Things I'll Never Get Used To

As old as I am, which is old enough to remember life without google, there are some things I will never get used to. Even if I live until the time of being able to be beamed up somewhere, I still will act like a fool when I walk into a spider web.

I'll also scream and lose my mind if a bee flies into my car while I'm driving.

Come to think of it, there's a lot of things I will never be able to be cool around.

Like gnats flying into my eyeballs while I ride my bike.

Feeling something crawling on my chest and peeking into my T shirt to see an earwig wave hello with his antennae.

The feeling of sweat riverlets running down the back of my leg when I stand up from a hot, sticky car seat.

Polishing off a 25cent glass of lemonade from a kids' stand to find dead ants floating at the bottom.

Mosquitoes that purposely fly into my ear.

The smell of port-a-potties. It smells new every time.

Accidentally missing a step when you walk down stairs. (arms especially flail for this one)

Pruning the shrubs when a mama bird decides she needs to fly into my face to let me know she lives there with her babies. (good for two heart attacks)

A mouse crawling out from a heat vent in your car while you're driving on the freeway. Yes, this has happened to my neighbor.

Seeing dirt move as you plant flowers and a few seconds go by as your brain translates the sight that it's worms. (but there is a long moment of reality disconnect)

How a squirrel sits and pretends they're going to wait until you drive past to cross the street but no, SURPRISE WE'LL JUST GO IN FRONT OF YOUR CAR NOW.

Picking up a potato and your fingers expect firm but instead you get soft and pretty much, vomitus when your hand sinks in.

That first sip of milk that's gone sour but you keep drinking because your taste buds haven't caught up yet. ::shudder::

On a family outing, smelling poop, blaming all the kids, inspecting their shoes, you get in the car and the smell persists and you go on round two of blaming the kids and you step on the gas pedal but your foot slips because it is your shoe that is covered in fresh dog poop.

Feeling the wet of  a toilet seat in the middle of the night.

I will be 89 years old and that one will still have me jumping up like I've got the thigh power of Conan the Barbarian.

Oh, wait, how could I forget the psychological scarring of the summer of 1979 when a band of rogue pigeons bird doodied on my GeeYourHairSmellsTerrific topknot.  I was walking home from my job, still over a mile away from any fresh water availability. But I learned a lesson that day: never touch fresh bird poop. Best to let it encrust into papier-mache unless you want to walk home not only with a crown of bird shit on your head but also with what looks like white-out abuse on your fingertips.

photo credit: Caucas'http://www.flickr.com/photos/thecaucas/2390806406/">Caucas'

> via photopinhttp://photopin.com">photopin> cchttp://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/">cc>





* * * 

Those Sticks with Some Yarn Make a Pretty Nice Gun

My husband and I once walked this planet as part of the species known as the Smug Parent-To-Be.

Oh, we were so smug and all-knowing. We wielded The Family Edict on just how things would be in our house. Our children would always act in love and no games involving weapons would be allowed. Our children would only know the ways of peace, brotherly love, and a gentle regard for family members.

We trusted in the belief that if you raise a child to hug every tree and walk this earth with a spirit of communal living, you were guaranteed a home where birds, butterflies, even Cat Stevens himself would come knocking on your door, wanting a ride on your peace train.

Armed with this Family Peace Mission Statement, we started our family. That first baby was so sweet, we had another. Our hearts burst with joy at seeing our two little ones laugh and love each other in our Garden of Eden, that–what the heck–we threw in a third.

Soon, our babies become little children and we introduced them to only non-combative toys. No swords, sabers, guns or weapons. We parented with a get-down-on-the-floor engaged style, and interacted with a capital I.

One day while they played, we heard Pow! Pow! I shot you.

Come again? What did you say? We don’t shoot people, remember?

Yeah we do and I shot him. Pow. Now I shot you too.

Now the other one says, No you can’t shoot me because I shot you before.

They shot each other before? and OMG HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN GOING ON UNDER MY ROOF? Then the baby on my lap pops his drooly forefinger out of his mouth and points it at his brothers screeching BANGBANGBANG.

And giggles.

What just happened?

The first time my children saw guns at the toy store they asked me what they were and so I told them. Oh. Those? Those are blow dryers.

When they asked for the Thousand Bucket o’Soldiers like the one in Toy Story, I didn't buy it. But my mother did. Then I had to stay up until 3 a.m. snipping off a thousand one-millimeter guns off the ends of tiny soldier arms with my hair-cutting shears. The aftermath on the kitchen floor, littered with the microscopic machine guns of Operation De-Weaponization, looked like something from Gulliver’s Travels.

The truth is this: Children are fascinated by weapons. They will chew their morning toast into a Saturday Night Special, slap two sticks in the backyard together with a broken rubber band or take the $100 Lego Creation kit you got them for Christmas and build a Winchester out of it.

They will call it their Alien Weapon, Protector, Guard’s Tool, King’s Friend, Village Scarer, Bad Man Chaser, Good Guy Maker, Dragon Getter, Contest Winner, and anything else they can think of but they will not call it a gun.

Because you told them guns were bad, and we don’t play with guns.

But you never said they couldn’t pull a blow dryer on their brother.

 

* * *

How To Get Your Teen To Clean

Last Saturday day, I made my 18-year-old son clean his room. I say Saturday day because that's how long it took. The two of us worked together, side by side, because misery loves company and I'm not a fan of cleaning, myself. I sequestered myself to do the boys' bathroom which looked like a meth lab, and my teen son worked on his bedroom, which looked like the pilot episode for World's Youngest Hoarders.

We began not bright and early -- second cup of coffee o'clock would be more accurate. My goal was to not have to kick clothes out of the way with my foot to make a path past his front door and to accomplish this without me needing a whip and a chair. And no threats. Because what is a threat anyway but just an upside down bribe.

I wanted to get his room clean because I had just read an article about how disorganization can cause stress for teens. What I wanted for my son was for his room to be a sanctuary of retreat, a haven of zen where he would look forward to spending time at the end of the day, and not like his brain had a compound fracture at the sight of it. Long story short, mission accomplished and here's how we did it, minute by longest minute on earth, minute:

9:03 a.m.
I walk past the room. It looks pretty bad. I didn't think it would be this bad.

9:21 a.m.
Spend quiet time over cereal, talking to son, follow him back upstairs after breakfast.

9:32 a.m.
Act surprised at the condition of the room, "Oh my gosh! Wow. Look at this. Looks like things got out of hand. And the bathroom! Well, we'd better get busy, if we wait until we feel like it then we'll never feel like it." (This I know my son relates to because, apple, tree)

9:37 a.m.
Son mmhhmms, then wanders into room and plops on bed to listen to music to get him ready for the day. I rubber glove up and begin with the toilet seat in the boys' bathroom.

9:49 a.m.
Time for son's music to have done its day prepping. I tell him so.

9:57 a.m.
Son with music still on ears, that's okay, I can deal. I'll just shout and point. His first job is to make the bed. I extend my index finger toward the rumpled sheets and hope he sees the possibility of a miracle is in his hands.

10:03 a.m.
Mission underway, he sees the vision, too, and Houston we have lift off! While he grabs the blankets scattered around the bed frame, I tackle the bathtub with something deceptively called Soft Scrub which still makes me scrub hard. I leave him with the job of the bed, and a pat on the back to prove team work.

10:05 a.m.
He stops mid blanket toss and runs downstairs for a fruit roll-up break. I don't say a word and ask him to save me a quarter inch.

10:09 a.m.
I wait four minutes and then I call downstairs, "FRUIT ROLL-UP BREAK OVER!" Some mumbling and muttering but he bounds back upstairs two steps at a time. Needs to rest on bed to let "sugar enter his blood stream."

10:39 a.m.
Blood sugar is stabilized and he works on making the bed. I'm still working on floor in boys' bathroom. We are humming along.

11:00 a.m.
Teen son notices it's 11:00 and tells me his body is used to lunch at this time because of school schedule. He runs downstairs and has 18 chicken tenders, 4 glasses of apple juice, 1 Arizona iced tea, and a bowl of raspberries, still frozen. He has to rest on sofa, he tells me his stomach "sloshes" when he moves.

11:45 a.m.
I let him digest lunch and then call son back upstairs to finish work. He begins to hang up shirts from the floor but then tells me can't be done without hangers. I tell him where to find hangers. He says he'll work for as long as the hangers hold out.

12:15 p.m.
I find every single hanger in the house and all the shirts are hung. He needs rest. He flops on bed, closes eyes, gets much needed "rest."

12:40 p.m.
I jostle him after a long half hour and tell him time to start folding pants. I offer to help him fold after I see it looks like he gave all of his jeans in the closet spiral perms.

1:10 p.m.
Shirts are hung, pants are folded, clothes are off the floor and away from the front door and we are no longer in violation of fire codes! We now begin with the paper piles on the floor. He determines with a finger snap that anything he needs he already has and so papers are all put in recycling!! and !!! Go, return to whence you came, paper bits! You will live again!

1:27 p.m.
He asks for a break since he has spent the whole weekend on cleaning. He is allowed a break until I finish the laundry downstairs. He tells me I'm the best.

1:43 p.m.
His break is over and his interest is waning. I promise a movie tomorrow.

2:06 p.m.
He is growing weary. I ask him if he likes his iPod and would like to keep it. (will hold off on the big guns of his phone for the most dire of moments)

2:31 p.m.
He shouts down to me that he is tired of working working working. I remind him that I'm tired of cooking cooking cooking, maybe I'll stop. He gets the picture.

2:50 p.m.
Laundry is folded and next load is started. I run back upstairs. We begin anew. "This way, child, this way," I teach him the order of the sock folding phoenix. Every single freakin' sock has a mate! Huzzah!

2:56 p.m.
T shirts get shoved in drawer (that's okay to me) underwear is shoved in drawer (again I don't care) and socks are tossed into closet drawer. It looks good.

3:09 p.m.
Books are picked up from floor and put back on book shelves. We reminisce about his Treasury of Classics collection and how much he loved The Invisible Man. He tells me that if he were invisible he could leave and not come back to finish. I tell him that is true. He could indeed be gone but the mess would still be here because the principle of Invisibility doesn't apply to the mess in the room.

3:17 p.m.
Fruit roll-up break.

3:48 p.m.
I ask him to hold me up while I dust his ceiling fan. He is a great working partner.

4:01 p.m.
He decides he wants to make salsa. Which sounds like such a stereotype but we make salsa. Instead of tomatoes we use carrots and it's delicious. We also use potato chips to dip instead of corn chips and that's pretty delicious too.

4:31 p.m.
I ask him to carry vacuum cleaner upstairs and I suck up the dust from the rug.

4:42 p.m.
The room looks great, he only has the top of his desk to clear up. He falls on his bed and tells me how he never has fun. I tell him I can clear his desk for him -- all he needs to do is run downstairs and get me a plastic bag. He stands up and starts to work.

4:52 p.m.
He tells me he has to send an important text.

4:57 p.m.
He is still sending important text. I think Moses was faster pounding out the commandments, I ask "Are you chiseling it out on flint stone?"

5:13 p.m.
I bury an iTunes card in the midst of the desk mess the same way I used to bury dimes and quarters in the sandbox for him when he was five and I'd say, "Just think what else could be in there! Let's get digging!" When he finds the card he holds it up excited and looks exactly the way he did in the park 12 years ago. "Let's keep digging!," I say.

5:32 p.m.
Voila! The desk top is in neat piles and the room could hold a yoga class from the free space vibes. Breathe in breathe out we now have a sanctuary. He smiles and asks, "Doesn't it look like there's more room in here?" We stand back and admire. High five because it looks SO gooooooood. The oxygen of the declutter cannot be underestimated.


What's the most important thing I learned here? Don't be afraid to go all Look at me, Look at me, I'm the captain, I'm the captain on him. Because, obviously, they may be the ones making the mess up on deck, but we're still the ones that know how to steer that ship.

10 Breathtaking Moments in My Life

Throughout this post, I will be as accurate as I can about the people involved, the description of the event, and the words that were spoken. I'm posting these here not because I like to brag but because when I remember these humbling moments I am in awe with the beauty that has been in my life. I  knew I needed to record something as ethereal as this, because I was afraid that I would forget their fleeting perfection... and that would feel like losing my diamond ring.  

Life can sometimes knock the wind out of you but it can just the same, bring you back.

--One night when Alec was about three or four, just as his lashes were fluttering with near sleep, he grabbed my hand and said, "Mommy, take my hand, I want you to come to my dreams with me."

--After college, one of my first jobs was at a weight loss clinic. A woman came in, struggling with her slow progress and in tears. I knelt in front of her and told her what counted was being aware and looking at how much she had not given into rather than how much weight she had lost -- that was what was important. She looked up at me startled and said, "I wish I could ask for you every time..."

--I was a waitress and short order cook at a burger/beer place while in college. On certain weekends, a young dad would come in with his two little girls and one little boy. I never knew their names and they never knew mine. They would sit quietly and always order the same thing off the menu: hot dogs with no bun, and a side of sliced potatoes. One day, the quiet little boy spoke to me through a mouth spilling with food, "This is the only place we tell our dad we'll go when he has us because you're here. You make good hot dogs, ma'am."

--During my senior year in college, I was having a hard time in a statistics class. I met with a tutor weekly and I checked in with my professor almost every other day. I spent hours every night just to keep up. At the end of the school year, I barely squeaked out with a B- after 10,000 hours of work. As I left the class for the last time, the professor said to me, "If I could give A's for most effort, it would be to you."

--Last summer, I had gone for a walk with my middle boy, who is a pensive young man who weighs his words. We were walking for an hour when I asked him if he wanted to go back home now. He answered no, that he wanted to just keep talking.

--When I was single, I lived in a modest apartment complex that also was home to a few elderly tenants. There was an older man in the apartments and I would see him take an early morning walk at the same time that I would leave for work. He would see me in my cranberry colored Toyota and wave, I would wave back. For the years that I lived there, I would find a basket of candy for every holiday on my car. I never knew who the baskets were from. One morning I came out of my building to see the old man who walked waiting for me by my car. He told me that he was moving and that the baskets had been from him. "I just want to say good bye to you," he said, and then he began to cry and touched my cheek before he walked away.

--One night I had been crying over what I saw as me not being the kind of mother that one of my children needed me to be. My sister was visiting and heard me say that my boy would fare better with a different type of mother. In a firm voice she said to me, "There is NO one better for him than you. You are exactly what he needs from a mother." She said it with such conviction that I stopped mid-sob and to this day, I believe her.

--Every day, my youngest child tells me I have to exercise 30 minutes, never start smoking and to not text while I drive because, "I need you to be here with me for more things."

--I had just finished reading a story to my middle child that I had written about my grandmother. When I was through, I looked up at him to see what he thought. He said nothing but his eyes were wide and shiny with tears.

--When my mother passed away, I was the one who took care of her papers and putting her writing and notes in order and sending them on to my brothers and sisters. I was flipping through her notebooks when I was stopped by the sight of my name in the pages. In an entry written in Spanish from 30 years ago, she had written, "... you are stubborn like your father and will not listen to anyone. You remain cold and I promise to do the same. But I went to see you today and when I looked into your eyes, those dark eyes of yours that are so beautiful and endless... and it was the same as with your father, I forgive you everything."

Breathe your days in deep, there are so many moments that give us oxygen.

xo

* * *

How I Write

photo credit: ad551 via photopin cc

A few months ago, I began to see invitations in my inbox to join a blog hop called, My Writing Process. My knee jerk response was to send an email back, and so I did,  “Thank you. I'm flattered, but no. Not able to. I have no writing process. But thank you for thinking that I do!” These invitations keep coming into my inbox, people who see me as someone who has a way to do things. And me, right away, making clear what only I can possibly know, that I don't.

But I'm on the internet. I'm on websites other than my own. I'm in several anthologies. I help to put on a show called Listen To Your Mother and I have toured as a main stage storyteller with the nationally acclaimed, The Moth.

Even when confronted with this evidence that attests that I do, I do write, I somewhere, somehow, say that I don't. Why do I sign myself off and am not even able to consider the word, 'writer'.

 

If  the measuring stick I hold is someone who gets paid for their words, than I do. I have been paid.

 

If to be a writer means people have sought you, that's true then, too.

 

If it's necessary to be published in tangible pages, than I have. 

 

What is it I think I need to have for me to say that I do write, and I am a writer, and that there is a process.

A mental picture and a physical space of my own, I think. But I don't have either. I use a keyboard attached to a monitor that doubles as a family TV that I turn on when my kids go to bed at night. There it is. My writing space. I have my notebooks, in my purse, my bag, my car, my lunch bag, my back pocket, my glove compartment, my kitchen counter, my coffee table, on top of my piano. That's my writing process. A manila folder where I keep torn out scraps of paper where I've scribbled ideas that I know will disappear with my day if I wait until the right place and time to write.

There never is a right time and place for me. I set no time aside, like writing sites advise me to. There is only the moment when it strikes, and I write at stop lights, or when waiting for my children, or in the middle of slicing vegetables for dinner. The thoughts that come into my head on their own, I can't explain the trigger, but I never say no to them. I worry about the order and assembling the pieces later. Later, but for the time being, this is my writing process. I never say no to the words, and when I sit quietly after saying yes, pulling everything together from what once was a scattering of ideas that resemble a murmuration of starlings before they swell together, it's the closest I have ever been to time both standing still and disappearing. 

This is my "How I Write". And to the people who think of me as being able to enlighten or inspire, I want to say thank you for encouraging me. I am, as I said before, humbled.

 

We are, writers. Especially when we don't see it ourselves.

In this blog tour of My Writing Process, we are to choose someone and invite them to post on their writing process. Please consider this post here my public invitation to you. Tell us your way of getting the words down and turning them into something...  and let me know of it, so I can stop by and encourage you, in whatever way that you work, that it does, indeed, make you a writer.

 

* * *