Nov 8, 2007 | This Life
So, I should probably explain that last photo.
It seems the our child has moved on from his first love. And, that’s all I can say about that because while the kid doesn’t read my blog now… it’s only a matter of time. I’m kinda hoping that he will look at the dates of some these posts and forgive me for being nostalgic.
But I can talk about Chloe. Because he’s moved on and and she’s now fair game. I have to admit, I knew he would move on; because who pines after their first-grade love forever? I just didn’t expect it would be so hard for ME to move on. I think I’ve been holding onto this image of my child and Chloe as a way of hanging onto that age. It’s as if, as long as he carried a torch for Chloe, he really wasn’t growing up. And it doesn’t hurt that this darling pixie of a girl is HUNDREDS of miles away.
But not any more. He can laugh and talk about her, reminisce in a way that says she’s a memory, not a flame. And while that might seem ridiculous when you realize I’m talking about a 10 year old… you never saw these two together. And while you and I know that real love has a very different flavor, I’m not about to discount how these two felt about each other– it’s poor form, in my opinion, to label it “puppy love” and be condescending.
Instead, I’ve made a habit, we’ve made a habit of talking to this boy where he is at. I hope taking him seriously means he will continue to talk to us. I know at least, he’s learning at a very young age how to be considerate. And from what he’s been telling me, that hasn’t changed.
But, he may be ready to let our Chloe go, I’m not sure that I ever will be. Evidently, I’m the one carrying a torch.
I first saw Chloe on the first all day field trip at summer school when Boy Wonder was 6. She was 9. They got off the bus holding hands. My jaw dropped, as did IZ’s. Who was this little thing holding hands with our son? The two of them stood in front of a chain-link fence, talking earnestly to one another. Deep in conversation, I watched as my child nodded his head and kicked at the fence, never letting go of her hand. It took about a nano-second for the realization to set in that my child LIKED this girl. It was confirmed when both IZ and I attempted to get his attention over the din of a multitude of children getting off the bus. The more we called his name, the further away he seemed to drift. Caught up in a tide we would later learn had a name: Chloe.
I first met Chloe a few days later when I picked up the boy from Summer Camp. He went half day, she was there all day. I was gathering up all his belongings when she ran up and got my attention, “Excuse me. Are you his mother?”
“Yes, and you must be Chloe.”
“I am. And you need to remember to pack him dry underthings on swimming days! He doesn’t like to wear wet clothes under his shorts, it makes him very uncomfortable. So, if you could pack him something next time, that would be a very good thing.”
I kid you not, this child politely reamed me out for forgetting to pack my child underwear. And then she ran back to the playground to tell my son his mother was there to pick him up.
The thing is, Chloe ran the playgound. And I don’t think she gave it a second thought about running Georges’ life either. They shared a love of talking and were on the same “spacey, in my own world” wavelength. He had a very French name, she was French… and our child has often said that looking into Chloe’s face was like looking in a mirror. They were just two peas in a pod. And they were such a force to be reckoned with that the staff of Summer camp quickly learned that they needed adult supervision at ALL TIMES. Not because they were smooching under the jungle gym… but because they were both so persuasive and magnetic that they tended to run amok over all the kids around them.
They spent the next two years as good friends. Because of their age difference, all the adults in their lives kept very close eyes on them. During the summers they were inseparable. During the school year, our boy learned a very hard lesson. Girls who think you’re great in the summer, sometimes ignore you in front of their friends at school. Oh, the grief that wrought. But it was good to know, good to feel. Good to learn how not to do it.
They struck a bargain to be friends out of school… and to find each other when the school bell rang to say goodbye. It wasn’t negotiated with words as much as by necessity. He understood that she was the popular girl in her class and being friends with a little kid did nothing for her street cred. She understood that as well—and yet, couldn’t help but seek him out to say good-bye. Especially on Fridays. For a long time it was, “Have you seen Chloe, Mom?” Until it became Chloe finding me to ask, “Where’s Georges?”
We moved at the end of second grade. Our child was philosophical about it, “You now, Mom, she wouldn’t have been at my school next year. She’s going to 6th grade. She would have forgotten me anyhow.” But I can’t help but wonder if that’s true.
The photo of the two of them together, was taken that first summer. On the last day of school, Boy Wonder slipped a framed copy of it into her desk. A copy of it sits on my desk to this day.
Nov 6, 2007 | This Life
It’s November. My house is slowly being purged of Halloween decor and my thoughts are turning toward Thanksgiving. The weather feels like it is going to make the break for Winter any day. It’s crisper, colder, damper than before. The early dark makes me pine for fires long before they are due. And the sunshine, that is so abundant at the moment, does not bring warmth. Instead, it casts thin fingerling shadows along the sidewalk that I dodge to stay out of the chill.
November is apples and pies, family and friends. Gold, orange, red. Big roasted turkeys, maple leaves strewn on the lawn. November is that slow, melodic movement toward the holidays. I am not there yet, but I realize I cannot help but edge closer toward glitter and tinsel and nativities and snow. I feel it in traces of excitement everywhere I turn. There are small swells of holiday spirit. . . small glimpses of a nearby future. The air is swirling at my feet, pushing me forward toward December.
But I am not there yet. It’s only November and my thoughts are also turning to the themes we associate with this month. Gratitude. Thankfulness. Contentment. Abundance. I am finding that I am overwhelmed by the prospect of writing all that I am thinking. All that I am feeling. This is the preacher’s constant lament, “What to say on Sunday?” And in a month like November it is tempting to preach a half dozen sermons on one Sunday. My dilemma is not resolved by the fact I blog nearly every day—as that same rush toward December seems to suggest I rush the writing as well. I could preach a month of Sundays on Abundance alone… and still it would not be enough to capture what I know to be true; we are so blessed. So very, very blessed.
I am taking this month slowly. It is not yet December. Separating the strands, trying hard not to say it all at once. There is time enough to tell you my feelings about November. Gratitude. Thankfulness. Contentment. Abundance.
There is time enough to tell you that we are so very blessed.
Nov 5, 2007 | This Life
So, Halloween is nearly a week past and my porch is still lit up like the great pumpkin. Speaking of pumpkins, I intend to dispatch ours tomorrow along with all the ghoulish decorations. It’s time for our porch to take on a more Autumnal flare while it is still Fall. After all, today is the 5th of November which leaves us very little time before we go Griswald on our neighbors.
But before I plunge into all things gratitude and l-tryptophan I have a few observations to make regarding trick-or-treaters.
Some of you seem to suffer under the delusion that you have NO control when it comes to handing out candy. That, the masses of small children and obvious adults with glandular problems pounding down your door are entitled to harass you. They are not, entitled. They may disagree, but don’t be cowed by tricksters in cheap costumes. “But, but, if I make them angry, they will egg me!” Then, don’t make them angry. Instead, take command of the situation.
I would love it if every child who came to my door was polite and civil. Truth is, only half of them fit that description. The other half are grabby and rude and ridiculously over-aged for the event. So, through the years I’ve honed the whole, “Oh, aren’t you cute!” routine that comes with handing out candy.
First. Never, never let them choose. It’s not their candy. They don’t get to say which one they get or how many. Seriously. These are not YOUR children you don’t have to be democratic in this moment. No, they are guests at your door begging for sugar. And they are darn lucky to get it. So, clutch the bowl against your chest with one hand and with the other hand out the sugar. Do not deviate, not even for cute little princesses in pink.
And here’s the thing with not letting them choose–in most cases, this relieves a great deal of anxiety. My kid has a hard time choosing. And being faced with three options but only being allowed to pick one puts him in a panic. When he was younger he would try to negotiate. Not just because he wanted more candy–because if he’d been offered a piece from just one kind he would have taken it and moved on–but because indecision coupled with greed is almost impossible for small children to navigate. At 10, he won’t negotiate for more, he knows better. But he can stand there, holding up the line while weighing his options. When you consider that half the kids coming to your door are in this indecisive group, you’re doing everybody a favor by taking away the choice and simply choosing for them.
Second. Reward good behavior and creativity. That kid who gets in character, gets more candy. The kid who clearly has a mastery of the word “please” also gets more candy. Why? Because you aren’t the only house on the block that must face these children, and the more reinforcement they get for being polite or using their imaginations the more likely they will continue to do so. But candy is not enough; make sure you reward them with words. Not only will you be reinforcing great behavior, you’ll be providing their parents with future object lesson fodder. Every time a stranger comments on my child’s good behavior, I’m quick make note of it. I tell him how cool it is that he’s using his manners and how proud of him I am. He beams! It means so much to him for people to notice he’s trying. Giving out candy is terrific, but your words will last so much longer.
I can hear the “yes, but” from here. What about the kids who aren’t polite. They’re the ones we have issues with in the first place. Again, handing out the candy and not letting them choose stifles most of the kid aggression. If I find myself surrounded by lots of grabby kids, I just hold the bowl of candy above my head and wait. It’s amazing how still kids will get when the object of their affection is within site, but just out of bounds. Mentally, I’m willing them to “sit!”
And as for those over-aged trick-or-treaters, I deal with it the same way every year. Small children get hand-outs. Older kids have to work for it: I call it, “Let’s sing for your candy.” It works like this.
Ding dong. (that’s my doorbell)
“Trick-or-Treat!” a bevy of obviously 15 year old girls chime.
“Happy Halloween! Wow… you all MUST be over 11!” I say with the sweetest smile. OR I ask, “You’re not 11, are you??”
At this point they know the gig is up and are on the spot. When they confess to their ages and get sheepish I say, “Well, see, here’s the deal. If you’re over the age of 11, you have to sing for your candy. However, if you do, I promise to reward you!” Your tone and presence here is everything. If you issue this as a demand and are creep about it, be prepared to be egged. But, if you can keep your tone light and funny and sorta apologetic, it’s surprising how willing most kids are to accept the premise.
“But, what should we sing??” At this point I will say, I’ve never had a group of kids NOT ask this question. But their tone is usually “oh, dear” not “OH BROTHER.” And watching them set to work figuring out what to sing is half the fun. One year, I got three boys doing The Backstreet Boys… another year a group of girls dressed as the Spice Girls didn’t skip a beat and belted out the first verse and chorus of “Wannabe”.
Once they decide on what to sing… and do, this is the important part: LOAD THEM UP WITH SUGAR. This little gambit will backfire if you don’t reward them. However, if you do, the glee is unmistakable. Not only have they just scored the motherload of sugar, they have had a good time doing it! Typically, I can hear them all the way down the street laughing and carrying on about how much fun that was. And usually, I have at least one group promise to come back the next year prepared to wow me!
As for the adults who are brazen enough to trick-or-treat: they get stickers.
With that, I will put an endcap on Halloween. Until next year, merry-makers.
Nov 3, 2007 | This Life
I think I’ve probably pointed out before that I am a stress cleaner. My house doesn’t seem to get a deep clean unless something is really bugging me. I’d love to be one of those people who keeps an immaculate home all the time—a place for everything and everything in its place kind of person. I admire all that order. There is something calming about a lack of clutter. Something inviting about the lack of grime. My fantasy life is full of pantries with perfectly labeled spice jars, lined up with their identical fronts facing out. And steel framed racks with fabric baskets holding all my cleaning supplies; which, coincidentally, are all made by the same company and therefore co-ordinate. Mish-mash is not a part of this world; there is no place for tufts of dog and cat hair to accumulate in corners. If it does, it’s quickly sucked up with my powerful, yet stylish, mini-vac that is stored in the laundry space on the wall dedicated to such implements. The debris of small children is banished to a far-away place called somebody else’s house and there is not a finger-print to be found on any painted surface.
Yes, that’s right. My fantasy life is a Pottery Barn catalog.
I would point out that the make-believe inhabitants of the Pottery Barn catalog do not have a dog and a cat, and their children are clearly just cut-out cardboard figurines who know how to keep a room tidy. But the truth is, I’ve met these people in real life. And they do have dogs. They do have cats. And somehow, they’ve trained their children to pick up after themselves. There are people in this world whose homes make magazine spreads, people in this world who manage to organize their spaces in such a way that their home always appears to be clean. People who enjoy organizing and cannot imagine grime of any kind because they have never seen it.
I am not one of these people. It is not that the fantasy isn’t possible. It is. It’s just not who I am. No amount of organizing will alter my DNA. Somewhere in a helix of neucleotides there is a gene labeled “SLOB”. . . the benefactor of this quirky gene is still unknown.
My mother, bless her, is my genetic opposite. She is hardwired for order and cleanliness. She is one of those women who people accurately describe as a neat-freak. Our floors were “clean enough to eat on.” This was her bragging right, and she was entitled to it considering it was true. My room, of course, being the one exception to perfection. Growing up, this clash of genetic properties created its own sort of drama. Try as she might, she just couldn’t get me to keep my room tidy. In my own defense, I did actually CLEAN my room—every time it was suggested I do so. It’s just that my room would no sooner pass inspection that it would fall into disarray. This little phenomenon played itself over and over until she just gave up. I settled into my clutter and she ignored my room.
While I didn’t get the gene that could keep things clean. I did get the conditioning that said I should. I’ve never been able to shake it. It’s why, hours before people come over I find myself dashing around like a crazy person attempting to manage the clutter. Maintaining order is no small feat. Compelling order from chaos, is an act of God. Which is why, these dashes to clean barely scratch the surface. There is only time enough to make things presentable—as I’ve allowed all previous attempts at organization to fall into disarray. Dusted, vacuumed, grime banished. Just don’t open any drawers.
I am surface clean. (and the preacher in me is going to avoid the obvious sermon here!) It’s better than not being surface clean. It could be worse, I’ve seen my son’s room. He is a child born without either the compulsion or the ability to clean. At least I know how, right? Or so I console myself.
So, it takes making me really angry to get anything organized beyond the top layer. Or, a whim. And a few months ago (yes, yes, this is my point!) IZ and I bought some drawer organizers for the kitchen. They have sat in their boxes for the past 6 weeks, mocking my chaos. Who knew cardboard could be so sarcastic. Why my neat-nic of a husband thought I would be the person to install them is beyond me. I mean, the kitchen is considered his domain since I’m banned from cooking. Something about burning down the house. Six weeks later, I have managed to bust them out of their sarcastic packaging. I have installed them and compelled order.
I’d feel good about it, elated in fact, if I did not know that my underwear drawer looks like this:
I can dust, vacuum, and banish grime. That much you can see on the surface. I just wouldn’t recommend opening any drawers besides the ones in the kitchen.
Nov 2, 2007 | This Life
We really are Yin . . .
and Yang:
Right down to our drinks.
Nov 1, 2007 | This Life
Every Halloween, Astoria’s downtown merchants sponsor trick-or-treating from 3 to 5. Kids in their costumes mill up and down the streets at what has to be the easiest pickings available. We don’t have a mall, so downtown suffices. Because it’s early, they don’t even suffer much in the cold. Their parents do, suffer that is, for entirely different reasons.
Downtown is a gentle sort of mayhem on Halloween. Most vendors either buy the assorted chocolate bag or the assorted sugar bag from costco. A few cheap out and push starlight mints or religious tracks at the kids. Fewer still buy the good stuff: handing out full sized candy bars and fancy candy. A local swanky kid’s store gave out individually wrapped truffles this year. Boy Wonder scored an orange cream one and when we sorted his candy last night, all three of us spotted it at once and dove for the chocolate shouting, “Truffle!!.” Our mamas didn’t raise any fools.
But there is one place that out does the rest. A sainted woman stands outside Danish Made Bakery and hands out fresh donut-holes to all the kids. Glazed balls of bliss. Oh. My.
Not that I got to eat one. Which is why, every Halloween, I say to myself, “Self, you must go into Danish Made and buy some donuts for later in the evening.” Of course, that never happens. There is the crush of childish humanity in the first place. Kids everywhere. We are only a town of 10 thousand, and I’m pretty sure 8 thousand of those are kids. And then there is my own child, who is anxious to keep moving and eager to get this part of the day done. He knows, and I know, that our final destination at 5 pm is to meet his father at our favorite coffee house for hot chocolates. Yes, more sugar. And so, I consider all this as I walk past Danish Made every Halloween and I say to myself, “Self, how much sugar do you really need?”
Of course, the night winds down eventually. Our festivities come to a close and eventually I find myself hanging out with IZ reflecting on our day. Every Halloween seems to top the last one. This year, the boy came down the stairs several times after bedtime to say thank you for all the joy of the day. I can’t blame him—what’s not to love about dress up and candy and pizza and the ability to share it all with real friends? A lovely day even without a donut.
Today is All Saints Day. A holiday that goes without much notice. And not that we need any more sugar in this house, but it has traditionally become a day for Danish Made donuts. Having spent the night wishing we’d been wiser, IZ and I usually break down sometime on 1 November and head out for the bakery. This year, it was my turn. As I came in the door from running errands, IZ met me in the hall and said, “Please tell me you got donuts.” I grinned and handed over the bag.
It’s probably not the most traditional way to celebrate this day, where we remember those who went before us , those who did remarkable things. People who made a difference and changed their worlds. But we like to think of it as a holy kind of expression. Coffee and donuts; a different sort of Eucharist.
Next year, when the smell of sweet sugar meets me on the street, I’m going to say to myself, “Self, All Saints Day means donuts from Danish Made. Today is only Halloween.”
