Ragtime

I've played the piano since I was eight years old. My teacher during most of the time I took lessons was a woman named Ruth Sweeney, and I adored her. She was (in my memory) tall and beautiful with perfect bone structure and creamy skin and strawberry blond hair, and she let me simply love playing. I played a little classical before she and I both realized that wasn't my forte and never would be, and she introduced me then to ragtime. That was my "fun" music. She also taught me how to be a better sight reader--how to play a piece through without stopping, even if I made mistakes. Just keep going. And then start all over again. And keep going all over again. Sight reading helped me immensely when I decided I wanted to be an accompanist for the school's show choirs and musicals. I was in my comfort zone behind the piano, and although there was much about high school I didn't love, I did love playing the piano.

Mrs. Sweeney moved out of state when I was sixteen, and I started lessons with a new teacher, fresh out of college. Rather than being enthusiastic, as a new teacher should be, she already seemed old and tired and beaten down by life. She had an entirely different approach, wanting me to focus more on classical music and on memorizing my pieces and on perfecting my pieces. Piano stopped being fun for me: I didn't like practicing or playing or recitals or receiving numbered scores for how well I did at competitions. How do you get a 97 for playing Schubert? How do you play a piece almost perfectly but not quite, not 100%, just 97%? How do you do anything in life outside of a math test or a multiple-choice exam and get a 97? It just seemed wrong to me: being graded on how well I did something that I only wanted to do because I enjoyed doing it--or used to enjoy doing it.

So I quit. But I didn't quit playing. I still played for school, still played for church choir, still played for myself. Even today, sitting at the piano and banging out (gently banging out, that is) my frustrations is therapy. I have a couple of Chopin pieces that hit the right emotion for me at times. But Ragtime is still my go-to music: Scott Joplin, Joseph Lamb, Tom Turpin. I like the syncopated rhythm, the freedom to hit a note off the beat rather than on it. I like that it's supposed to be "ragged"--a little imperfect, a little like jotting down the notes you hear in your head while watching someone who just wants to shout or dance or spin around without knowing the notes ahead of time. I love that people played ragtime for years before bothering to put it down on paper. You didn't read it or try to get it perfect. You just played until it felt perfect.

Most of Joplin's rags are in four movements, and the third is always the hardest. But he was kind enough to give us two shots to get the feel of each movement, as they all repeat once. The first time I sit down to play after being away from the piano for too long, I tend to stumble a little through each movement, and then something clicks as I repeat. I don't  perfect the piece, but I get it "righter."

And "righter" is enough for me, because that's where life is enjoyed: in doing what you want to do for the thrill of it all and not for the 97% score.

Sprains

Fifteen or sixteen years ago, while working at Yale University Press, I sprained both ankles sliding down some steps at work. I was wearing jeans and leather Keds and was hurrying down to give something to somebody--papers, a book, I don't remember. Humiliating enough on its own, right? But add to that humiliation the fact that I landed at the feet of (a) the director and (b) the chief editor of the press. They helped me back to a standing, head-hanging position, and I swore to them I was okay, limped to my destination, and then returned to my desk, where the chief editor met me with an ice pack and lots of advice from his doctor wife about how to treat myself for the rest of the day.

I ignored the advice and went to the movies with my husband that night: "Jefferson in Paris." I don't remember much about the film, only about my ankles throbbing so badly throughout that I was nearly sweating. But I didn't want to leave the movie. We were on a tight budget, and leaving for any reason would've been wasteful.

I had to miss work the next day because I couldn't walk. Five days later, I finally went to the health center to get an x-ray. My right foot was swollen and purple and hideous. But it was "just " sprained.

A week later I re-sprained it going down the same stupid steps.

Two years ago, I sprained the same foot going down the steps of my house while carrying my youngest son. I went to the ER the next day, sure this time it was broken, but it wasn't. I did learn through that x-ray, however, that I had broken my foot at some point in the past and the bones on top had healed on their own.

Yesterday, heading down the back porch steps, wet from an afternoon of rain, I slipped and fell again. My foot isn't sprained this time, but it has a glorious lump and bruise on top and a scrape along the side.

I have a weak foot. It's time to admit that and act accordingly. I have to be more careful, more aware of what I'm doing.

A couple of days ago, an ex contacted me to ask why I'd unfriended him on Facebook. We had a non-completely-unpleasant exchange in which I explained why, we wished each other well, and then both went on our merry ways.

We all have weaknesses--weak parts--that we have to take into consideration in our daily routines. We can try to strengthen them through exercise, but sometimes exercise isn't the 'cure' and avoidance is. A fall down the steps might not result in a sprained or twisted ankle, but it can remind us of that sprain or twist through a bruise or a scrape or just embarrassment at our clumsiness and carelessness. We don't need to avoid the steps, but we can always watch our footing.

What to do, what to do . . .

I started out having a productive morning. Got up early enough to make the kids waffles with strawberries and whipped cream (the spray stuff doesn't count, I know, but today it does, okay?). I washed the dishes (more or less: more, meaning they're in the dishwasher or are drying on the counter; less, meaning  . . . meaning the exact same thing as more) and then headed out by 9 a.m. for a couple of errands. Oh, and I was dressed and showered as well, though not in that order.

Then I got home and by 10:00 my productivity ended. The kitchen now looks like this:

And my six-year-old just annihilated me in a game of Mancala. His exultation was great and only slightly humiliating. But it beats playing his father. My husband, love him to pieces and bits though I may, is the most competitive human being I know. We used to play backgammon when we were newly married--until I realized we would never be more than newly  married if we continued to play together. The game is now hidden under lock and key and we never speak of it. Ever. We also never speak of the time he played Trivial Pursuit with my family and just wouldn't give my sister credit, for crying out loud, for "It's a Mad Mad Mad World" when the answer (yeesh) was "It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World."

I digress. No surprise there.

I hate a messy kitchen. I can't think straight in a messy kitchen. I want to live in a magazine of a kitchen and not the reality of one, filled with dirty dishes and things that don't have a place because I can't think straight in a messy kitchen and figure out what sort of place those things should have! (Yep. That's a panic attack coming on. Thanks for noticing.) (And that 2-liter of Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi you're looking at probably isn't helping the nerves any, is it?) (Don't answer.)

I want to throw away most of what you see: the leftover waffles, the grapes that are just too sad looking today, the half-eaten banana (WHY oh WHY is an entire banana just too much for a person to eat? Please tell me. Seriously. It's a BANANA, not an entire buffet of fruit. A--one--single--banana!! Just eat the whole thing. Please.), the yellow eco-friendly cloths I bought that have been the bane of my existence because one they dry, you can't get them wet again without soaking them in hot water for what seems like days, those curtains. Ugh. Yes, even those curtains. Whoever lived here before us had them specially made, and I loathe them. I took down the ones that hung over the windows in our breakfast area, but I've never gotten around to taking these down. Why? Because. Okay. That's why. I'm easily distracted. Fine. I'll do it today. Enough with the nagging. Why do I hate them? Why such a visceral reaction to harmless, innocent curtains? Because they have pomegranates and pineapples on them. And big concord grapes and cherries. They annoy me. I can't explain it beyond that. I have nothing against fruit as a rule (except half-eaten bananas!!!!), but I already have fruit in my kitchen. I don't need fruit on my curtains. And they're pointed--pointing down to the sink, reminding me I should be there working and not here babbling. It's rude.

I know I should be cleaning the kitchen, but here's the thing: it's 12:30. My husband and two of my kids will be home any minute now, and they'll be eating lunch. And the kitchen will be torn apart again. Yes, I know this is what life is about: cleaning up the same mess over and over and over again. Okay, maybe life is about more than that, but it certainly involves repetitive clean-ups.

I made my bed this morning. That counts for something, too, right?

Yep. They're home now. Good thing I opted to babble instead of clean. I'm sure they'll all appreciate it.

As did you.

My point? I didn't have one. I'm gearing up for a week of having all four kids home with me during spring break. I needed a little manic stream of consciousness. Carry on. Enjoy your first full week of spring. And perhaps spring cleaning.

Apron Strings

I loved bedtime when my kids were babies--and not just because it meant having a few hours of quiet. I loved it because I'd get to sit in the dark with them and sing. I sang "Sweetheart Tree" and "The Bonnie Banks of Loch Lomond" and sometimes a little John Denver or even Laurel and Hardy ("Trail of the Lonesome Pine"). They're the songs I haven't sung since. They grew out of them before I said it was okay for them to. They didn't ask for permission.

I also "wrote" each of them a lullaby. My oldest, now 14, got embarrassed the other day when I mentioned this to him. No, thanks, Mom, you don't need to sing it for me now:

Baby laugh and baby smiles
Baby steps toward grownup miles
So let me hold your tiny hand and keep you safe while I still can.
Let me come now when you call.
Let me catch you when you fall.
While apron strings still hold you near
My love can wipe away each tear.
Baby laughs and baby smiles
Baby steps toward grownup miles.

Nothing brings out the sap in me like my children, especially when I think of how different life was for us all when they were still at that rock-able age.

My 11-year-old son got in a fight at school this week, if by "fight" you mean another kid shoved him around for standing up to him and then hit my son in the face before running off to tell the teacher my son had hit him (not true, by the way; witnesses concur). But he was fine--completely unfazed. In fact, he didn't even mention the incident to me until more than an hour after he got home from school. He laughed it off, said the kid is a jerk but doesn't worry him. I think that kid worries me more. I wanted to call his parents, hunt the child down myself and have a few words with him, show up at school and haunt the halls and playground until June. But my son doesn't need me there. He's taken care of the situation . . . and he's stronger for it.

I was talking to my sister about this today, and she said that as much as she wants to fight her kids' battles and take away everything that might make them sad or afraid or alone, she knows she can't and shouldn't. I agreed. It takes more than love and protection to make a child happy: it takes a sense of empowerment. The kid who hit mine isn't strong and he isn't happy. My child is.

I'm not entirely sure how he got that way. I'd like to take the credit but it's not that simple. He's always been his own little person, as I put it. He's never cared what others think of him, never tried to impress anyone. "I know who I am," he told me that afternoon. "That's all that matters."

My 8-year-old daughter isn't quite as empowered as he is. I hope I can say "yet." I'm working on the "yet." She's constantly caught in a tug of war between one group of friends or another. She asked me the other day which of two of her friends I liked better, because, she said, they were making her choose. "Don't choose," I said. "Find other friends who won't make you." I don't know if I helped. That's how parenting goes most of the time: Did I help? Or did I just make matters worse? Did I say too much? Too little? Her grades have dropped recently, and her teacher thinks it may be because the social situation at school is preoccupying her. I want to jump in and fix things, but this is only third grade--only the beginning of the minefield that is the social life of a pre-adolescent girl. I can't fix things. I can only help, whether that's by listening or by agreeing with her that, yes, her friend was mean or by continuing to do what I can to make her feel strong in other areas of her life.

I truly had no idea as a young mother how much as a not-so-young mother I'd want to keep catching my kids and coming when they call--how much I'd want them to "let" me. And I had no idea how hard it would be to see the strings unravel--because they have to--and then hold my breath while they find their own footing.

How Bad Does It Have to Get?

In the 1700s, James Lind came up with the theory that adding a ration of fruit to sailors' diets could eradicate scurvy, a disease that had killed millions (it dates back to B.C.). Tens of thousands during this era were dying during sea battles and campaigns from this disease alone. Captain Cook's ship remained scurvy-free throughout its 3-year voyage (1768-71) in the South Seas with a ration of lemon juice and sauerkraut for his men. Still, the Admiralty didn’t believe such a fatal disease could be cured so easily. They wanted an elixir, preferably one with a complicated name and many ingredients. (Who doesn't?) Lind died on February 14, 1794--the year a naval squadron finally put his theory to test, thereby fully vindicating him. But another ten years passed before it became standard daily issue in the navy.

I have had these little red marks on my right hand--only my right hand--for a couple of months. And they haven't itched or even hurt necessarily unless I brush up against something, and then it feels like I have slivers stuck in my fingers. Not really pleasant and not horribly unpleasant, so I haven't done anything about them, figuring they'd just go away eventually.

But they've gotten worse the last couple of weeks, gotten painful, and since even annoyances are worth getting rid of, I finally looked into the problem last week. I finally decided, after reading a hundred or so posts on a chat page, that the marks were caused by either (a) cold weather (thus the reason they're only on my right hand; if it's a circulation issue, my right hand is farther from my heart than my left) or (b) too much sugar in my diet.

I love sugar. I'm worse than my kids, honestly. It goes beyond chocolate. I'll eat crap sugar: Airheads and Laffy Taffies and Nerds. At least dark chocolate can offer me a speck or two of anti-oxidants. Smarties? Not so smart. I know that.

But I cut it out. Not all the way out. I'm not that faithful. I've still been eating my cinnamon-toffee almonds from Nutty Guys. I had a few bites of cake Wednesday night. I stole a piece of my son's Valentine's candy last night (though he denies the candy was his, because then he'd have to tell me who gave it to him, all of which is a post for another time). But I cut way way down.

And my hand is SO much better after only five days of making this one little change in lifestyle. And it was easy--so easy that I wasn't sure it would be enough. But I was feeling desperate enough.

I didn't mean for this to be a medical post. I've just been thinking about how human nature so often holds us in place--in bad relationships, bad health, bad financial situations, bad jobs--all because we're unwilling to make a change until that place gets so bad we'll try anything. And why is this? Is it stubbornness? Laziness? Pride? Exhaustion? Fear? Anger? Denial?

Sure, making a change so I can have full use of my right hand again isn't the biggest accomplishment--or the most necessary--of my life. But I know I've stayed in situations for all of the above reasons more than once. I've known a little citrus might be the solution but I've still said, "Nope. Not big enough. Not important enough. Bring me the magic elixir, and then we'll talk."

Love Someone . . .

My friend Brigid Kemmerer is sponsoring a contest for stories of your worst Valentine's Day ever. So if you happen to be here on my blog before 5 a.m. tomorrow morning (the 15th), head over to hers and tell her aalllll about it.

I was going to tell her my story, but then I thought, "Hey, I'm happily married, and since my worst Valentine's Day involved my husband, who is wonderfully good and kind to me (not to mention patient), how much can I really capitalize on my so-called sob story? I have it good."

I will say, however, that my disappointment that particular Valentine's Day was over failed expectations. And, okay, so I know that's what the very definition of disappointment is: you expect something and things don't work out that way and--ta-dah--disappointment. Really, when you think about it (and it doesn't require heavy thinking by any means), all unhappiness in general derives from failed expectations.

And Valentine's Day is the perfect time for many to reflect on those failed expectations: "I thought I'd have someone to share today with."

Or "I have someone to share today with. I expected that to be enough."

My three sisters and I decided this past Christmas to make our gifts for or only spend a small amount of money on each other. We're all old enough (well old enough) now and with families of our own--old enough and independent enough, that is--that token gifts are "enough." We don't "need" and we don't "expect" the extraneous array of . . . stuff.

My oldest sister gave me a beautiful handmade scarf. She didn't make it, but someone did, and it's beautiful: lots of bright colors, and even when I don't wear it, I have it laying across a chair because just looking at it makes me happy. My older sister made me felt mittens and a felt hat with a felted daisy on it. She's ridiculously talented with her creations. I can't even call them "crafts" or what she does a "hobby," because she does so much and does it all so well that, cheesy as it sounds, she's an artist. My younger sister, who has the best sense of style of anyone I know (though AngryBaker kicks some serious fashion tush too), gave me a short-sleeved sweater and a long-sleeved t-shirt to wear underneath it. Any great outfits I wear were either hers originally or contain pieces she gave me as gifts. I have her to thank for getting me out of the 90s.

It was a nice Christmas.

Oh . . . what did I give them? I hand stitched felt ornaments and made them wooden bracelets, each with a quote that reminded me specifically of them. And then I made myself one:

"Love Someone Who Doesn't Deserve It."

It's easy to love someone who does deserve it--like my sisters . . . and my brothers and my parents and my husband and kids and other family members and friends. But to let go of the expectations you demand of others--sometimes those you thought it would be easy to love or think it should be easy to love--is, well, just a lot less fun. But it's also very liberating because it takes away the burden of failed expectations: unhappiness.

I'm wearing my bracelet as I type this. It's Valentine's Day after all. And I do a much better job of loving my husband on a daily basis than I do of loving that neighbor who yelled at my son the other day.

Besides, who of us really deserves the love we have in our lives?

Mindless Wonderings/Wanderings

I've felt like crap most of today. Not looking for sympathy here--just surprised at myself. I don't get sick often. In fact, I rather revel in my usual health and ability to repel even the most aggressive bugs. And what I'm feeling isn't "sick" so much as "in pain." But this isn't about my medical symptoms and my refusal to go to the doctor until I have to be carried there.

I was clicking around my toolbar--hopping from Dictionary to Chicago Manual of Style to Hulu--and I decided I'm curious: What's in your toolbar?

Here's my list (because I know you're dying to know, and if you're not, don't tell me you're not, because remember? I'm in pain already. So, okay, maybe I'm looking for a little sympathy, or at least enough for you to not openly mock me.):

Gmail--I'm on gmail almost always. I sometimes miss writing longhand and give it a shot, but then my hand cramps up and I remember why USPS is having troubles these days.
Yahoo!--My news page.
Facebook--I don't spend hours on this, but I do check in regularly just to see what old and distant friends are up to. I saw the movie, by the way. I thought it was really good but not Oscar worthy. Actually, I can't remember the last time I saw an Oscar-worthy movie.
Google--I'm there more than I'm on gmail or Facebook. Who isn't?
Thesaurus--It's an editor's friend.
Dictionary--See Thesaurus.
All Recipes--I've gotten rid of most of my cookbooks over the last few years. The ones I hold on to I hold on to for sentimental reasons. (Can someone be sentimental about a cookbook?)
My blog--I go here to check out my blog roll, which I think I need to add to, by the way, because I'm not wasting nearly enough time stalking strangers.
Twitter--I should really delete that one since it's been months since I've tweeted. Spending time there depressed me, made me anxious and uptight. It felt too TOO much like stalking, and I found that 140 characters is just enough for people to succinctly gripe and kvetch and mock (none of which I ever do, of course).
Amazon--Yes, I love independents. Two of my brothers own independents, one of which (the independent, not the brother) used to be my parents'. But I also have a little crush on Amazon.
Calculator--Hm. I guess it's just easier than looking for a physical one.
New York Times--I think my husband put this one on. I need to remove it since I never look at it.
Pandora--Love!
Wunderground--Because I need to know just how much snow Chicago is going to get before spring finally shows up. And then I need to know how much rain to expect. And then just how hot it's going to get before fall rolls around. And then how long I have until the whole snow and cold thing starts up again.
Chicago Manual of Style--Again, it's an editor thing.
Chicago Tribune--Ron, stop adding to my toolbar.
PowerSchool--This is how I gather the info necessary to nag my kids about their grades. Poor things. And I'm so glad my parents didn't have this when I was in school.
Hulu--I won't even mention his name again, as I know you're sick of hearing it.

Gee that was fun. ~sigh~ And really: what's your toolbar like? Because once I get rid of a few of these, I'll have some room for more time-wasting sites to entertain me (which kind of contradicts the "time-wasting" descriptor . . . kind of) while I tell myself I'm feeling better and better all the time.

Off to Hulu now.