The things I’m not dying to tell you

A couple of weeks ago, my mother called me to say she’d run into an old friend of mine and wanted me to know that the friend isn’t alright.  She’s battled cancer off and on for several years, but last I’d heard, it was in remission.  From my Mom I learned that not only was her cancer back, it was back with a vengeance.  I immediately thought to write to her and tell her she was in my thoughts.  She often is.  This friend was my first mentor. She was the first grown-up who was more my friend than anyone else’s in my family and she was the first to really encourage my creativity.  More than that, she gave me my first public art installation and full creative control over her public space without ever asking to see the idea on paper.  She humored me at sixteen with all of my unabashed sassiness and sarcasm.  She trusted me at a time where I didn’t feel like many grown-ups did.  So why am I struggling to write to her?

Over the last few weeks, I have been reminded of the constant of life. The busy-factor will always be there.  Two weeks ago, when our kids’ schoolmate passed away suddenly, our daughter pointed out how odd it was that time keeps moving for those of us still here.  At the start of this week, we learned that our friends’ fiancé also passed away suddenly and again, we’re reminded that there is no guarantee of tomorrow for ANY of us.  So why then am I struggling to write to my friend?

There is a small voice in the back of my head telling me that maybe she’s actually going to be fine.  Maybe, if we don’t acknowledge the cancer, it will just go away.  Maybe if I keep ignoring it, my Mom will take back the concerned phone call that started me in this downward spiral of denial.  Or maybe (just maybe)…

I’ve heard several people who knew either of the two people in our circles who passed recently say “hug your loved-ones a little closer”.  Hugging is the easy part so long as your loved-ones live close.  It’s more difficult to reconcile with the knowledge that life’s busy-factor usually leads us down a path away from those loved-ones who formed us in our youth.  Distance and time haven’t made me love them less but rather seem to have frozen our relationships wherever they were when last we were together.  As social media works to superficially reconnect us, it can’t resolve time and distance or the nagging guilt that I’ve lost touch with so many who meant so much. I am the one who left. I’m the one who moved two states away.  I could try and write myself a pass, but this particular friend DID try and stay in touch with cards and notes. I’m the one who got too ‘busy’.

For my friend, I am walking to the mailbox and dropping in a card.  The note won’t rock anyone’s world, but the simple act of mailing it is a grander gesture than I’ve mustered in two decades.  In her honor, I am putting myself to task for the summer to mail a card to SOMEONE out of state every week.  As long as she is around to receive them, I’ll mail my friend one too.  There’s something significantly more intimate about a hand-written note than an e-mail or a Facebook post.  Perhaps it’s simply the lack of spell-check in handwriting that makes me feel more vulnerable?  Whatever the reasons I’ve used to hesitate, I feel that the Universe is trying in it’s not-so-subtle-way to nudge me forward and open the Rolodex.  Time to connect.

Mr. In-between

Last week roared in like a lion and trudged out with a whimper.  Off the heels of a great weekend including a BBQ birthday party for our now thirteen-year-olds, I awoke early on the 22nd to get the traditional birthday cinnamon-roll cake into the oven.  The day was filled with fun, memories and sunshine.  The kids went to school after their breakfast cake and stayed after for just a few minutes to check in on the hatching trout eggs that our daughter was using for an experiment for the upcoming science expo.  They asked us to take them out shopping for gifts for one another with gift cards they’d received from their grandparents.  It was a good afternoon with each getting their sibling something they really wanted.   They’d specifically asked for their birthday dinner to be at the local casino buffet, which was a break for me from the kitchen where I’d baked a total of three cakes from scratch already that day.  As a mom of a food allergy kid, eating out doesn’t happen often (don’t worry; this post isn’t about food allergies).  After dinner, we headed home so that Dad could get to bed (he’s a first-shifter at his job and has to get up at 2:30 every morning) and then the kids and I went to our favorite beach and took in the sunset and low-tide.  Really, an excellent start to their new year and we couldn’t have asked for a better day.

The week started flying by. I was finishing up some new artworks in preparation to install my first new show in six months in Seattle.  The coordinator / curator e-mailed me late Monday asking if I could install early rather than wait until the scheduled install date the following Wednesday.  We agreed I’d install on Saturday, but that meant I had to get focused a.s.a.p. and finish the last eight pieces and get them gallery-ready.

Meanwhile, our daughter’s trout eggs were hatching nicely and we’d planned to help her do a 50% water change on both tanks on Thursday after school.  Around 11:30, our daughter texted me that we couldn’t do the water change because there would be no after school activities. Before I could ask why, the school emergency line called to notify us that an 8th grader had died suddenly that morning.  This wasn’t ‘just’ an eighth grader. He was the kid that so many others wanted to be.  He was dynamic. He was intelligent.  He was multi-talented. He was the student body president and really, one heck of a good kid.  Our daughter had been in the first semester school musical with him.  I’d known him from that as well as from having him as a student when I was substitute teaching.  He was the boy that would light up the room when he entered.  The news came as a huge shock, and for our kids and so many of their peers, grappling with the loss of someone their age proved overwhelming.

The school gave us the opportunity to pick up kids early on Thursday and also said any absences on Friday would be automatically excused.  I went to the school to pick up our kids.  I hugged several parents and we all tried to stifle our tears before our kids emerged from the halls needing consolation.  I watched the staff trying so hard to maintain composure and just finish out the day.  I’d never seen the school so quiet.

A friend sent me a message that there was a prayer service being planned for that evening and both of our kids asked to attend.  We opted as a family to go to the beach and walk in the sunshine.  I blew bubbles from a green bubble wand (green was the boy’s signature color) and we walked along the shore together.  Suddenly we remembered that our daughter and I had acupuncture appointments in just a few hours and our son had his boy scout court of honor that evening.  Our daughter stopped walking and said “It seems so weird that time doesn’t stop and that we’re expected to just go on living our lives”.  Indeed.

We kept our appointments, went to the court of honor where our son achieved his First-Class rank and where we learned that, through some valiant efforts on the parts of many in the community, the Scout Shack sale has been canceled. The troop and its history will remain intact!  The news felt hollow on that particular day, but the gratitude for all who rallied to keep the troop in its home is both real and heartfelt.  We adjourned after a moment of silence for their lost schoolmate and went to the prayer service as a family.

While a huge number of students were absent on Friday, my husband and I agreed to send our two to school.  I explained to our kids that each teacher there (6th, 7th and 8th grade) that had had Jamin as a student had given a little piece of their hearts to him, as they do for all of their students.  Those pieces shattered when he left.  If they’re able to be a bright spot in the day for even one of their teachers, then that was the best way to honor this boy.  They agreed and were on the look-out for teachers and friends who needed extra support.

My husband surprised me by coming home early on Friday and we together opted to surprise our daughter by going to school early to help change the tank water for the trout fry.  Our daughter met us in the office and we went down to the lower level science storeroom where she’d set up her tanks so they’d be out of the way and less likely to be messed with.  We knew as soon as we opened the door that something was wrong.  The cold water tank was twice as milky and foamy as the warm water tank and the room smelled of fish.  Our daughter saw that someone had turned on the tank heater on high killing all of the eggs and fry.  More tears.  We completed the water changes with heavier hearts and hoped for some survivors.  The science expo is next week. There’s not enough time to order more fish eggs and repeat the experiment. While we may never know who sabotaged her experiment and killed the fish, we are working with her on utilizing the data she was able to collect and drawing conclusions enough for a presentation.

I nearly hated this week.  I say “nearly” because it’s not my nature to hate, but this week really challenged our natures.  I am so grateful for the two amazing teenagers that I have the privilege to call my kids.  I’m proud of their achievements, their kindness and their willingness to be thoughtful of others even when they themselves are hurting.  I am inspired by their curiosity and fortitude.

I am proud of the new artwork I completed this week and, with significant help from my husband, got installed throughout the 2^nd floor of the Saturn Building in Seattle’s Fremont neighborhood (30 pieces in all).  I am happy to have my work in a place where it is so well received and in an area that was such a huge part of my pre-parenthood life.

I am thankful for our friend who, recognizing how overwhelmed we were, came to our home and picked up our kids Saturday as my frustration over printer issues and general pre-installation panic hit a fever pitch.  She announced that she was keeping our kids and would bring them home tomorrow.  Knowing the kids were in good hands, my husband and I took our time in Seattle and went on to have one of the nicest dates I can remember (in 21 years together, that means a lot). 

Life is not a balance sheet.  I awoke this morning with an old song in my head and am running with it as my theme for this week.  I hope you do too.

 

Accentuate the Positive

You’ve got to accentuate the positive
Eliminate the negative
Latch on to the affirmative
Don’t mess with Mister In-Between

You’ve got to spread joy up to the maximum
Bring gloom down to the minimum
Have faith or pandemonium
Liable to walk upon the scene

To illustrate his last remark
Jonah in the whale, Noah in the ark
What did they do
Just when everything looked so dark

Man, they said we better, accentuate the positive
Eliminate the negative
Latch on to the affirmative
Don’t mess with Mister In-Between
No, do not mess with Mister In-Between
Do you hear me?

Oh, listen to me children and-a you will hear
About the elininatin’ of the negative
And the accent on the positive
And gather ’round me children if you’re willin’
And sit tight while I start reviewin’
The attitude of doin’ right

You’ve gotta accentuate the positive
Eliminate the negative
Latch on to the affirmative
Don’t mess with Mister In-Between

You’ve got to spread joy up to the maximum
Bring gloom, down to the minimum
Otherwise pandemonium
Liable to walk upon the scene

To illustrate my last remark
Jonah in the whale, Noah in the ark
What did they say
Say when everything looked so dark

Man, they said we better accentuate the positive
Eliminate the negative
Latch on to the affirmative
Don’t mess with Mister In-Between
No, don’t mess with Mister In-Between

Songwriters: Johnny Mercer / Harold Arlen

Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate the Positive lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

Perspective, Wild Turkey and the Dawn of a New Day

 

Yesterday I was ready to battle the world and jump head-first into war. Today I was attacked by a turkey. Literally.  Perspective sometimes comes from unlikely sources. Thanks, Tom.  I apparently needed that.

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Growing Pains

Thanksgiving is behind us, and for that, I AM thankful.  The out-of-towners were mostly well behaved.  There are some simple truths with which I am faced when spending extended periods of time with my parents as an adult, especially when they’re in my space:

1) No matter how much I pick up, clean and prepare for their arrival, one parent will ALWAYS find the thing I overlooked (dusting, polishing of furniture, bleaching recycling bins, secret dirty sock stash under sons dresser)

2) No matter how much I may wish they would act as guests, my parents will always be my parents and capable of reducing me to the mental state of a seven year old just by speaking to me as their child rather than as a 40+ year old adult.

3) No matter how many years I have been responsible for all phases of the traditional family Thanksgiving or Christmas (same menu for each) dinner, when my folks are brought back into the event, I am dedicated as the screw-up who ruins everything.  

Don’t get me wrong…the food was great! For the most part, everyone got along fine.  My 95 year old Grandma joined my parents in the visit that lasted 10 days in our 3 bedroom house while my 9 year old twins still had a week of school before the holiday weekend.  Grandma was surprisingly the most grown-up of the grownups in the house.  I thought I was caught up on laundry before they arrived, but my mom, being the laundry diva she is, managed to find hidden laundry treasures to keep herself busy the whole time.  When the piles started to wane, she got out the kids sock drawers and made Grandma help sort them.  

My Dad got really irritated with me Thanksgiving morning because I made a cinnamon-roll cake for breakfast (I’d announced my intent to do so the night before) and he thought bacon should accompany it. I pointed out that bacon would take time and make a HUGE mess in a kitchen dedicated to cooking Thanksgiving dinner, so NO. I reminded him he’d bought several packs of little smokies that could easily be microwaved and would make everyone happy.  It was the last he spoke to me for several hours. He spoke ABOUT me. He had MOM speak TO me on his behalf.  He dramatically and blatantly ignored me, but nobody is under the impression he’s consistently a grown-up, right?  I love the man, but when it comes to food, he’s off his rocker.  

The real food issue came the night before T-day (we’ll call it T minus 12).  Dad was getting ready for bed and came into the living room and offered to make the mashed potatoes and creamed peas/onions.  I thanked him and said I’d be happy for him to do the potatoes, but in light of his experiment with vinegar with the peas and onions, I’d prefer to do them myself.  He’d done that the last time Mike and I went to CA for Thanksgiving before we had kids (granted, it was 10 years ago, but it was the last time we’d been in their home for Thanksgiving dinner, so in my mind, it was a legitimate concern).  He blew up. Called me a liar. Demanded that never happened and then stormed off to bed.  Granted, I probably shouldn’t have brought it up, but since that’s the last time he’d made them that I’d been around to witness, it popped into my brain as a big red flag when he offered.  I’ve been responsible for that particular holiday classic at all holiday dinners I’ve attended or hostessed since 2005. I’m pretty good at it by now.  

By the time Dad got up the next morning, I was on the receiving end of his ignoring and he was trying to be ‘cute’ to anyone else to prove he was ignoring just me.  I tried making small talk and he’d respond in one or two word sentences with no eye contact…then the bacon issue at which time the small talk ended abruptly.  Really, it doesn’t surprise me any more. I’ve seen this behavior for the better part of 40 years.  What irked me was that Mom and my sister kept whispering to me that I needed to go hat-in-hand and beg him to make the peas/onions so he’d feel better about the day.  That’s not my style, and I got really upset that the two of them kept trying to stop me from talking with HIM about it.  I’m a pretty direct person, so the beat-around-the-bush/gossipy approach really doesn’t work for me.  When I’d had enough of the women’s council, I went into the dining room to speak with him directly. I got scolded by both hens and my hubby for mentioning the unmentionable, so I left.  Had it. Done.  

That was our holiday drama.  

A high school friend of mine had passed away the day before Thanksgiving.  Mom and Dad had talked with her parents this summer before she went in for heart surgery, and she’d contacted me via Facebook.  I kept thinking of her family and how they’d give anything to have one more day with her, and then I thought about my ‘guests’ creating drama over peas and onions.  It all seemed ludicrous to me.  I guess it really comes down to perspective.  For some, the holiday is about being thankful for the gifts we’ve been given. For others, it really just boils down to food 😦

The Devil on my Shoulder

I like to think that I, by nature, am not particularly snarky.  I like to THINK that, but I know better.  There are some subtle hints that help me to know better.  There are radio ads I hear that the devil on my shoulder seems destined to respond to:

Sad sap on the radio: “Traffic brought to you by… [the Shane Company, PUD or some other sad company that had the misfortune of thinking that sponsoring traffic reports will earn them favor with the ‘little’ people]”

Me: “They’re responsible for the traffic?!?  See if I’d EVER support their business again! JERKS!!!”

Announcer on TV: “Stay tuned! The NEWS is next!”

Me: “Don’t tell me what to do!  I’ll turn the TV OFF before I let you dictate what I watch!”

Kids: “Mom! We want that awesome roast you cooked for dinner last night again tonight”

Me: “…”  Is it just me or do I taste blood from biting my own tongue?  Seeing darkness…clearly blacking out.

The Devil on my Shoulder is no match for the two little people who gently guide me through my days (and this summer in particular).

The Husband in my Bed seems to have some say in all matters too.

DARN!  What ever happened to the independent Woman I thought I’d become?!?

Oh…I know what happened to her.  She is still working on herself.  She is more centered than she’s been in a very long time.  She is still appropriately snarky when situations present themselves in a timely manner (radio DJ says “Be Caller # 20” and I say “YES!”) or someone under-performs a standard in a service industry and the Devil on my Shoulder gets free range (modified appropriately if my kids are present).  She is neither gone nor forgotten.  She is still making her case to a slightly more mature audience and, on more cases than she’d expected, she gets her way.