Dishwashers and dry sinks

My dishwasher broke down a few days ago. So for three days I did dishes by hand. Now that might sound like "big deal, whatever, three days, quit complaining or shut up completely you lazy, whining slob." And I admit that's exactly what it sounds like. But I wasn't complaining. Honest. Granted, I was eager to have my dishwasher fixed, and if the repairman hadn't been able to do so (which he did yesterday), I would have bought a new one this weekend.

What I really felt for three days, however, was guilt.

My father grew up on a farm during the Depression--as in the *real* Depression, not the Feeling Sad that the U.S. has experienced this last year. I don't want to minimize what the declining economy did and continues to do to some families. But this wasn't a Depression, not if most of you got to keep your homes, not to mention your satellite dishes and cell phones and iPods and laptops.

But that's not my point. My point is that my father and my mother and my aunts and uncles and my grandparents experienced the real thing. My father wrote and published a Christmas book a number of years ago entitled The Hired Man's Christmas. It's a true story and takes place during his childhood. One of the most poignant moments in it for me is his retelling of a trip his family took to town so his parents could buy a box of "dog food"--a box of broken cookies from the bakery, bits and pieces, some of which had likely been on the floor before making it to the box, that used to be sold as dog food before the Depression hit the small town in Upstate New York. My father talks about the shame he could see on his father's face as he went in to purchase the box, the bakery owner knowing my grandfather didn't have a dog . . . but he did have a young son.

Dad held the box on his lap on the way home, sneaking in a bite here and there, his father silent and unwilling to chastise him.

My father's family was, in truth, barely touched by the Depression. It was hard to hit a family that was already so poor they didn't yet have indoor plumbing--a family so poor that the house was never warm in the winter. My grandmother had to get up before everyone else on the farm so she could start the fire in the kitchen's wood stove and melt the dishtowels that had frozen onto it overnight.

The farm was what Dad used to call "hardscrabble." He and my grandfather and my uncles--when they weren't overseas in WWII--worked hard and the farm still failed. My grandfather tried to raise dairy cows for a while, only to have to put them all down when the government ordered him to during a livestock health scare. By the time my grandfather was in his 50s, life had beaten him down completely. He died a painful and slow death from lung cancer before I was born.

But my grandmother? She kept going, because that's what women did then.

I have a ledge that runs around my eat-in kitchen, and it's filled with antique kitchen tools: butter molds, rolling pins, fat strainers, hog scrapers, wooden spoons and forks. They're reminders to me of a harder and, in many ways, more grateful life.

The antique I covet the most, however, is the dry sink I don't own.

When we were looking at homes before buying this one, we put an offer in on one in a different neighborhood. The woman selling it had a dry sink in her front room and was willing to include it in the contract because my realtor had told her realtor how much I wanted it. I was sorrier to lose the dry sink than to lose the house.

As I was doing dishes by hand this week, I thought about how much--especially free time--we have today. My washing machine and dryer work well. My wood floors are varnished and don't require daily scrubbing. My air conditioning keeps my windows closed and the dust off my furniture and rugs. I don't have a fireplace hearth to keep cleaned. I don't have farm animals to feed--or to kill and clean. I have more than I need. We all do.

So what am I doing with that free time--the free time my father didn't have when he was a child, the free time my grandmother didn't have when she was 40 . . . or 50 or 60 or even 70? Am I making good use of it? One of the things that upsets me the most is hearing anyone--but particularly adults--say they are bored. Bored! My mother always told me, "Only boring people are bored." I believe that only lazy people are bored. There's so much to do, so much to be grateful for, so much time and resources to take advantage of. Bored. We should be ashamed to ever use that word.

I'll get a dry sink one of these days . . . when I find just the right one, the one that calls to me, the one that feels smooth under my hands, the one I can picture in my house--the one I can picture in my grandmother's house. Wen it's finally sitting against my wall, I'll look at it and cry. And then find something to do that is worth doing.

Revenge fantasy

We have roughly a bazillion children's books in our house, give or take three. And still, my four-year-old gets bored with his choices and demands a trip to the library so I can read to him for half an hour or so. The routine: I sit in the least uncomfortable chair I can find and wait for him to bring the books to me. (And don't worry, I return them all to their proper places.)

Yesterday, he chose a book about a caterpillar and a tadpole that fall in love, promising to each other they will never change. Ever ever.

But, of course, the tadpole does change. He grows legs, and the caterpillar, his "rainbow," feels betrayed. He promises to never change again and she forgives him. Then he grows arms. "No! You changed." But she forgives him again when he promises to never change again. Then he loses his tail, and that's the last straw. The tadpole broke his promise three times, and she couldn't forgive him anymore.

So the tadpole mopes around missing the caterpillar, but as the season changes, the caterpillar realizes she misses him, too, and that she shouldn't have been so unforgiving. She, now a butterfly, heads off to find him but instead finds a frog.

I was, at this point, expecting a happily-ever-after ending. They both changed. Change is part of life and love. Kiss and make up. Ta-dah!

But apparently the author had a revenge fantasy he or she was playing out through this children's book. The butterfly starts to ask the frog if he knows the tadpole, and the frog sticks out his tongue, swallows the butterfly whole, and then thinks of his caterpillar every time he sees a rainbow. The end.

Ivan thought the ending was funny. I was disturbed. And then amused.

I think we're all, to a degree, trying to live out those fantasies, aren't we? Proving to the bullies that we could succeed? Making that ex regret the way he treated you? Wearing the killer outfit to the reunion so the popular girl can see you aged better than she did? We might not cram it all into a children's book, but, come on, the way we close up those wounds can be a little childish. I'll be the first to admit it.

The thing is, the frog was doing just fine when the butterfly showed up. He was going about his business underwater; he wasn't mooning about on the surface looking for his rainbow. And, heck, he still had enough of an appetite to *eat* a butterfly, so how love sick could he have been? I've been dumped before. I wasn't craving butterflies or pizza or even chocolate for some time. Even now, when I look back on the two times I was dumped, I kinda get a little sick to my stomach--not because I feel that hurt again but because I feel the shame that goes along with how I handled myself at the time. (stupid girl. stupid. stupid. stupid.)

But the frog wasn't looking for revenge. He was just looking for a meal. So perhaps that's what true revenge is: getting on with your life.

And now I'm feeling a little snackish. No butterflies around, but I think there are some dark-chocolate-covered raisins in hiding. They'll do just fine.

Growing up

Jerry Seinfeld wrote a hilarious book a few years back: "Halloween." It's based on his stand-up act and is about (surprise) Halloween and kids' costumes and all the candy they're capable of consuming. We've had it for a long time, and I still laugh every time I read it. He talks in one part about how when you're a kid, everything is "up":

"Wait up!" That's what kids say. They don't say "wait", they say "Wait up! Hey, wait up!" 'Cause when you're little, your life is up. The future is up. Everything you want is up. "Wait up! Hold up! Shut up! Mom, I'll clean up! Let me stay up!" Parents of course are just the opposite. Everything is down. "Just calm down. Slow down. Come down here. Sit down. Put that down."

And it's the "slow down" that I'm thinking about this afternoon. I want my kids to slow down and stop growing up so fast. I know it's a common complaint of parents, and what I have to say about it isn't going to offer up anything new, but I need the cathartic release so I can get back to my work without sitting here all weepy and melancholy.

When Ivan was little--just 2--I used to take him to Costco. I didn't need to go. There was nothing I could buy at a warehouse that I couldn't buy on sale at our local grocery store for the same price or less. And I have 4 kids not 14. But going there with him was a splurge of sorts, not because of the shopping but because he liked going and looked forward to his pizza and ice cream afterward. I'd buy the few things on my list--freeze-dried apples and strawberries, a bag of avocados, a case of diced tomatoes, whatever I thought I could use up before it went bad--and then I'd head to the "cafe" where I'd get him his $1.50 slice of pepperoni and his $1.00 soda. Then I'd sit with him while he ate what he could, me with all the time in the world and him in a hurry because he knew the soft-serve ice cream was next.

And that half hour we'd be eating together is what the early stages of my parenting remind me of. I had all the time in the world to sit and watch them, but they were in a hurry because they knew what came next. "When do I start kindergarten?" "When can I start having sleepovers?" "When can I walk to my friend's house alone?" "When can I stay up later?" "When can I get an iPod, a cell phone, my own laptop?" And I just want them to be content with the pizza and soda for a little longer.

Ron and I decided when Ivan was about one that we were done having children. Or rather, I decided and Ron went along with it all. I didn't think I could emotionally handle another. I didn't think I could psychologically or even physically handle another. Mothering didn't come easy to me. It's something I've had to work hard on since Day 1. I remember sitting with Simon on the floor when he was only a couple of weeks old and saying aloud, "Okay. The books say I should talk to you. But I don't know what to say." And what to say was only one of many things I didn't know.

It's been more than 12 years, and there are still many things I don't know--like how I'm going to handle Ivan starting kindergarten next year and I have 5 full days to myself each week, like how I'll handle any of them starting to date, how I'll handle them getting their hearts broken, how I'll handle them hating me or resenting me for even a brief period, how I'll handle them leaving home one at a time.

The irony of parenting is that this is what we all want all along. We want them to grow up. We want them to learn to be independent, because that's what's best for them. We want them to look ahead to the ice cream, because who doesn't love the desserts in life?

I even thought this time of my life would be one of those desserts. I wanted to be busy with work again. I wanted to have something to call my own, because no matter how much I may lay claim to my children, they don't belong to me. And now I am busy with work. And I do have something to call my own. And all of this is yet another reason I said that four was enough. I have what I want, but it's bittersweet.

And the truth is, four is enough. But I can still miss Simon at 3, coming downstairs from his nap and kissing me on the cheek while I'm waking up from my own nap. I can still miss Owen at 1, screaming at the top of his lungs for his breakfast--and then laughing hysterically throughout dinner at anything and everything around him. I can still miss Emma at 4, telling me that hearing me get angry at anyone is "a sad story." I can still miss Ivan at nap time today saying, "Thank you that I get to hug Mommy" in his prayer.

The future is up. And I look forward to all the pizza, soda, and ice cream ahead of us. But I just need it to slow down a little so I can capture every moment of it and play it again and again. And again. Because these times are my desserts. And I want to be able to savor them for as long as possible.

I'm listening

Simon started junior high last week--seventh grade. Any of you who loved junior high, please raise your hand? No takers?

So it wasn't without a ridiculous amount of anxiety that I sent Simon off to school last Tuesday, his backpack slung confidently over his shoulder as he headed down the street to meet up with his friends. Later that morning, Ron went out to buy him a cell phone at my urging. "But he doesn't need one," Ron said, "He's 12. Who's he going to call?" "I didn't say he needed one," I told him. "I need him to have one. It's for me, not him, okay? (sniff sniff)"

And I'm happy to report that I didn't call him the next afternoon to ask him when he'd be home. I sat in the front room, pretending to read, waiting for him to walk in the door, which he did about five minutes after I expected him to. Still, I didn't call.

Until the next afternoon when he was about two minutes later than I thought he'd be. He was 2 blocks away and not at all put out with me for calling.

I'm admitting here that junior high is harder on me so far than it is on him. Because I remember it.

Sixth grade comes back with near-perfect clarity: the first boy I ever had a monstrous crush on (Scott last-name-withheld-to-protect-the-innocent),the hideous outfit I loved (off-white skirt; green shirt; green-and-white-striped knee socks; those black, canvas Mary Jane shoes you can get even now for $5, so imagine how much they cost almost 30 years ago), my favorite teacher (Mrs. Floyd), the note-writing and sleepovers and seances and secrets.

Seventh and eighth grade blend together, probably because they were in the same wing of the school, with clarity as well.

I remember the boy (bigger than my father) on the bus who threatened almost daily--while the bus driver laughed--to rape me. I remember the boys, several years older than me but still in my grade, cornering me in the hall to grab at me, making me late for class but unwilling to tell the teacher why. I remember the girls who left me notes on the locker-room wall, promising to beat me up after school. I remember the gym teacher who called me back from across the basketball court so, he said with smirk under his mustache, he could watch me walk away again. And he did.

Although I don't recall those years with as much fondness, I do have some nice memories as well: Latin class; Mrs. Floyd still paying attention to how I was doing in school; my realization that I wanted to be a writer someday on whatever scale I could; my best friend, Lisa, whom I still stay in touch with today; the bus driver (the same one who laughed at the idea of me being raped) turning the bus around and driving me and the rest of the kids still on it back to school after I cussed him out and called him an idiot for not letting a kid whose brother was threatening to kill him get off at my stop; having the principal tell the driver to take me back home because I was a good kid; my realization that I knew how to stick up for myself and others; my "trailer-trash" friend and our obsession with Duran Duran, whom talked about endlessly while we sat outside her trailer and she smoked cigarettes.

I know growing up is about learning to handle the bad and appreciate the good and hopefully grow from both. And I know watching your kids grow up is about panicking the entire time, often to the verge of tears, while you wonder if they're telling you everything. Or anything.

I never told my parents any of the bad. It wasn't that I was afraid to; I just didn't realize I should. Would a cell phone have changed how I handled those situations? Would I have dialed them up on the bus and told them about the big kid in the back who scared the crap out of me? Would I have called them from the locker room to ask them to report the coach? I don't know. And I don't know how much of the good I told them either.

But I want Simon to know I want to hear from him. I want him to know I'm on speed dial. I want him to know I keep the phone on and near me all day in case he needs me. I want him to know what happens to him--the bad or the good--matters to me. And if a cell phone reminds him of any of these things, then I need him to have one. And perhaps he'll realize he needs it--and me--as well.

Cobwebs and mold

My family got back at about 2 a.m. yesterday from a two-and-a-half-week vacation visiting family, friends, and the beach. Welcoming us on our return was a basement cobweb the size of Rhode Island but with a few more residents. Although Ron cleared it away, I'm still getting tangled up in its remnants every time I go down there to do a load of laundry. I was amazed at how quickly our house got taken over while we were gone.

Mold was another squatter. I opened up the cream cheese this morning and figured since it was more green than white, I should find a new package. Of course, the growth there shouldn't have been a surprise. A lot can happen to food in 17 days.

So I've been thinking about what can happen to a family when we just check out, leave relationships abandoned for a while, stop dusting and sweeping and mopping, stop taking advantage of the good stuff in order to clear the way for even more good stuff.

We spent our week at the beach with my mom, a few siblings, their spouses, my sister's in-laws, and a bunch of nieces and nephews. And as chaotic as that might sound (and at times was), it was the best vacation I've ever taken. (Ron, if you read this, I'll exclude our honeymoon.)The weather was perfect, the house we stayed in ideal, the beach almost empty, the waves just the right size for the kids to play in safely all but the last day (Hurricane Bill ticked off the ocean). None of us got enough sleep, but we got in plenty of conversation and laughter and food and sunshine.

I looked forward to this vacation for a long time, but not without some anxiety. Because I have a large family (seven siblings), plenty of personality clashes aren't that uncommon. And we tend to argue and debate (you name it, we've covered it) more than discuss issues. We're an opinionated bunch, and that doesn't mean we necessarily think through our opinions before voicing them--and often stomping our feet while doing so. As we all get older, our kids get older as well. And they're no less opinionated than their parents.

But it's the closest I've felt to my family as a whole in a long time . . . maybe ever. It made me wish we all lived closer to one other so our kids could be better friends. It made me wish keeping in touch were easier. Yes, even with email and Facebook and Blackberries and iPhones, we still manage to go months without contacting a sibling or two.

Though you wouldn't have known it based on how easily we slipped into each others' company again. And I didn't feel like a kid sister this time--or a big sister, for that matter. I was just part of a large family that likes laughing more than just about anything else in the world, so thank goodness that even when we don't see eye to eye, we can still crack each other up to the point of tears.

So this past week wiped away a lot of the cobwebs that have been hanging around. In fact, by weeks' end, I'd say it wiped away all of them. Will they come back? Probably. After all, even if we do this every year, it only takes a couple of weeks to entertain squatters: spiders, mold, resentment, disapproval, judgment, dismay.

But as my nephew kept singing one night: "We are family." And when we do see each other again, we'll just magically wave our arms, clear the way, toss out the green cream cheese, and head for the shore. I can't wait.

Favorite lyrics perhaps ever

I was talking to my brother, Danny, on the phone today. He's part of a discussion group that involves a Buddhist-turned-Reformed-Christian (not sure what that is), a Rabbi,a Taoist, and a Wiccan, among others. Last month, they met to discuss this commencement address (amazing; please read it if you haven't already).

This month, the group is meeting to discuss their favorite song lyrics. I told him I wished I were there. I would love to be a part of a group like that: diverse and opinionated yet open to others' opinions. I get excited just at the thought. I'm always happy to have my own beliefs confirmed, of course, but I also feel rejuvenated by talking to people who are working from a different paradigm than I am--provided that even frank and honest discussion is respectful. However, my circle hasn't spread quite as far in Chicago as his has in southern Virginia.

If I were there, I told him I know what song I would choose: "Sean" by The Proclaimers.

Here's a YouTube video of them singing. (I may have posted it before, but it's a song worth hearing many times over.) The cd version is a lot more raucous and a bit faster. My kids call it "Hi-Ya!" because the yelling at that part on the cd is almost violent in its exuberance. I love it more than I can express.

The Proclaimers are Scottish twins, and one of them, Charlie, wrote this after the birth of his son.

To me, this is a song about living in the joy of the moment and just being amazed at what we have and are capable of doing. If we ever seek for God, He's in all of us. This recognition is what a miracle is, to me. The lyrics are short and simple:

Sean I’d say the best one came from tupelo, mississippi
I’ll tell you now that grown men cry and irish girls are pretty

Though fear and hurt and care can lead me to despair
I saw why I’m here the morning you appeared

Sean, I sat awhile on clouds to ask God if he’s living
I should have spent the time on knees in thanks for what he’s given

From parents smart and strong to both of us passed on
From kings is where you come, through daughters and through sons.

These lyrics also remind me of one of my favorite quotes from a book. The book is "Here If You Need Me" by Kate Braestrup. The author is a minister whose husband was killed in a car crash right as he was getting ready to go to divinity school himself. After he died, she felt she had to take up his cause, his "mantel" perhaps. She says she's an agnostic and finds God in the world anyway. It's a beautiful book--much, much truer and more resonating for me than "The Shack" (which, honestly, I couldn't stomach and gave up reading it after the first 50 pages of preach, preach, preach. It's one of the few books I've had such a visceral reaction to... that and "Love You Forever," which also turns my stomach). I think I prefer Braestrup's book and her approach because I'm more comfortable with people who want to believe, who struggle and sweat to believe, than with people who say they know. I can't relate to the latter and never have.

Here's the quote:

"A miracle is not defined by an event. A miracle is defined by gratitude. A grateful heart beats in a world of miracles. If I could only speak one prayer for you, my children, it would be that your hearts would not only beat but grow ever greater in gratitude, that your lives, however long they prove to be and no matter how they end, continue to bring you miracles in abundance."

Danny said he was sitting in on a Sunday School class not too long ago in which someone said that Heaven will be knowing all the answers to the questions we've been asking our entire lives. I hope that's not what it is.

I enjoy asking questions. I enjoy seeking for answers. Even when I skip ahead to find out how a story ends, I still read the book. I still finish the movie. Because it's the quest that excites me and not the result.

"Sean, I sat a while on clouds to ask God if he's living. I should have spent the time on knees in thanks for what he's given."

For the record, I have to say my heart constantly beats with gratitude--not because I know anything but because I don't care if I know anything. This moment amazes me. And that's more than enough.

A cautionary tale

We went to the beach as a family Saturday and had what was just about the most perfect day ever. The weather was ideal. The beach was crowded but not obnoxiously so. The occasional cloud rolled over us so we weren't constantly being abused by the sun. The kids had a blast and only ticked three or four other beach-goers with (mostly) accidental sand baths. We had a nice dinner out afterward--peaceful while the kids chowed down after spending hours working up their appetites. And then we grabbed a $2.50 box of Nutty Buddies for the way home and everyone was happy.

Until I got home and realized I'd done a great job of putting sunscreen (spf 50) all over the kids and Ron and myself . . . except for my upper back. I have my first sunburn in years and it's not fun. After Ron slathered aloe vera on me, he called the kids into the room: "This is why we make you guys wear sunscreen when you go out. This is what happens when you don't."

Ah, yes... look at Mom. And don't make the mistake she did.

Then yesterday my arms started itching. I looked down and lo and behold, I apparently have sun poisoning. My arms, stomach, back, and thighs are covered with itchy bumps. Not pretty. Not fun. Not smart. Another family gathering: "Kids, come in here. Look at your mother's rash. This is also what can happen when you don't use sunscreen." A collective "Awwww" followed. "Poor mom."

When you have kids, you hope you'll be a good example to them. I don't know how often we think about whether we'll be a bad example. Chances are, though, that we will be equal parts of both, like it or not.

My favorite writing blog is Murderati. The posts are generally very personal, which is why I like it so much. Today's post by author Peri Noskin Taichert really got me thinking about all of this, about how my kids will look back and remember me, about how the scales will tilt: toward Mom as a cautionary tale or as an inspiration.

The post itself was about giving up, specifically, giving up on writing when discouragement weighs you down. I posted a comment, and here's what I said:

Maybe we just need to stop revising our goals upward. I wanted to finish a book. I finished the first draft and cried because I was just so darned proud of myself for finally doing what I've been swearing I'd do since I was 12. And I've continued to write, sure, hoping for publication and working toward it, but when I start to get discouraged, I look back instead of ahead: I finished it! I did it! I kept my promise to myself.

We raise our children to be proud of a game well played even if not won. We tell them, "You stuck in there for every single inning." We ask them, "Well did you try your best?" And when they say yes, we say, "Then that's enough. Good for you." But we forget to applaud our own accomplishments, even if they're not as grand as we want them to be each time. Few people out there--writers, musicians, or "even" professors and doctors--are exactly where they'd like to be. But when they were kids and dreamed of what they *wanted* to be, they didn't qualify that dream by saying, "I want to hit the bestseller list at least a dozen times. I want to go platinum in the first month. I want to get tenure after 4 years. I want to be a world-renowned surgeon." Yes, we grow up and realize we need to fill in a lot of blanks we left empty when planning our futures, but I still believe we also need to embrace every small success, allowing ourselves our moments of discouragement, but also allowing ourselves an occasional "well done."

My kids all know I write, Simon paying the most attention to my progress. He read the first several chapters of the book I'm working on now, and he keeps asking me when I'm going to be done with it. He knows this is my fourth book. He knows I don't have an agent. He knows I've gotten plenty of rejections on my queries and a few on requested partials and fulls. He knows I've stopped querying and am working on rewriting the first book (my current project). He knows I get excited about writing. He knows writing makes me happy, makes me frustrated, makes me discouraged. And hopefully he knows I don't take the rejections personally, and as more time passes, hopefully he'll know I'm not going to give up something I love this much.

Ron said several months ago that he wants me to make sure the kids, the older ones in particular, are aware I don't feel like I'm failing.

And I don't feel that way. Even if I never get published, I won't feel like I failed.

Kids watch everything we do. And I'm okay with being held up as a sunburned example of what not to do. But I also hope they'll look back at their childhoods, see my occasional good moments, and be able to say, "Mom didn't quit"--not so they'll admire me but so they will know they should always believe in themselves . . . time after time after time. Because I believe in them. It's a family tradition.