, doesn’t it? I like to think so. I tend to espouse this theory while staring slightly above the head of the person to whom I am talking, as though I’m carefully pulling deep and meaningful thoughts out of thin air. If I could get away with smoking a pipe while pontificating, I’d do that too.
But here’s the thing. The very same argument I make about spanking could be made about yelling. How exactly does yelling at anyone help anything? What does it teach? I don’t solve issues at work by yelling, and even though I’m less likely to get fired if I resolve an issue by yelling than by smacking someone, I would still be risking my job. Why is it so easy to draw the line in the sand for physical violence, as opposed to violence of voice?
People always comment when they see a parent slap or spank a child in public. It’s inevitable. They say things like “Oh, good parenting,” or “Call DSS,” and some people even get so upset that they threaten the offending parent with violence. I hate seeing a parent act like that in public. Absolutely hate it. It scares me, and I feel sorry for the child, and I want to cry myself. But really, I feel approximately the same way when I hear a parent yell at a child. That voice raised in anger, the child clearly upset; it is all very disturbing. The parent never looks good in any situation where yelling or hitting is involved. Never.
On the other side of the coin, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with exhibiting frustration. Kids do rotten, stupid things. A lot. At least six times on a Tuesday. I’ve left _______________ in the back yard with a popsicle and a pat on the head, only to return to a shirtless, wild eyed savage standing over a wailing neighbor child wielding the splintered stick fifteen minutes later. Things can degenerate pretty quickly without discipline. Kids need to understand when they’ve done something that angers, or disappoints, or frustrates. They need to understand that actions have consequences. I don’t know that it’s so wrong for a child to know that, say, for instance, when you say you’re going to do the raking and you bail out on your mom so she has to go out and basically do it herself, and the one time you finally help you claim you have to go to the bathroom and then spend a half hour changing your shirt and reapplying your Axe body spray, this makes her mad. This would make anyone mad. If you don’t do your work at a job, you’re fired. If you don’t do your work at school, you get bad grades. What consequences do we, as parents, have to offer?
We’re not supposed to make food a reward or a punishment. I get it. Television? That doesn’t make much sense either. If you’re doing well at school you get to watch more television? Kind of sends the wrong message I think. So what then? You get to sleep with a blanket if you toe the line? That’s the thing with yelling. Unless you’re one of those people who screams all the time, like this guy I knew who I think was from the Ukraine and just basically yelled everything he thought, it’s a pretty clear indication to someone that you’re upset. That’s why it scares ______________ when I yell. He doesn’t want to disappoint me, and yet I’ve been disappointed. By doing whatever he’s done, he’s thrown off the peaceful calm of our usual existence by nudging. Mom. Right. Over. The. Edge.
But then again, it doesn’t seem to help. You’d think he could put two and two together, right? Like eventually he’d say, “Hmmm. When I say I’m going to do something and then I don’t, it seems to make mom mad. Maybe I should do what I say I’m going to do and AVOID the anger.” For some reason it doesn’t work like that. Instead, I believe the thought process goes something like, “Mom’s mad again. She’s crazy. Where’s my Kit Kat?” I’m guessing based on facial expressions.
____________’s “Perfect Mother” post bothered me so much because I agree with it. Yelling is a gratuitous outlet that serves little purpose other than release for the yeller. But when the deed is done and it’s beyond unacceptable, what do you do? How do you demonstrate levels of offense in a calm and moderated tone? Exactly how many times will I find myself outside, holding my rake (that he peeled the foamy cushioned handle off of, by the way), alone in a sea of leaves?
Son's view:
I think that yelling isn’t necessary in all situations. You deserve a good yelling when you’ve done something really wrong. But when you’ve done something not so bad you don’t deserve to be yelled at. You give them a lecture. This is just as bad as yelling. Yelling is loud and it intimidates the person you are yelling at to yell back. Which starts a fight. Now, when my mom yells at me, most of the time it is for a good reason. But once in a while she gets mad at the little things. So I guess that she doesn’t yell when she doesn’t have to.
I was asking for it by picking the topic “Perfect Mom” right after Rake Wars 2009, clearly, because I think I sounded like an ogre in ___________’s post. I was really bothered by it, but when I went to work a friend quickly disabused me of the notion that it was as meaningful as I thought.
“It’s just because he wrote it while you were upset with him about the raking. If you’d picked the same topic the day after Christmas it would have been a whole different post.”
I confirmed this with __________, later on. “Remember your post about the perfect mom?”
“Yeah.”
“What if you’d written that the day after Christmas?”
He paused. “I might have focused more on the good things.”
Note to self: Do not be so stupid in the future.
Still, an unsettled feeling lingers, primarily revolving around the part where ______________ asked that I quit yelling at him so much because it scared him. This is despite the fact that I outed myself as a yeller in my own post, and despite the fact that I know the reason it scares him is because I don’t do it very often. It doesn’t bother me that he asked me to quit telling him what to do, which I laughed about, or that he asked me to quit being cranky, which I also laughed about. It bothers me that he talked about the fact that I yell. It bothers me a lot.
So I have to ask myself, “Why?”
I read an article not too long ago in my favorite newspaper, the NYT, about yelling. The article proposed a theory that yelling was the new spanking, which is something I immediately discounted.
“They’re not the same at all,” I told the computer. (In case you’re having trouble making the leap, I was reading the paper online).
I abhor spanking. I draw a clear line in the sand when it comes to physically reprimanding children, as I don’t see what possible purpose it serves. My argument against spanking is this: As far as I can tell, my purpose as a parent is to teach my child how to be an independent, moral, thoughtful adult. Punishment should teach, not hurt. If I spank my child, I’m acting in a violent way, out of anger, and it’s not teaching my child anything. When I am forced to deal with a difficult client or co-worker, I do not end the issue by slapping them. I work to come to a resolution that is thoughtful and appropriate. Why would I give any less to my child, whom I supposedly love?
Something like that. And that sounds really super mature, doesn’t it? I like to think so. I tend to espouse this theory while staring slightly above the head of the person to whom I am talking, as though I’m carefully pulling deep and meaningful thoughts out of thin air. If I could get away with smoking a pipe while pontificating, I’d do that too.
But here’s the thing. The very same argument I make about spanking could be made about yelling. How exactly does yelling at anyone help anything? What does it teach? I don’t solve issues at work by yelling, and even though I’m less likely to get fired if I resolve an issue by yelling than by smacking someone, I would still be risking my job. Why is it so easy to draw the line in the sand for physical violence, as opposed to violence of voice?
People always comment when they see a parent slap or spank a child in public. It’s inevitable. They say things like “Oh, good parenting,” or “Call DSS,” and some people even get so upset that they threaten the offending parent with violence. I hate seeing a parent act like that in public. Absolutely hate it. It scares me, and I feel sorry for the child, and I want to cry myself. But really, I feel approximately the same way when I hear a parent yell at a child. That voice raised in anger, the child clearly upset; it is all very disturbing. The parent never looks good in any situation where yelling or hitting is involved. Never.
On the other side of the coin, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with exhibiting frustration. Kids do rotten, stupid things. A lot. At least six times on a Tuesday. I’ve left _______________ in the back yard with a popsicle and a pat on the head, only to return to a shirtless, wild eyed savage standing over a wailing neighbor child wielding the splintered stick fifteen minutes later. Things can degenerate pretty quickly without discipline. Kids need to understand when they’ve done something that angers, or disappoints, or frustrates. They need to understand that actions have consequences. I don’t know that it’s so wrong for a child to know that, say, for instance, when you say you’re going to do the raking and you bail out on your mom so she has to go out and basically do it herself, and the one time you finally help you claim you have to go to the bathroom and then spend a half hour changing your shirt and reapplying your Axe body spray, this makes her mad. This would make anyone mad. If you don’t do your work at a job, you’re fired. If you don’t do your work at school, you get bad grades. What consequences do we, as parents, have to offer?
We’re not supposed to make food a reward or a punishment. I get it. Television? That doesn’t make much sense either. If you’re doing well at school you get to watch more television? Kind of sends the wrong message I think. So what then? You get to sleep with a blanket if you toe the line? That’s the thing with yelling. Unless you’re one of those people who screams all the time, like this guy I knew who I think was from the Ukraine and just basically yelled everything he thought, it’s a pretty clear indication to someone that you’re upset. That’s why it scares ______________ when I yell. He doesn’t want to disappoint me, and yet I’ve been disappointed. By doing whatever he’s done, he’s thrown off the peaceful calm of our usual existence by nudging. Mom. Right. Over. The. Edge.
But then again, it doesn’t seem to help. You’d think he could put two and two together, right? Like eventually he’d say, “Hmmm. When I say I’m going to do something and then I don’t, it seems to make mom mad. Maybe I should do what I say I’m going to do and AVOID the anger.” For some reason it doesn’t work like that. Instead, I believe the thought process goes something like, “Mom’s mad again. She’s crazy. Where’s my Kit Kat?” I’m guessing based on facial expressions.
____________’s “Perfect Mother” post bothered me so much because I agree with it. Yelling is a gratuitous outlet that serves little purpose other than release for the yeller. But when the deed is done and it’s beyond unacceptable, what do you do? How do you demonstrate levels of offense in a calm and moderated tone? Exactly how many times will I find myself outside, holding my rake (that he peeled the foamy cushioned handle off of, by the way), alone in a sea of leaves?
Son's view:
I think that yelling isn’t necessary in all situations. You deserve a good yelling when you’ve done something really wrong. But when you’ve done something not so bad you don’t deserve to be yelled at. You give them a lecture. This is just as bad as yelling. Yelling is loud and it intimidates the person you are yelling at to yell back. Which starts a fight. Now, when my mom yells at me, most of the time it is for a good reason. But once in a while she gets mad at the little things. So I guess that she doesn’t yell when she doesn’t have to.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
The Perfect Mother.
Mom's view:
I picked this topic, and I hope ______________ doesn’t say I’m perfect because it isn’t true. I assured him that he could be honest and that it will not affect his rapidly expanding Christmas list, but I’m a little afraid that maybe he just doesn’t know any better because he’s 11 and because he hasn’t gotten to that stage where he realizes that I’m a moron and shouldn’t be allowed in public. Of course, I have been amazed by how much ___________ does know, so maybe he once again pinned the issue down in a lot less sentences than I will write. It will be interesting to see.
I’m a single mom. A really single mom. I don’t really date, which I claim is because I don’t want to but I suppose it’s viable that no one wants to date me either. Being a truly single parent (as opposed to someone who jumps from “uncle” to “uncle”) tends to make you and your child a fairly tight unit. It also puts you in a position where you are on your own, with no one to tell you that you are being unreasonable or crazy when you impose discipline, or when you get a particular parenting idea in your head. You can discuss these things with other family members, friends, or co-workers, but only in small doses or else they become uncomfortably aware that you don’t have a life outside of being a mom and tend to suggest that maybe you should consider dating.
On top of the fact that I’m immersed in subjective parenting on a daily basis, I also have no idea what a perfect mom might be. I’m not suggesting, via this post, that such a thing exists in some concrete way, because that’s clearly not the case. But I am suggesting that there may be a set of criteria to which a parent might aspire in order to do better. I’m just not sure what those criteria might be.
My mom was, and is, a good mother. Not a perfect one, because she’s a) human, b) had to deal with external factors that sometimes impeded her ability to parent me, and c) suffers from congenital bossiness. Factors A and B affect everyone. Factor C is unique. My mother is the type of person who would be willing to tell you exactly how to spend every waking minute of your day, whether she had any idea what your actual life entailed or not. And that’s not really her fault, because she comes from a long line of bosses. I suffer from Factor C as well, and it’s not my fault either so keep your criticisms to yourself.
Unlike _________, I have already crossed the bridge of eternal disdain and can now view my mom with what I hope is a more objective eye. Although she’s bossy, she is often right about things that she has actually experienced and is generous in sharing those experiences when you are in a tight spot. She is a fantastic cook, and she’s really fun to talk to. I was always interested in her attentions when I was younger, and I am interested in them now. She is a master at making any house she lives in feel like a home. The beds are comfortable and soft, the food is good, the cable package is excellent with portals distributed liberally throughout the house, the fire crackles in the fireplace, and the wine or chocolate milk, depending on your age, flows freely. She’s the person I call first with any news or concerns, and she never fails to offer comfort or guidance. By “guidance,” I mean she tells me what to do in lavish detail. But hey, I called.
When I embarked on being a parent myself, I really did not have a long list of ways that I wanted to be different from my own mother, unlike other people I know. I think that there are many who define parenthood by what it should not be, rather than by what it should be. Their parenting style develops in negative space, simply by approaching things in the way they expect their own parent would not. I did not feel that way about my own mother.
I picked this topic, and I hope ______________ doesn’t say I’m perfect because it isn’t true. I assured him that he could be honest and that it will not affect his rapidly expanding Christmas list, but I’m a little afraid that maybe he just doesn’t know any better because he’s 11 and because he hasn’t gotten to that stage where he realizes that I’m a moron and shouldn’t be allowed in public. Of course, I have been amazed by how much ___________ does know, so maybe he once again pinned the issue down in a lot less sentences than I will write. It will be interesting to see.
I’m a single mom. A really single mom. I don’t really date, which I claim is because I don’t want to but I suppose it’s viable that no one wants to date me either. Being a truly single parent (as opposed to someone who jumps from “uncle” to “uncle”) tends to make you and your child a fairly tight unit. It also puts you in a position where you are on your own, with no one to tell you that you are being unreasonable or crazy when you impose discipline, or when you get a particular parenting idea in your head. You can discuss these things with other family members, friends, or co-workers, but only in small doses or else they become uncomfortably aware that you don’t have a life outside of being a mom and tend to suggest that maybe you should consider dating.
On top of the fact that I’m immersed in subjective parenting on a daily basis, I also have no idea what a perfect mom might be. I’m not suggesting, via this post, that such a thing exists in some concrete way, because that’s clearly not the case. But I am suggesting that there may be a set of criteria to which a parent might aspire in order to do better. I’m just not sure what those criteria might be.
My mom was, and is, a good mother. Not a perfect one, because she’s a) human, b) had to deal with external factors that sometimes impeded her ability to parent me, and c) suffers from congenital bossiness. Factors A and B affect everyone. Factor C is unique. My mother is the type of person who would be willing to tell you exactly how to spend every waking minute of your day, whether she had any idea what your actual life entailed or not. And that’s not really her fault, because she comes from a long line of bosses. I suffer from Factor C as well, and it’s not my fault either so keep your criticisms to yourself.
Unlike _________, I have already crossed the bridge of eternal disdain and can now view my mom with what I hope is a more objective eye. Although she’s bossy, she is often right about things that she has actually experienced and is generous in sharing those experiences when you are in a tight spot. She is a fantastic cook, and she’s really fun to talk to. I was always interested in her attentions when I was younger, and I am interested in them now. She is a master at making any house she lives in feel like a home. The beds are comfortable and soft, the food is good, the cable package is excellent with portals distributed liberally throughout the house, the fire crackles in the fireplace, and the wine or chocolate milk, depending on your age, flows freely. She’s the person I call first with any news or concerns, and she never fails to offer comfort or guidance. By “guidance,” I mean she tells me what to do in lavish detail. But hey, I called.
When I embarked on being a parent myself, I really did not have a long list of ways that I wanted to be different from my own mother, unlike other people I know. I think that there are many who define parenthood by what it should not be, rather than by what it should be. Their parenting style develops in negative space, simply by approaching things in the way they expect their own parent would not. I did not feel that way about my own mother.
In fact, here is my list of things that I swore I would do differently than my mom:
- I would not dictate how my child would wear his/her hair. My mom completely controlled my hair cuts and styles, which has resulted in a photo album full of pictures of me with permed hair. Oddly enough, my least favorite mom-imposed hair style, the “straight hair parted in the middle no bangs with a little piece pulled back on each side and secured with a decorated bobby pin,” does not appear prominently in my photo albums so I’m wondering whether I was really forced to wear it all that much.
- I would not force my child to eat things he or she didn’t like. My mom, who fed us copious amounts of Velveeta cheese, fake sweeteners, and margarine in the name of misguided health, thought I needed to eat more red meat. I spent the better part of my childhood years spitting masticated balls of cow flesh into the toilet. To this day, the words “flank” and “steak”, when said together, make me gag a little.
- I would try really hard to be maybe not quite so bossy about things that I am not, nor ever have been, involved in.
Seriously, that’s it! It would have been a much longer list at ____________’s age, mostly because I was a fairly sour child and felt the world did not function exactly as I would like it to. I’ve since grown into a more accommodating disposition. Plus, there are things that I wasn’t fond of at the time but weren’t what I would call characteristics of my mom. Just things that relate to Factors A and B, and that can happen to the best of us.
Now, if you look at my list of the positive characteristics I attribute to my mom, I am an abysmal failure. I recently turned off ALL cable, and I don’t let __________ have a television in his room. I am not good at making houses seem like a home – I’ve been living in this house for six years and I have still not refinished the stairs after ripping up the carpet. Most rooms have no curtains, because I can’t decide what I want, and I haven’t repainted the kitchen ceiling after the whole frozen pipes 2004 thing. I don’t let ______________ drink chocolate milk too often. I’m an okay cook, but I make a lot of quick and easy things. I’m not huge on homemade.
Also, I know there’s a list of things that I do wrong. I’m a yeller. I don’t yell hurtful things to ____________; I don’t say that he’s a bad person, or diminish him in any way. But I make my points really, really loudly on numerous occasions. I spend a lot of time with my nose in a book or writing something or watching television. I have never understood how to play with a kid, so I have to figure out a way to do things with ____________ that are fun, but don’t involve me doing something that makes me feel stupid. I tell _____________ what to do, A LOT. Then again, my mom had some of these issues as well. Ahem.
I’m not even sure that the list of things I picked out about my mom has anything to do with why I think she’s a good mom. It is just a list of things I attribute to her. And mothering is less about the person doing it than the person being mothered. For instance, after some rocky years of rebellion and poor fashion choices, I turned out okay. And I attribute this to my mom as well. She made sure I had a good education. She didn’t help me with my homework so I had to do it on my own. She basically framed my life so that there was no way I’d ever suggest I might do anything other than go to college. She let me go to New York City on my own, at 17, and let me live there over the summer after my first year of college. She drove down in record time when I ended up in the emergency room after being beaten up by a would be thief/rapist. She stood by me when I entered an ill-advised marriage, but she was also there for me when, inevitably, I needed to get out. She walked the parenting balance beam, and ultimately I feel she got it right.
So basically, I don’t know if I’m doing things right with ______________. I think he’s a great kid, so if I’m to judge by the product then I have to think that so far I’m doing okay. But we haven’t hit even the tween years yet much less the teen and young adult years. Also, we all know that things you wouldn’t expect can happen, and it’s not fair to point fingers at parents for everything. I guess, when it comes down to it, I hope the lessons I’ve taught him serve him well. I hope I’m able to give him the freedom he needs to become an independent adult, and the comfort of knowing that if something goes awry, I’m always there for him. I hope he looks back on these days fondly, and I hope he smiles when he thinks of me.
Son's view:
Well the perfect mother for most kids would probably let them eat whatever they want, let them stay up late, etc. I love my mom but here are the things that I would change:
- Stop yelling so much! I hate it when you yell and I get scared when you yell!
- Try not to explain every single thing that you need me to do! I get what you are saying and ill figure out what I need to do!
- Don’t be so cranky! Sometimes when you are out raking or you’ve just done something hard you get cranky and then you start to yell and the cycle begins.
That’s what I think would make the perfect mother.
Mom's response:
Okay, so apparently I'm subpar in numerous ways, but he loves me anyway except for the fact that I'm a cranky bossy yeller. I feel so warm in my heart. And by the way, I'm cranky about the raking because ___________ was supposed to do it and bailed out completely. And yes I dragged him out anyway, but it was like trying to get an amoeba to rake. I gave up. I was OWED that crankiness. You know what? I feel like yelling.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Oh Rocky. You came and you gave without taking.
Mom's view:
I have never watched any of the Rocky movies, except in snippets. As far as I can tell, every single one of the movies is about an underdog boxer who makes good in some way, even if he doesn’t win the big fight. They start with an outline of some struggle, then Rocky decides he needs to step up, which leads to the montage scene combining inspirational music and working out, and then the big fight. That’s about it, right? So clearly, their magic eludes me.
The reason I picked this topic is because of a series of events that made it clear that I was on the outside looking in when it came to this franchise. ___________ has a complete set of the Rocky movies. This is thanks to his dad, who was young when Rocky originally came out and found inspiration in this story of a somewhat in shape guy becoming even more in shape to music. He used to go through these bouts of working out and he’d always listen to the Rocky theme song as a part of his whole regime.
When he first gave the DVDs to _________________, I though they’d end up moldering on our shelves the way “Fighter Jets” and some of the other transferred interest items have. And at first, they did. ______________ relegated them to the bottom of the wicker toy chest where we keep all the movies. Then, when I canned the television, they made an appearance. _____________ has now watched every single Rocky installment numerous times, sometimes from a push up position. What is it with guys and Rocky?
Anyway, one night not too long ago, he starts explaining to me that out of all the movies, Rocky IV is hands down the best.
“Rocky IV?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“Usually people like the first one of any series the best.”
“Nope. Rocky IV.”
“How come?”
“Well, he’s fighting this guy in Russia who’s this giant guy and you can tell he’s all on steroids and Rocky beats him down.”
“And that’s why it’s the best?”
“Yeah.”
As I am wont to do, I passed on this key information to a co-worker the next day.
“______________ keeps watching those Rocky movies, and he swears Rocky IV is the best. Who likes movies with a IV after them?”
She immediately jumped in.
“No, no. Guys love that one. They all think it’s the best.”
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. But they love it.”
Sure enough, she emails her fiancée and passes on the debate. Her fiancée immediately writes back, advising me second hand that while my son is worthy of living, I’m clearly un-American. Actually, I think the exact wording was, “If you don’t like Rocky IV you don’t like America.” And FYI, I wasn’t saying I didn’t like it, having never seen it, but merely that it seems odd, as a general principle, to like a fourth installment better than the first through third. These movies generally don’t get better over time. They just don’t.
As usual, I Googled the issue, and it appears that people either loved Rocky IV or hated it. Very little in between, and there’s clearly a huge following. From what I can tell, the lovers feel that the montage scene is the best, with “Hearts on Fire” inspiring them all. They also like the fact that Rocky defeats communism via the big fight. Hmm.
Here’s my opinion. The Rocky movies are chick flicks for guys. But unlike the guys who laugh at me when I cry at the end of Sleepless in Seattle, even though I know it’s ridiculous and that it would never happen and that seconds after she walks out of the elevator with the guy he probably farts and makes her pay for her own pizza, I say “way to go!” Embrace your inner manly man and enjoy!
Son's view:
Rocky 4 is the best movie ever in the whole entire world. Now, I know I’m eleven but, there is this song in the movie that I workout to and it is totally awesome. If you just think of it you can do like, thirty push ups. It’s crazy. I love this movie and we just got the new one that came out, (rocky balboa) and my mom called it rocky the elderly, and I think that she is right. Stallone had to be about 80 in that movie. It was funny to watch him beat the fighter who was like, 18.
I have never watched any of the Rocky movies, except in snippets. As far as I can tell, every single one of the movies is about an underdog boxer who makes good in some way, even if he doesn’t win the big fight. They start with an outline of some struggle, then Rocky decides he needs to step up, which leads to the montage scene combining inspirational music and working out, and then the big fight. That’s about it, right? So clearly, their magic eludes me.
The reason I picked this topic is because of a series of events that made it clear that I was on the outside looking in when it came to this franchise. ___________ has a complete set of the Rocky movies. This is thanks to his dad, who was young when Rocky originally came out and found inspiration in this story of a somewhat in shape guy becoming even more in shape to music. He used to go through these bouts of working out and he’d always listen to the Rocky theme song as a part of his whole regime.
When he first gave the DVDs to _________________, I though they’d end up moldering on our shelves the way “Fighter Jets” and some of the other transferred interest items have. And at first, they did. ______________ relegated them to the bottom of the wicker toy chest where we keep all the movies. Then, when I canned the television, they made an appearance. _____________ has now watched every single Rocky installment numerous times, sometimes from a push up position. What is it with guys and Rocky?
Anyway, one night not too long ago, he starts explaining to me that out of all the movies, Rocky IV is hands down the best.
“Rocky IV?”
“Yeah. Definitely.”
“Usually people like the first one of any series the best.”
“Nope. Rocky IV.”
“How come?”
“Well, he’s fighting this guy in Russia who’s this giant guy and you can tell he’s all on steroids and Rocky beats him down.”
“And that’s why it’s the best?”
“Yeah.”
As I am wont to do, I passed on this key information to a co-worker the next day.
“______________ keeps watching those Rocky movies, and he swears Rocky IV is the best. Who likes movies with a IV after them?”
She immediately jumped in.
“No, no. Guys love that one. They all think it’s the best.”
“Really? Why?”
“I don’t know. But they love it.”
Sure enough, she emails her fiancée and passes on the debate. Her fiancée immediately writes back, advising me second hand that while my son is worthy of living, I’m clearly un-American. Actually, I think the exact wording was, “If you don’t like Rocky IV you don’t like America.” And FYI, I wasn’t saying I didn’t like it, having never seen it, but merely that it seems odd, as a general principle, to like a fourth installment better than the first through third. These movies generally don’t get better over time. They just don’t.
As usual, I Googled the issue, and it appears that people either loved Rocky IV or hated it. Very little in between, and there’s clearly a huge following. From what I can tell, the lovers feel that the montage scene is the best, with “Hearts on Fire” inspiring them all. They also like the fact that Rocky defeats communism via the big fight. Hmm.
Here’s my opinion. The Rocky movies are chick flicks for guys. But unlike the guys who laugh at me when I cry at the end of Sleepless in Seattle, even though I know it’s ridiculous and that it would never happen and that seconds after she walks out of the elevator with the guy he probably farts and makes her pay for her own pizza, I say “way to go!” Embrace your inner manly man and enjoy!
Son's view:
Rocky 4 is the best movie ever in the whole entire world. Now, I know I’m eleven but, there is this song in the movie that I workout to and it is totally awesome. If you just think of it you can do like, thirty push ups. It’s crazy. I love this movie and we just got the new one that came out, (rocky balboa) and my mom called it rocky the elderly, and I think that she is right. Stallone had to be about 80 in that movie. It was funny to watch him beat the fighter who was like, 18.
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