An old and dear friend of mine has recently published a book. A real book. Actual literature. His name is John Pipkin, and his book, Woodsburner, is really quite good. Well thought-out with intriguing characters, a compelling story and some beautiful turns of phrase. Not quite finished with it - life in limbo leaves not enough time for reading, so I'm only about a third of the way through. But it's been fun so far.
Earlier this week, John was in town. I took two nights out - mid-week, mind you - to go see him and his family, hear him read his book, and catch up on the last 14 years or so.
My kids were flabbergasted. Mom going out on a weekday? Mom actually leaving the house??? That's like SpongeBob doing a cameo on Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Inconceivable.
So intrigued were they that they took time out of a tasty dinner of spaghetti and peas to grill me mercilessly on where I'd been and what I was doing on my two nights out. I felt like a teenager who'd just missed curfew facing her disbelieving parents. When I told the kids about John and his book, they demanded to see it. It's like I'd just said I was late because the car got a flat. They had to check that blown tire for themselves to be sure it was real.
I brought the book downstairs, but of course I wouldn't let them touch it. Pretty, pristine dust jacket meets spaghetti hands. Not good. The kids were duly impressed by the book all the same. Lots of oohs, lots of ahs. They liked seeing my friend's picture and his signature on the inside. My Aspie seemed particularly struck by John's name. He said it over and over: "John Pipkin John Pipkin John Pipkin." Cool name. I get it. I used to call him Pipkin most of the time myself, just 'cause I liked saying it.
The kids wanted to play after dinner, so I put the book on the stairs and forgot about it until bedtime. Promptly at 8:30, I marshalled the troops and sent them up ahead of me. They charged upstairs, my Aspie leading the way.
He took one look at the book and started hollering. "Don't touch The Pipkin! Don't touch The Pipkin!"
This struck me as inordinately funny. Really wish I could tell you why. (Though I suspect it has something to do with Remington Steele.)
Anyway, all three of them gave that book an extremely wide berth, which is hard to do on our stairs. I may have made that point about keeping their hands off just a little too clearly.
John's a parent, too. He started the book the week before his son was born. He wrote between 4 a.m. feedings and a boring job that paid the bills. Now he's a published author and a good dad to boot. Even his wife agrees. So buy the book, read it, love it - and feel good about supporting one of the hardest working fellas I know.
July 2, 2009
June 30, 2009
And Then Came the Floods
When I was a kid, we led what one might call a transient life. My mom once did the math. We moved 15 times by the time I was 8.
That's a lot. And it's the kind of pattern that follows you. I've spent most of my life sending out change of address cards.
One day, I looked around what was then my crowded little house in my crowded little New Jersey town and realized that I'd lived in that little house longer than I'd ever lived anywhere. I knew how to get creative with pierogi, and that there really are people who use the word "gravy" to refer to tomato sauce. I talked about "going down the shore" instead of to the beach. I had become, in some sense, a Jersey girl. Without the big hair or the accent.
This was particularly startling because I consider myself a Virginian.
After six years in that house - we beat my previous "stay" record by four years - we moved to Maryland. But that little New Jersey town still feels just a bit like home, probably because no other address before or since ever stuck as long.
And I passed fairly close by it this weekend on my way to Connecticut to see old friends and family. Or, at least, that was my goal. Until I saw several giant, blinking red signs that read: "MAJOR CONGESTION GWB - USE LOCAL."
The GWB is, of course, the George Washington Bridge. It connects northern New Jersey with New York. There are two spans, an upper and a lower. My mom used to call the upper one George and the lower one Martha. Then she'd giggle. It was a decade before I got the joke. Which I think is a good thing.
I once sat in a back-up at the GWB for three straight hours. So I took those signs seriously. Better still, I knew the "local" (I assumed they meant roads). And I figured this was the powers that be rewarding me for the nickel +1 I did in New Jersey. I didn't have to sit in a ridiculous GWB back-up. I could get out! The Tappan Zee Bridge was calling me.
And that's how I found myself in Teterboro driving through foot-high standing water trying to remember where they'd put the Garden State Parkway.
That was just the early part of hell. My minivan and I swam through New Jersey, New York and Connecticut, braving lightning, high winds, monsoon-strength rains and flash floods. Yes, floods. And it all began the moment I decided I should drive through New Jersey rather than attempt the bridge. That's when the skies went dark. I went to pay the toll to exit the Turnpike, and when I opened my car window I was hit in the face with a horizontal wall of water that took my breath away and soaked me to the skin. Scary, scary weather.
Living in Jersey must be its own reward. Because my decision clearly just pissed off the powers that be.
In the end - well, in Connecticut - I did get my reward. Three stunning rainbows - one for each of the kids I'd left back home. The third was breathtaking, lighting up brightly against a pink and gray sunsetty sky. Lots of drama and color. I figure that one was for my rain-phobic, Jersey-born diva.
So maybe I have roots in Jersey after all.
That's a lot. And it's the kind of pattern that follows you. I've spent most of my life sending out change of address cards.
One day, I looked around what was then my crowded little house in my crowded little New Jersey town and realized that I'd lived in that little house longer than I'd ever lived anywhere. I knew how to get creative with pierogi, and that there really are people who use the word "gravy" to refer to tomato sauce. I talked about "going down the shore" instead of to the beach. I had become, in some sense, a Jersey girl. Without the big hair or the accent.
This was particularly startling because I consider myself a Virginian.
After six years in that house - we beat my previous "stay" record by four years - we moved to Maryland. But that little New Jersey town still feels just a bit like home, probably because no other address before or since ever stuck as long.
And I passed fairly close by it this weekend on my way to Connecticut to see old friends and family. Or, at least, that was my goal. Until I saw several giant, blinking red signs that read: "MAJOR CONGESTION GWB - USE LOCAL."
The GWB is, of course, the George Washington Bridge. It connects northern New Jersey with New York. There are two spans, an upper and a lower. My mom used to call the upper one George and the lower one Martha. Then she'd giggle. It was a decade before I got the joke. Which I think is a good thing.
I once sat in a back-up at the GWB for three straight hours. So I took those signs seriously. Better still, I knew the "local" (I assumed they meant roads). And I figured this was the powers that be rewarding me for the nickel +1 I did in New Jersey. I didn't have to sit in a ridiculous GWB back-up. I could get out! The Tappan Zee Bridge was calling me.
And that's how I found myself in Teterboro driving through foot-high standing water trying to remember where they'd put the Garden State Parkway.
That was just the early part of hell. My minivan and I swam through New Jersey, New York and Connecticut, braving lightning, high winds, monsoon-strength rains and flash floods. Yes, floods. And it all began the moment I decided I should drive through New Jersey rather than attempt the bridge. That's when the skies went dark. I went to pay the toll to exit the Turnpike, and when I opened my car window I was hit in the face with a horizontal wall of water that took my breath away and soaked me to the skin. Scary, scary weather.
Living in Jersey must be its own reward. Because my decision clearly just pissed off the powers that be.
In the end - well, in Connecticut - I did get my reward. Three stunning rainbows - one for each of the kids I'd left back home. The third was breathtaking, lighting up brightly against a pink and gray sunsetty sky. Lots of drama and color. I figure that one was for my rain-phobic, Jersey-born diva.
So maybe I have roots in Jersey after all.
June 23, 2009
It's Good to Be the Mom
It's high time I admitted the truth. Nearly all of my parenting decisions are predicated on my relentless need for sleep.
This is what happens when you are a night owl in a daytime world. Most people wake up in the morning bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to start their day. Not me. My best time is after the sun goes down. I pulled my first all-nighter in high school. By college, I'd learned not to schedule any classes before 11:00 a.m. ... and sometimes I'd miss even those.
And yet, I am forced to survive in a world where I need to be not only awake but alert and conversant by 8:00 a.m. What's even more terrifying - I have somehow birthed not one, not two, but three morning people, all of whom rise with the sun.
And for some reason, they want me to get up, too.
This is why it's good to be the mom. When the not-yet-ex left and I no longer had my a.m. safety net, I put into place an entire set of rules designed to bring peace and quiet to my mornings and keep the kids happy and safe. I can catch a few more zzz's and ease into my day.
This has had some unexpected benefits for the kids. To wit:
As punishment, I decided to enforce cooperation. I made them do the dishes.
This. Was. Brilliant.
Even more than I love sleep, I hate washing dishes. In the 43 years of my existence I have had exactly one argument with my dad. Just one. It's true. Surprising, but true. And guess what that argument was about? It was about doing the dishes. Didn't want to do them at 13. Don't want to do them now.
So yesterday, I didn't do the dishes. The kids did. I supervised. From the sofa. With my eyes mostly closed. And the kids learned two valuable lessons. They learned to be self-sufficient, and they learned to get along.
Win-win, so far as I can see.
They still come into the bedroom and jump on me at the slightest provocation. I try very very hard to enjoy it.
P.S. While these rules are designed to protect the quiet of my mornings, the fact is that I'm rarely sleeping. Most often I am upstairs in my room letting my brain get used to being awake and listening at the open door to the peace and quiet produced by three wonderfully independent, cooperative and loving children. I'm starting to realize that I'm doing a pretty good job of raising them (and, credit where credit is due, their dad's not doing so bad either).
This is what happens when you are a night owl in a daytime world. Most people wake up in the morning bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and ready to start their day. Not me. My best time is after the sun goes down. I pulled my first all-nighter in high school. By college, I'd learned not to schedule any classes before 11:00 a.m. ... and sometimes I'd miss even those.
And yet, I am forced to survive in a world where I need to be not only awake but alert and conversant by 8:00 a.m. What's even more terrifying - I have somehow birthed not one, not two, but three morning people, all of whom rise with the sun.
And for some reason, they want me to get up, too.
This is why it's good to be the mom. When the not-yet-ex left and I no longer had my a.m. safety net, I put into place an entire set of rules designed to bring peace and quiet to my mornings and keep the kids happy and safe. I can catch a few more zzz's and ease into my day.
This has had some unexpected benefits for the kids. To wit:
They can cook. My kids wake up hungry. Now, I honestly don't think they need to eat at 6:30 a.m. Not when it means I have to get out of bed. They disagree. So I've taught my older two how to heat toaster waffles, fill a bowl with cereal and milk, slice up some cheese, peel a banana, open a yogurt or two, and pour their own juice. Voila! Breakfast.
- They are responsible. The kids have noticed that if they don't let the dog out and feed her, the house gets loud and stinky, and mom gets cranky. So they take turns managing the dog in the mornings. (To be fair, this has been a kid chore for years; the difference is that now they do it without being asked.)
- They use the potty. My older two had the benefit of a grown-up morning person in the house when they were toilet training. I suspect that's why neither of them mastered the art till the age of four. Not so my little guy. He is now fully independent on the toilet and has been since he was two. That's right, two. This is largely because I move verrrrry slowly in the mornings. He hollers "Pee-pee!!!" and runs into the bathroom in a blind panic. By the time I get there he's washing his hands. (For which, by the way, WAY TO GO little guy! )
- They play fewer video games. My kids used to get up in the mornings and go play on the Wii. World War III would promptly follow. "You cheated!" "That's MY game!" "Mooooooom!!!" Screaming, bickering and tattling are not conducive to sleep. So I no longer allow video games in the morning. They play less, so their brains rot less. Yay!
- They are independent. My kids know that if they dress themselves, brush their own teeth, and head quietly downstairs, I will remain in bed. If they're lucky, this means an extra 30 minutes of SpongeBob.
- They're more creative. Books, art projects, pretend play - these are quiet and can be done independently, with a minimum of bicker-inducing interaction. Quiet is good, and TV gets boring. So the kids set out stacks of books, art supplies and toys to entertain themselves.
As punishment, I decided to enforce cooperation. I made them do the dishes.
This. Was. Brilliant.
Even more than I love sleep, I hate washing dishes. In the 43 years of my existence I have had exactly one argument with my dad. Just one. It's true. Surprising, but true. And guess what that argument was about? It was about doing the dishes. Didn't want to do them at 13. Don't want to do them now.
So yesterday, I didn't do the dishes. The kids did. I supervised. From the sofa. With my eyes mostly closed. And the kids learned two valuable lessons. They learned to be self-sufficient, and they learned to get along.
Win-win, so far as I can see.
They still come into the bedroom and jump on me at the slightest provocation. I try very very hard to enjoy it.
P.S. While these rules are designed to protect the quiet of my mornings, the fact is that I'm rarely sleeping. Most often I am upstairs in my room letting my brain get used to being awake and listening at the open door to the peace and quiet produced by three wonderfully independent, cooperative and loving children. I'm starting to realize that I'm doing a pretty good job of raising them (and, credit where credit is due, their dad's not doing so bad either).
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)