We Are Family

Road trips seem to be very Dickensian in their nature: they are both the very best and very worst of times.  People always comment that we are so brave or fun-seeking or crazy because we drive places all the time, but the simple truth is that it is a lot cheaper than flying.  We are not looking for road warrior status; we are just looking to save a couple of hundred dollars.  Sure, I’d like to get to Chicago in two hours instead of 18.5, but I would also like to eat when I am old and maybe send my kids to college.  Maybe. 

I will start with the worst of times because our ride home was heinous and it has taken me two days being back at home to be willing to talk about it.  The ride home is always the worst because your body and brain remember just how long it took to get here and they start protesting before you even get in the car.  It’s going to be long and uncomfortable and you and everyone in the car with you knows it.  We are tired of music, tired of podcasts, tired of road noise and tired of each other.  We are driving way too many miles in one day to try and not have to drive way too many miles over two days.  No restaurants look good and would it kill the state of Missouri to have more than two Starbucks in it?  The heaviness of sitting and only sitting for so long weighs on you and it becomes harder and harder to unfurl from your car position when you stop even though you are desperately longing to move, to stretch, to bend, and straighten.  You eat Chex Mix by the handful in a desperate attempt to curb your bathroom breaks because every minute stopped is a minute you are not moving ahead.  This works well but also gives you swollen ankles and all you can think of is how desperately tight your socks feel.  The boredom is so prevalent: the same dead winter landscape in each state, the same reminders to put your shoes on as the car glides to a stop at the gas station, the same thoughts buzzing around and around your head, the same nothingness.  We are in limbo.  The ride home is most definitely the very worst of times.

This trip home from Chicago had all of the weariness listed above as well as hellacious rain and terrible driving conditions.  I am not going to complain about it one bit because we were fortunate to have a good vehicle, fortunate that Bill is an excellent driver and fortunate to have missed the freezing, flooding and tornados.  It was intense.  It was crazy-scary and at one point I had to move to the back and move SG to the front because the incessant rain on the windshield was making me tense.  Then in the back, I had to talk myself down the crazy tree because it was so much smaller back there and the rain still would not let up.  It was not a pitter patter of rain; it was a constant, incessant deluge. 

So why do we do it and is it worth it?  It is always worth it because we get to where we want to go.  We see our family and watch our kids with their cousins and think it is totally worth it.  We explore new cities and take pictures in front of cool things and the time in the car disappears.  We stay at a relative’s house and live their life for a few days and know them better.  We have fun, we stay up late, we visit local haunts and we eat all the food.  After a day or two at our destination, we don’t remember being in the car at all.

And, every now and then, I take a good picture!

The ride to our destination is so often the very best of times for us.  We are all excited about going on our trip and have saved up new music, new things to entertain us and new things to talk about.  We flood the car with our words and our laughter.  We sing along, loudly, to all the songs.  We complement each other on our range or remark how we didn’t know that the other person even knew that song.  (Bill McMahon knows all the songs.  All the songs) We pass snacks back and forth that are purchased for road trips only and everyone smiles and savors them.  We are no longer four people leading four different lives that intersect; we are four people with one common goal.  We are less interested in all the things that make us “us” and more interested in what we are going to do as a “we” over the next few days.  We shed the weight of our lives as we click off the miles and we laugh more, we talk more and we enjoy each other more.  We like the closeness the car brings and we talk more openly and honestly and we listen more clearly than we ever do at home.  There are fewer distractions in the car and sometimes as a family, you need that.  We remember that we are a family, that we love each other, that we are living our lives together and not just along-side one another.  We are a family.  That is worth all the miles down the road and back again.

Bad Books, Bad Books

This time of year, I normally like to write a review of the best or worst books I have read and encourage you to pick them up to enjoy or throw them across the room in disgust.  I usually reserve one sentence for my complete disdain of Little Bee even though it’s been five or six years since I actually read it and can’t remember why it is I spew vitriol at it again each year.  But tradition is tradition, right?  Even though it has been a disappointing year for books, I will still share what I’ve found and I will malign Little Bee.

It has been a tough year for me and books. I have started more books than I have finished.  I figure by this time in my life and with the multitude of books out there, if an author can’t grab my undivided attention by the third chapter, I am moving on.  I want to fall into a book. I want to lose all sense of time and purpose as I flip pages. I want to be wowed or moved or flipping frantically to see what happens next.  I have not found a lot of this out there this year.  I also incredibly impatient with YA because they are all trilogies and that is two books too many.

Probably way better than most of what I read.

As I grew tired of being disappointed by the banal selection of fiction I came across, I moved on to read more non-fiction books this year than in my whole life.  I read one about a guy who retraces the Oregon Trail in an actual covered wagon.  It wasn’t the best book, but I did learn a lot about mules and the history of mules in America.  This was not at all fascinating or interesting, but it was something.  I also read Missoula by John Krakauer and strongly feel it should be mandatory high school reading.  Boys and girls need to be aware of what consent is: what it looks like, what it sounds like and how to stop in a situation where it is not given.  Girls need to learn to never leave their girls and boys need to learn stop and all of them need to learn what a dangerous situation can look like before it becomes dangerous.  I felt fired up after I read this book and disgusted and alarmed, so it was probably one of the best ones I read this year.  I also tried to read The New Jim Crow, but I borrowed it from a teacher at school and found I was more interested in what she annotated on the side than the actual book, so I will try again once she finishes the book herself and annotates the rest of the chapters for me.

Disappointing new books led me digging around the classics in hopes that older is better.  The Awakening reminded me a lot of Madame Bovary and I could see where it was headed so I opted out.  I did discuss it with someone who had read it and she confirmed and elaborated on the doom I had sensed coming.  Confederacy of Dunces was amusing in its preposterousness and reminded me a lot of Candide.  And is it wrong to admit I enjoyed Lolita?  Seriously, the main character, Humbert Humbert, is such a creepy perv and the books centers on pedophilia but the writing and story-telling were spectacular. 

Looking through my paltry list of books read I see that I did give four books more than one star.  I guess I do have some books to recommend after all!    I’ll Give You the Sun was amazing and a YA book that is not part of a trilogy.  I also enjoyed The Truth According to Us.  Historical, witty and voiced a little in letters it caught my attention and held it.  If you liked Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, you will like this one too.  I stumbled across American Housewife Stories and giggled and guffawed through it.  Written by Helen Ellis, I had to keep reminding myself it wasn’t written by David Sedaris.  I know you Santaland Diary haters won’t be picking this one up, but I picked it up, I passed it on and I highly recommend it.  The best book I read in this year of blah books was A God in Ruins.  This is Kate Atkinson’s follow up to Life After Life and it is just as good.  It is full of captivating characters, excellent writing and an ending that is more philosophical than conclusive.  Read it and tell me what you think of the ending.  I had a lovely discussion with a coworker as to what we thought it all meant.  I thought the ending was daring and thought-provoking and dare I say provocative?  I dare!  It was provocative!

I wonder if because people skip proofreaders and editors and self-publish we are flooded by a tsunami of poorly written fiction as a result.  Or is it because everyone gets a trophy and thinks that they can sing or dance or do whatever that they also think they can write? I realize that these are bold words for a woman who writes without an editor and usually publishes her work with some sort of grammatical error.  However, you don’t see me publishing a book, so I feel confident in maligning others.  Maybe I am just tired at night and would rather stare at the TV and watch crazy people in Alaska fight for their survival.  Or perhaps I have read so many good books in my life that I deserved a year of ho-hum books.  I am not really sure what this whole year of bad reading was about, but whatever it is, I hope this was just an off year in a lifetime of good reading.  Well, minus that time I suffered through Little Bee.

Jingle, Jangle, Juggle

Picture it, if you will, Josh Groban’s “O Holy Night” softly streaming through the speakers on a crisp morning.  This invokes feelings of peace and joy and happiness, right?  Yes, unless it is playing in my tiny Prius as three people search, scramble and throw things around looking for a pen while yelling at each other about not being prepared.  I needed a pen to write a note for tutorials on the back of the HEB receipt we found stuck to the floor of the car and neither child had a pen or pencil in their enormous, voluminous backpacks.  They tried to turn it on me but I quickly deflected all blame and responsibility and ruined the boy’s life by actually walking him into middle school and asking the first person I saw for a pen.  

This is going to be my Christmas season this year: soft rumblings of holiday bliss in the background drowned out by the craziness of our lives.  I usually write something about pausing to enjoy the season or not getting caught up in the crazy but I am fully onboard the crazy train and I say let it rip!  Basketball games and gifts to get each week before the games?  Sure, sign me up and don’t let me know until the night before.  Winter Concerts where kids need to be there ten minutes before I get home from work?  Totally doable!  Cookies for this, beverages for that and White Elephant gifts too?  God bless us, every one. 

This is just the way life is this year and it would be silly to think that the magic of Christmas would slow things down.  I am a little sad that the busyness is creating havoc with some of our normal traditions, but I think that is part of the kids growing up and turning our lives into a whirlwind.  During one of my unemployed years, I crafted an advent calendar out of trees made from colored Christmas paper and not only did it actually turn out, the kids loved it. I know they love it and while I know that, I forgot to buy candy to put under the trees until December 2^nd.  The candy I bought didn’t fit under the trees and while trying to make it fit and doing homework with the boy and putting together lunches for the next day, I gave up.  I knocked all the little trees over, piled the candy in the middle and considered it done.  Maybe I will buy one of the nicely packaged ones from Starbucks and let my children feel the love from a giant corporation this holiday season. 

Timber!!!

 I drank so much coffee yesterday my heart hurt, but in kind of a good way, like it was finally keeping up with my brain.  Work is just as crazy as everyone is trying to cram the last few weeks of the semester in.  One of the things I do here at work is personally visit students in class with very overdue books.  They love (?) the personal attention and it helps me put a face with a name.  Yesterday, as I was running around to classes trying to hunt down overdue books, I found a kid lying unconscious in the stairwell.  It almost didn’t surprise me.  Later on this same day, a teacher yelled out to me as I was once again on the hunt that someone in her class was having a seizure and could I help?  Of course I can help.  Thinking about this later I think that all the busyness of our lives has brought me to the realization that everything and anything is going to happen every second of the day.  I don’t have to be prepared for it; I just have to go with it.  I am going to apply this to the Christmas season too.  I might not be able to stop and do all the tiny things that make used to make it enjoyable, but I can still enjoy the blur of lights as I run along.

Finding Comfort Where You Can

Last week I went to the doctor and had to fill out a little questionnaire.  One of the questions was “Do you ever feel old or unattractive?”  Initially I laughed and thought what women over 40 would not answer yes to that?  I even told the doctor that they should just pre-mark the form with yes to save time and we laughed.  However, this week I found myself in a bit of a sad place and those words kept haunting me.  Getting ready for work? Unattractive.  Bathroom mirror at work under the fluorescents? Old.  Rearview mirror?  Old, unattractive and insanely hairy.  Sigh.

I guess sad place might be a bit of an understatement: tsunami of hormones and sinkhole of sadness might be more descriptive.  I was sad about being made to realize that there are days I feel old and unattractive.  My parents were going to come down for Thanksgiving but my dad is sick so they can’t come.  William wanted me to learn to play his trumpet for his winter concert and while I wanted to, my stupid, failing, Bell’s palsy ruined lip won’t seal and I can’t play it.  I am not going to lie; I went upstairs and cried my pillow wet when that happened.  The whole time I was weeping copiously I was thinking how vain I am, how stupid this all was and how I was just sad. And while it is okay to be sad, it is okay to cry and it is okay to mope, who wants to go around like that for more than a day or two?

Today I gave myself back some power.  It wasn’t straightening my hair or stopping to recognize all the good in my life or even tying my decorative scarf in a jaunty way.  My power came from wearing the most gigantic pair of underwear I own.  You should be thinking granny panties, stay-away-panties, putting the pant-in-panties-panties.  Bloomers even.  I am not worried about panty lines because they are so big there aren’t any.  They are so big that their waistband sits higher than the waistband of my pants.  They are even so boring they are beige.  Not ecru or wheat colored or farmer’s field brown, they are just beige.  The first time Bill saw them and asked what the hell I was wearing I lied and said I must have grabbed the wrong ones by mistake.  I didn’t.  I saw them beckoning me from the bin and I grabbed them because sometimes you just need to wear a gigantic pair of underwear.  Don’t judge me: I know you all have that one pair.  Heck I know some of you would still be wearing the mesh panties they send you home from the hospital in with your newborn if you could.  They are comforting and actually so gigantic they are almost swaddling in their protection.  They seem to be acting as armor against not only the world, but deflecting the negativity circling from within as well.

I definitely know why she is smiling.

Sometimes when you are not comfortable in your inside, you need to find comfort on the outside. I used to have an Old Navy Christmas tree shirt that I would wear when I felt sad.  Over the course of ten years, I would wear that thing around the house as a warning. I would wear it under a sweater to work and feel like I was wearing a hug.  Eventually it got so threadbare and disgusting even I had to admit it had served its time and quietly retired it.  Bill has a big white sweater he wears when he is feeling blue so I know that men do this too.  Somehow sitting here knowing I am wearing the most gigantic pair of underwear in the world has me feeling so much better.  I am no longer old and unattractive, I am as young as I am ever going to be and feeling in great shape!  Take that questionnaire!  I am still sad my parents can’t come but not so sad I will tell my daughter I don’t feel like Thanksgiving this year.  Let’s cook!  Let’s make a huge turkey for just two and more side dishes than four people can eat!  And while I can’t play the trumpet, I will rest comfortably in my giant underwear and the fact William said that he and I can always play piano together.

It's A Beautiful Thing

Today is November 11, 2015 and more specifically, Veteran’s Day.  Today we honor the men and women who have served in the armed forces.  I am absolutely getting my history geek on by scrolling the news feed of my Facebook page and seeing all the pictures people have posted of their relatives in uniform.  One coworker posted a picture of his father and mentioned, pretty casually I must say, that his dad escaped a Nazi POW camp.  What?!?!  How have we never talked about this?!  I want to know everything about it, right now!  Another coworker posted a shout out to his relative for serving in the Vietnam War and to the man’s wife for raising the kids while the grandfather was deployed.  Nicely, nicely done.

I drove to work and noticed all the flags flying today and thought of my neighbor who passed away a few years ago.  Bentley served in WWII and refused to talk about his service other than to say it was nothing.  I missed that he was not outside raising his flag and saluting it so very smartly today.  As old and fragile as he got, Bentley was ramrod straight and crisp when he saluted that flag.  It was a beautiful, beautiful thing and one that I am so very grateful I got a chance to witness.  I stopped at a red light and noticed the man on the corner had a sign declaring him to be a disabled vet so I rolled down my window and offered him some money.  He took it and thanked me and I thanked him for his service and he smiled a very toothless smile and walked on to the next car.  And then I leaky-eye cried; the kind I normally reserve for kids’ sports performances where I am so overcome with pride and emotion and nothing is sad, but dammit there I am crying again. 

As I think about it, I think it is because we are all, on our own way, kind of proud to be Americans today.  We are sharing our histories or our services and people are thanking and being thanked, and that is a damn beautiful thing.  How often are we proud to be American? How often do we even think about being proud of being American?  I think we are ambivalent about it most of the time and embarrassed about it the rest.  Next year is a presidential election year and as such, the absolute worst of America and its politics is what we are bombarded with.  I am tutoring kids in US History and one day will teach it, and America failed a lot of the time.  We killed, we conquered, we annihilated, we overpromised and under-delivered and continue to do so.  We continue to be racially divisive and sexually biased and discriminatory and if you don’t think so, you are a very white man with a college education and a good, good job.

However, today is not about the politicians or who is right or who is wrong. It is about the people of America.  Underneath all the bad you hear and find in America, the fact is that there are a ton of regular people doing good things every day.  Regular people raising their kids and thinking they are doing a terrible job.  There are people teaching kids or mentoring them and trying to get them to care.  People who volunteer to help, people who need the services the volunteers bring.  People who get up every day and just do what has to be done.  People who feed us, people who take our nasty trash away, and people who run our businesses.  Today, I feel reminded of all of that.  Today I feel like even though all we may hear about is the bad, that there is still an awfully lot of good and good people out there.  Today is about the dads and brothers and moms and aunts who believed in something bigger than themselves and who gave their time, their years and even their lives to serve it.  That is a beautiful thing, an amazing thing; a squeeze-your-heart and leaky-eye cry kind of thing.  Thank you veterans, for your service, and thank you also for reminding me that it is okay to have leaky-eye pride about the country you live in.

Think Like Rosie

Tomorrow is Halloween and as such, we are encouraged to wear costumes to school today.  My librarian is an all-in, party, let’s do it person so of course we are going to dress up and it is going to have a theme.  The first year we were witches which the kids really appreciated.  Last year we were Teletubbies which I think they appreciated even more.  This year we struggled for a good theme.  When I say that we struggled, I really mean she did because I just wanted to be Rosie.  Finally she got me to agree to be a superhero and my immediate thought was Wonder Woman.  I flashed back to me, age 6, Wonder Woman Underoos and tinfoil bracelets and thought not that Wonder Woman.  I flashed back to me age 20ish, downtown Dallas and a homemade Wonder Woman costume that had very little fabric and thought not that Wonder Woman either.  I moaned about not wanting to be this superhero or that and all I really wanted to be was Rosie when she commented “Just be Rosie!  She’s your superhero.”  Light bulb forced on and done!

Yes, Rosie is a piece of war propaganda but I think she is one of the best.  Rosie encouraged women to join the workforce and keep the war effort moving at home.  History.com says it nicely with “American women entered the workforce in unprecedented numbers during World War II, as widespread male enlistment left gaping holes in the industrial labor force. Between 1940 and 1945, the female percentage of the U.S. workforce increased from 27 percent to nearly 37 percent, and by 1945 nearly one out of every four married women worked outside the home. “Rosie the Riveter,” star of a government campaign aimed at recruiting female workers for the munitions industry, became perhaps the most iconic image of working women during the war.”  They needed us and we responded.  Of course the women were paid much less than the men who held the same jobs and yes, they were kicked out of their jobs when the men came home from war, but in that time they filled the roles that needed to be filled.  Superhero stuff for sure.

But let’s think even more about Rosie.  She answered the call and went to work.  Probably for the first time in her life and that is big.  But guess what?  Not all our Rosies were just working; many of our Rosies were moms.  They were still raising kids and they were working while their husbands were shipped overseas.  They were raising kids and working and growing Victory Gardens to supplement the food they couldn’t buy due to rationing. They were raising kids and working while waiting for a letter home saying that he was still okay, or he was thinking of her and that he missed her too.  They were raising kids on their own and working while dreading a knock on the door, a telegram in their hand, a finality they didn’t want to face.  Goose bumps.

I admire the hell out of Rosie because in my own life, I am a mom, I work and I sometimes grow a garden.  Thank God we don’t have to live on what we grow because the 15 tomatoes and 38 green beans would not have gotten us far.  There are many days where when I am doing all that I do I feel like I am not doing any of it well.  Or I do some of it well and fail the other parts.  I have days where I feel I rock the parenting and tank the working.  Or I have a day at work where I give, give, give to kids who need it and have nothing left to give my own kids.  And aside from the occasional date night or quiet coffee in the morning, the time I spend with my husband is not always the best I have to offer.  This had me feeling rather blah but as I dressed up as Rosie today and drove to school, I started to think like Rosie too.  Maybe I am not doing it all well, but I am doing it.  I will probably not be immortalized in any war time propaganda, but that is okay. I will take the belly laughs from the teen, or the fleeting snuggles from the preteen after he pours his heart out.  I will revel in the look my husband gives me when he laughs at something I said and tells me that he like-likes me.  I’ll store up the “Thanks Ms. McMahons!” and remember that dotted throughout the day, I am doing good things.  Probably not all the good things in all the places on any day, but I bet Rosie had her off days too.  

Ask Not What Your School Can Do

These first two months of school have been crazy.  They have been frantic, frazzled and frenetic.  Teachers are looking harassed, harangued and harried.  They are wearing their April faces in October.  Our loving library has been referred to as a “police state” and “fascist regime”.  Rules have changed, things have changed, people have changed and all and all, it has been disheartening.  We have been negative, needling and near-sighted.  We have felt put upon, put down and pushed aside.  As a result we are slow to smile, quick to anger and a little lifeless around the edges.  We don’t like to be like this and we talk about what to do to fix it, but until today I didn’t have an answer.

Today I taught.  Today I stood in front of a class of about 25 or so and spoke, directed, instructed, lectured and modeled.  It was exciting and new and it went well.  It could have gone a lot of ways, but it went well.  We spent 90 minutes discussing forgotten people of American history: the women and more specifically, the suffragists.  It was thrilling!  I don’t know if it was thrilling for the kids, but they were at least engaged.  At the end of the class, they watched a clip from Iron Jawed Angels.  The clip I had them watch is where Alice Paul (Hillary Swank) is force fed in prison to end her hunger strike.  After the clip, the class was instructed to write for two minutes, non-stop, about how they felt.  And they wrote.  Not all of them wrote for two minutes, but they wrote.  Like the wanna-teach-teacher I am, I brought them all home tonight to read.  There are some true gems because they are teenagers and when instructed to write how they feel, they pepper their feelings with profanity.  They say things like “Damn that sucks.” Or “I am worried those raw eggs will make her sick”, or the best one, “Jesus Christ that’s blasphemy. The one that really got me was the “I am so mad right now!!!!!!”  I showed someone something that made them so mad.  This student was mad so she was listening. And if she is mad then she might be mad enough to care and if she is mad enough to care, then let’s change the world!!!  I am excited that I finally made someone mad and not mad at me! 

Someone else has been having a year like mine!

This student helped me realize that I probably make people feel something every day.  I am hoping it is not always anger.  I am hoping I help them feel relieved when I offer them a solution or happy when I show them how to fix what isn’t working.  I would like to think I make them feel encouraged when I listen or amused when I share a pearl of wisdom.    Somehow in the hullabaloo of this 2015 school year I forgot that what I say and do can make a difference.  I forgot that if I can’t change the big stuff, at least I can impact the little stuff.  That little stuff can carry you through a day if you take the time to notice it.

It’s going to rain this week and as a result lunch will be a nightmare.  However, I am not going to dread it.  We are going to plan for it and go in like the warriors: the nurturing, caring, “this is still a library!” warriors that we are.  And while I am walking and walking and walking around and grow disheartened by the swelling crowd and those who insist on breaking rules they know are there, I will not let it set the tone for my day.  I will take care of the rule breakers because that is my job, but I will look for those I can help because that is what makes my job worthwhile.  

Parental Exhaustion Suggested

I have not actually read Dante’s Inferno, however I am confident that one of his circles of hell must include having two children in middle school at the same time.  I have not been this parentally exhausted since the crying-poop years of 2001-2006.  There is a reason that so many shows and books are dedicated to the woes of middle school: it sucks.  And it sucks even more watching and pushing your kids through it. 

My night last night is indicative of all the nights since school started.  4:58pm call from home asking if they can have a soda.  The next three minutes spent in a debate as to why caffeinated soda is not a good choice at 5pm and to stop calling me to ask if they can drink soda.    Get home, SG has some sort of tooth emergency.  We have at least three of these a week and when that girl gets her braces off, I will cry in relief.  There was nothing but she felt like it was something could I immediately walk through the door and look in her mouth?  If she would just let me go to the bathroom, maybe change my clothes, I might be more sympathetic.  Quick dinner while we encourage William to stop talking and start eating as piano guy will be there any minute.  Piano guy is there, piano lesson for the boy followed by guitar lesson for SG.  SG starts guitar, homework begins with W.  He failed another Social Studies test, so while going over economies we are also correcting types of government on the failed test.  He can’t keep either straight.  He gets teary, I want to get teary.  SG comes in and starts her math homework.  Math homework is a two person process for her.  I am now doing math and social studies and making lunches.  Oh and she tells me she has to do a SS review for a big test tomorrow.  I ask why she wasn’t studying for it this weekend.  She goes dark.  Why wasn’t it written in your agenda?  No reply.  9pm she finishes her last math problem and heads up to shower and go to bed.  I move to the living room and sit in a chair.  I am empty, glaze-eyed and as a hollow as a pumpkin about to be carved.

The nightly war room.

This is every night and this is a night we didn’t have to be out somewhere.  I am going to bed after telling the children I love to get their heads out of their ass or step it up, or please just let me sit here a minute.  I am emotionally, physically and spiritually exhausted.  My wine and chocolate consumption is through the roof and it is not helping.  We have Sunday meetings to look at grades and walk through what we have to do this week.  We menu plan because last week we didn’t and I am embarrassed to tell you how many nights we ended up eating tater tots.  We are on this sinking ship of middle school and while I am bailing as fast as I can, the two of them are watching me as they lean casually up against the mast and talk about how tired they are and how hard school is.  What hormone is it that turns kids into sloths?  My children are producing all of it.  I wish they sold spray-on ambition like they do sunscreen.  I would dose them both head to toe each day.

In addition to the nightly shenanigans, we have also had illegal social media apps found on a phone, bullying and social drama at school, the start of a brand new sport and someone needing to go to tutorials every morning.  If having a baby and toddler at the same time gave us the crying-poop years are these now the holy-crap-I-can’t-keep-my-head-above-water-years?  And I know they will be grown and gone before I know it and the house will be quiet and small and I will be sad.  I know.  And yet driving home I routinely think “please no homework”, “please someone have had a good day”, “please, can I just put on my pajama pants” and “for the love of God, if I could just pee before I need to look in someone’s mouth.”

There was one time when the boy was a newborn and SG was a toddler where we all ended up sobbing at the check-out at Target.  The boy was crying because he was hungry, SG was crying because she was two and I was crying, sweating and leaking while trying to calm everyone down and pay for my diapers as everyone in the store was judging me and I remember just wanting to sit down and sob.  This very nice lady came over and put her hand on my arm and said “Honey, it gets easier, it really does.”  That simple reassurance gave me the hope to power through.  I really would like that reassurance now but what I am getting is laughter while I recount my episodes, or nods of agreement when I say HOLY CRAP ten times a day, or tiny smirks in the corner of people’s mouths.  Someone please put your hand on my arm and tell me it will get easier!  I don’t care if it is a lie; say it!!  Until then you can find me in bed by 9pm staring straight up at the ceiling thinking HOLY CRAP.

Dear John

power of the pen.

Dear John,

You don't know me, but we have a mutual acquaintance in my son William.  You and he are in the same grade and lately, you have made it part of your day to taunt him and his friends, to tease them and to make them feel miserable.  You know John how they say that sticks and stones will break our bones but names will never hurt us?  This is one of the biggest parent lies out there.  Words crush John.  Words wound and take time to heal.  Words can make our breath catch in our throat and make us want to sink to our knees.  There is a lot of power in words and you like to use it. Again, I don't know you, but I bet you are popular.  I bet you do well in school. School is easy for you and you are bored so you find your fun in lording your power over those who are finding this transition to middle school harder.  You zeroed in on William and his friends because they are good kids, but they are awkward, they are the kids who don't even know they are supposed to be trying hard to be cool.  I can see the attraction for you.

Lately you have taken to following this group around as they enjoy being outside after lunch.  You like to pick at them, tell them what they are wearing is dumb, what they are doing is dumb.  You are like a small Robespierre using your sharp words to guillotine through fragile egos and self-esteem.  You like to call them things like "loser" or "gaywad".  I am not sure what a gaywad actually is but the sound of it is offensive and I guess that is what you are going for.  You like to take their names and put spins on them.  Wyatt has become Wyatt Derp and while I give you points for historical referencing John, I just want you to know that I'm your huckleberry.  

He is not going to fight you John, or tell on you. I am not going to call the school or come up at lunch to see what goes on myself.  He's going to learn how to ignore you, how to see that the words you hurl with such accuracy and speed can be deflected.  He will learn that you are a predatory, pugilistic punk and that he is better.  He will learn to ignore you and he will learn to walk away and when he does John, you will grow smaller. 

These might be the best years of your life John, so I hope you are enjoying them.  Guys like you John become less important with each passing year.  You will probably peak in high school and early on in high school.  Your friends will grow tired of your games and your inability to grow up with them and one by one John, they will drop you.  Your texts will go unanswered, your snaps unopened and all your many status updates unliked.  You will be the kind of guy people avoid in the breakroom and I don't see you ever really getting out of a cubicle.  Forget the corner office John; you won't even see an office. 

And William?  Don't worry about him.  He will be strong because of you.  He will be empathetic because of you.  He will value friendship and a be a great friend because of you John.  He will survive you and have the skills necessary to survive the next John in his life.  True, you hurt him.  You hurt his heart and it hurts mine in turn, but he is going to get through this.  He will forget about you as he grows stronger and grows up.  Your reign of terror, as vicious and well-played as it is, will not last long.  So, enjoy this time of being lord of lunch recess and I hope the memories you make will help you through your sad adult life.  

Sincerely,

William's mom

Know When to Fold Them

We have all had birthdays that were not great.  We have all had birthdays that come and go with little fan fare and when you are older than ten, it is probably safe to say we have all had a birthday that just plain stunk.  Poor Bill is having a birthday that is all three.  And this is fifty! This is a milestone birthday that is hard to face and harder to handle when it goes as badly as this one has gone.

It all starts with me.  I am a good person but sometimes I drop the ball.  Sometimes I don't speak the same love language as my husband and as a result, I disappoint him.  My love language is words; no surprise there.  His is acts of service and I forgot this.  So when I asked him for months what did he want to do for his 50th birthday and he kept avoiding or not answering, I should have recognized he was looking for something big.  However, as I did not hear any words, I thought he just wants to keep it low key.  I continued in this thought until the night before his birthday when he said he thought I really would have planned something to wow him.  Instant stomach ache, overwhelming feelings of guilt and cue the tears because there are no words to fix this.

On Friday, his actual birthday, Bill got up at 1:30am and went to work as one of his sites was pouring concrete and he needed to be there.  That stinks as a start.  Later when he got to his office he saw a brand new company truck in the lot like the one he was promised and thought "Happy Birthday to me!".  Except it wasn't for him.  And there was no cake in the break room for him and no one even said happy birthday.  Later in the day he got a call from the owner of a restaurant that he built saying the water heater was out and he needed to get there right now.  With one final squeeze of his ten year old boy heart, he headed there thinking it was a surprise party after all.  It really was just the water heater.  When he was telling us all of this last night, both SG and I cried as he laughed retelling it.  That tender-hearted girl is going to need counseling after hearing all that.  We did give him presents and the kids made him beautiful cards (because they speak my language) and the day ended slightly better than it started.

Today we decided would be Bill day.  We would do the things he likes that we never do and no one would complain.  Maizy came over and we all crammed into the car Bill just got back after a month at the repair shop.  We were a block away when it became apparent someone smelled and smelled terribly.  Yes, it was the boy.  A mile down the road one sister threatened to throw up and the other threatened to kill him if he didn't put his arms down.  Good times.  We are now five miles from home and piece of the cowling on roof flies off and hits a car behind us.  Yes, on the car he just got back from the shop.  No one spoke for a good ten minutes.  Bill shook off his anger and we continued on.  We went to the vegan taco food trailer Bill always wants to go to and we always resist going to.  We found it and put in our order and then heard it would be at least twenty minutes.  It was forty minutes, it was blazing hot and we had to sit with strangers at picnic tables.  The strangers got the shade and we got the hot, hot sun.  Oh, and thirty minutes into the wait the boy started getting attacked by yellow jackets.  But we were not going to complain because this was Bill's birthday celebration!  Luckily, the food came and it was really good or we were starving, hard to tell.  Everyone but SG enjoyed their food and Bill was feeling if not happy, at least loved.

He and I then left the kids at home and went to go see a movie.  A movie where they serve you beer and food so it should be great.  No.  The movie was terrible! I haven't seen a movie that bad in forever because if a movie is that bad I just go to sleep.  You know when all the previews are terrible that the movie probably stinks and stink it did.  A Walk in the Woods quickly proved that Robert Redford is too old to act and direct films.  Everything about it was painful and Nick Nolte was such a mess I thought he was Gary Busse at first.  I hoped fervently that Bill was enjoying it even though I was not.  A quick glance into his glazed eyes told me he was not.  I think he even fell asleep for awhile.  We had planned to go out tonight but as we left the movie theater, Bill remarked that he was done.  He was done with this birthday because this birthday is done with him and we should just go home and call it.  So we came home laughing, a little, and wondering why it is the world has it in for him.  We then realized we had nothing for dinner and Bill had to run to the store.  Look at this poor man peeling potatoes on his day of Bill.

Sadness personified.

Forget SG; I am going to need counseling after this terrible birthday.

We think that because McMahon men rarely make it to fifty that the world was just not prepared for this McMahon man to actually turn fifty. I am grateful he was able to turn fifty and he is happy to be alive if not yet happy to be fifty.  We have decided to just put this birthday to bed and get on with the weekend.  The vegan coconut cream pie that will be made tomorrow is not for Bill's birthday, it will just because it is a long weekend and there is time to bake. I am afraid the oven will catch on fire if I say it is for his birthday.   The places we have yet to go and the things we have yet to do are in no way part of a birthday celebration, they are just because it is a long weekend and there is time to do things.  No birthday fun happening here, no sir!

And me, because all I know to do is to use words, I am using my words to try and make a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad birthday into one that at least makes him smile a little in the corners when he reads through it.  I am also writing this so everyone reminds me next year to do something big; I need to plan the hell out of fifty-one.  No words, just acts.  Well, some words, but they won't be center stage.

Week One is Done!

I am a total school geek and will admit to really liking the first week of school. I like the newness, the sharpened pencils, and the back on a schedule.  We got through our first week here in the McMahon household with very little carnage and I am grateful. I am also pooped, wiped out and exhausted.

Me.

The boy did great!  First year of middle school and while my stomach was in knots about it, he was very calm.  Probably too calm, but that is the boy.  He found his classes, he opened his locker, he found a friend to eat with in the cafeteria and he got on the right bus coming home.  All successes!  He did set down his papers the first day along with his schedule and instantly lose them, but he knew to ask for help.  He made it to the counselor’s office to get a new schedule and then came home and told me where I could go online to download the forms he lost.  He even wrote his homework down in his planner.  His lunch box made it home every single day.  I know this is a honeymoon period for him with the newness of it all, but I will take it.  Happy honeymoon to me!

For the girls, school is all old hat.  Maizy is a senior, A SENIOR, and is already harboring an advanced case of senioritis.  This should make the spring semester interesting.  She is taking it all in stride and even gave her siblings a ride to school on Friday.  Sniff.  SG in her last year of middle school is calmer than ever, even with a schedule change!  Next week she starts cross country practice and probably softball practice, oh and guitar lessons and that is all I can stand to think about right now.  A busy SG is a calmer SG so practice away I say.

The happiest member of our household this week was Bill.  He will admit to being jealous and dare I say sulky about our summer off while he worked.  The man was giddy on Monday.  There was a song in his heart and a sparkle in his eye that continued throughout the week.  He lovingly made us all breakfast twice and did so with a flourish because his joy at our being back to school was that great.

My week was crazy busy and as such it immediately wiped out all the good intentions I tried to start the year with.  No Diet Coke quickly became YES Diet Coke on Day One.  My “I am not going to eat things just because they are there” became I NEED TO EAT THIS RIGHT NOW.  I also vowed not to be so tired. HAHAHAHAH.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  I must have been wrapped up in the every day is a nap day of summer to make that deal with myself.  I am definitely tired but I did make it until 8pm on Friday before falling asleep, sitting straight up, in the chair and that is a half hour later than usual.  Small steps I guess. 

I love my job but our library is a crazy place.  We are the Ellis Island of the school and it makes our days insane.  Don’t know where to put someone?  Send them to the library.  Can’t log on to the computer or software or wifi?  Library.  Send us all your clueless, your troubled and your roomless teachers, we will light the way!  Plus we had full classes checking out books.  Oh and I am in charge of our students as teachers until they get a room assignment so I lesson planned and taught four classes as long as I had them there to practice on.  Yes, and we started having homeroom this year and there are six different homerooms held in the library.  That first day was almost hilarious in trying to get kids to the right sections for their homerooms.  My colleague commented later that we all should have held up signs with our names on it like chauffeurs at the airport and I am sad we missed that opportunity.  That would have been fun!  I have found that homeroom is my favorite part of the day.  Me and twenty kids getting to know each other and me being a teacher like person on campus they can go to for information and help, I love that.  It makes my day less tiring right there. 

So yes, full on school craziness has begun and while I admit it almost defeated me the first day by dinner, I am in it. Bring it.  Oh wait, it’s been brought and we survived it so let’s just keep on going.  Plus I am a woman who learns from her mistakes and I have set no good intentions for myself to break by day one again this week.    And as for the kids, I am trying to not set good intentions for them either.  They can set their own or not and at the end of the week, we’ll meet back up to see where we need to put in our efforts for the following week.  I enjoyed them so much this summer; I want to enjoy them this school year too.  Being a crazy, shrieking, goal-focused mom does not lead to anyone’s enjoyment.  They might sink a little but I am confident I have taught them how to swim and they can bob back up.  I am not saying I will be totally hands off, but I don’t want to be hands pressing on them either.  They can do this, I can do this and Bill is doing it as he smiles and sings, so for now, it’s all good.

August is a Giant

Natalie Babbit, author of “Tuck Everlasting”, once wrote of August that “August hangs at the very top of the summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning... motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color.”  I appreciate the picture she paints, but the fact that it is a Ferris wheel gives us hope that it will one day turn and move and change.  Here in Austin, August is forever.  August is really more like a giant: a lumbering, crushing, havoc-wreaking giant.

Watch out; he'll chew you up.

Like Jack’s giant, our giant is brought on by our careless prodding.  True that Jack went a little above and beyond by stealing his giant’s goose, but our careless talking brings our August giant to life.  Statements like “It’s been such a mild summer!” start our giant stirring and follow ups like “I don’t know when I have enjoyed summer more!” bring it fully to life.  Within days, our August giant is here, he is tearing up the town and we only have ourselves to blame.

The August giant comes in with booted, heavy steps and while he does not make the earth rattle, he makes it crack and fracture.  The earth groans with the weight of him and cracks appear and grow and fissure along once healthy gardens, open fields and even our front lawns.  These cracks continue to widen as if begging for water, but there is no water.  Our giant uses his shoulders to shrug away any moisture bearing clouds.  A quick upwards twitch of his shoulders takes our slight chances of rain and sends them soaring to the Midwest, the East Coast, and beyond.

This giant takes his dry, calloused, chafed hands and rubs our landscape between them until that which was once green and resplendent, is now brown and brittle and flowerless.   Grass crunches under your feet, leaves atrophy and poke when touched, cicadas come to die on your door and crunch as they are eaten with glee by your really dumb dog.  He has made everything you see brown or yellow or dead and he is still not done.

The August giant’s favorite thing to do is to breathe.  His breath is as hot as the sun. As hot as an oven.  As hot as hell.  He exhales over us and all hope is lost.  He inhales and takes away any chance of a cooling breeze and when he exhales, the air is one hundred degrees or hotter.  His hot breath lies in the air and does not move, it does not stir and it settles over us like an unneeded blanket.  We can no longer move freely, we are trapped under it and we hunker.  We hide from his breath, from his air, from his oppression. 

The giant is not done with us, not yet.  We are dry, we are thirsty, we are hot and uncomfortable and that is when he starts his favorite task: picking.  The giant’s large fingers pick and pick and pick at our nerves until they are frayed.  He unravels them until our thoughts are mean; our words are harsh and are movements are careless.  Watch interactions between parents and children at the grocery store right now, you’ll see this for yourself.  He reaches over the edge of the earth to pull the sun up early and holds it in his hands, high above his head, for longer than the sun wants to stay.  He squeezes every bright ray out and when he finally bores of it, fifteen or sixteen hours later, throws it over his shoulder until the next day.

The August giant is here and he is here to stay.  Even in September, this giant persists.  He might lay off some, or forget a rain cloud or two, but he is still here.  There is no chopping down a bean stalk to slay this giant.  The only that will kill it is the hope, the belief, that one day Autumn will come and push it out.  Autumn will slowly slide in and as she does, she makes no room for the August giant.  She will use her colors, her crisp air and her fragrant breezes to uproot the giant.  He will startle and try to take us back, but Autumn will have a foothold that cannot be shaken and the August giant will stalk away, forlorn and forgotten.  At least until next year when he hears someone say “I can’t get enough of this great weather!”, and makes his way back to settle and crush us once again.

1,562 and Whew!

One thousand, five hundred, and sixty-two miles were driven over the past six days making it our fastest and most furious road trip to date.  I have a bit of a road hangover today: trying and failing to get motivated, feeling a little bit blah and my stomach is just unhappy. Our fast trip was definitely worth it.  For me a road trip is always worth it to see something new or to just get a change of scenery.  It was humbling to see how much of America is still so undeveloped and to drive twenty solid minutes without seeing another car.  Actually, that was kind of eerie.  With Austin building up as fast as it can, it becomes so easy to forget that there are places left where it is not all strip malls and fast food and asphalt.  Let me tell you that there is plenty of undeveloped land in West Texas and Southeast New Mexico.

You know they are high when they swallow the clouds.

The mountains around Taos were amazing!  We definitely did not spend enough time in Taos.  There is a ton to do there and so many hikes to take and just beautiful scenery to take in.  We did try one hike up Wheeler Mountain but we didn't get too far up.  The boy heard us talk about how a headache is an indicator of altitude sickness and crazy enough he had a headache ten minutes later.  But even my nanny goat of a hiker, SG, was overwhelmed when she saw how high a mountain really goes.  We took a lower elevation hike the next day and that was gorgeous.  The wildflowers and long grasses and smurf-house mushrooms swallowed the trail and everyone hiked along happily because the weather was cool, it was an easy amble along and we wanted to see a cave at the end.  I both enjoyed the hike and worried that bears would eat us the entire time because if I was a bear, that is where I would live and if clueless hikers came ambling by, I would probably eat them.  I took some assurance that we had a dog with us and that the dog would either flush out the bears or the bear would grab the dog first and give us time to escape.  Sorry Oona.  

Also interesting to see in Taos is the locals.  My cousin took me to a brewery which was also holding a rave and the people watching was spectacular.  I believe what I saw is what people are asking for when they say to Keep Austin Weird.  I am sorry Austin, all your weird has moved to Taos.  I have never seen so many dreadlocks and free flowing armpit hair in one place before.  You couldn't call this group granola because they were crunchier than granola.  I'd say that they were more millet.  (Millet is supposedly a grain but I think it is really French for tiny, indigestible stones.)  I just sat there and drank my locally brewed and unfortunately not great beer and watched.  We then headed to another bar with a better view of the mountains and this one too was packed with people.  This time is was packed with mourners who were holding a memorial and yet the bar was open to the public.  Don't worry, my black sport shorts blended in well and we kept to ourselves.

Me and Billy the Kid.

I wish that I could report that the Billy the Kid museum in Ft. Sumner, NM was as moving an experience as Laura's white farmhouse in Mansfield, MO last year, but sadly it was not.  The admission fee of $11 for us all was by far the very best and very worst $11 I spent.  It was good because the people there are lovely and so very proud of their museum and bad because it had so very little Billy and so much other stuff.  Truly it might be better named "Old Stuff From Around Ft. Sumner, Junk I Liked to Collect Over the Years and Oh Yeah! Billy the Kid's Gun".  There was lots and lots of old stuff inside, outside, behind glass cases, laying out in the yard, just not much stuff on Billy.  I felt closer to Billy the Kid when I drove past the sign that said Lincoln County and I yelled out "Regulators Ride!"  Also, unfortunately the Billy the Kid Museum had that smell that antique shops and old houses get and it didn't bode well for SG's stomach.  I am not sure what that smell is?  Arsenic? Asbestos? Years of dust, desolation and despair?  Whatever it is by the time we hit outside, SG was done.  I will have you know that it was SG who broke the docent's heart this year and not me.  This lovely, ancient, old man mentioned we should see the auto yard and SG looked at me with eyes that said "I will kill you.", so I was forced to tell this tiny, crinkly, stooped old man thank you but we are done.  It broke his heart and he crumbled into a million pieces that were swept up on the hot wind and settled as another layer of detritus over the museum.  

Next up was Roswell and all of it is alien hoo-ha.  SG loved it.  I did not love Roswell.  It was hot, it was crowded and we were accosted by a crazy man brandishing a screwdriver.  I did appreciate how cool it was inside the UFO museum and they did do a nice job of presenting the material that they had.  I will now admit to being an 11 year old boy and giggling over the alien statues and the attention to detail they put into the alien posterior. 

Who knew aliens worked out?

Really.  They could have given them a gentle U butt like a Ken doll, but these aliens were given buns of steel.  This cracked me up and is still my favorite part of the museum.  So having been there do I think a UFO really landed?  All I know is this: if I lived in Roswell, NM I would pray that a UFO, airplane, weather balloon or even a tree showed up to break up the landscape, I really would.  Desolate scrub land all around, that is all this part of NM has to offer.

We are home now and while I might feel a little road-hazed, I am so very glad we took this fast trip.  It was great to see my aunt and cousin and spend time with them at their homes.  The mountains were beyond beautiful and the cooler weather was gobbled up and appreciated.  The museums may have been a bust, but they were still adventures.  SG took her role as navigator very seriously which was great because Google Maps is occasionally bipolar and I needed someone on point.  The boy played a lot of video games, but he did look up when I said "Look up!  Appreciate the mountains".  He would also provide one line of commentary from time to time that had SG and I doubled over laughing.  They were amazing and are true road warriors; they know how to enjoy a road trip for the escape it is.  The only time they complained is when I made them wait 111 miles to use the bathroom which may seem cruel but there were not a lot of places to stop.  Honest.  This year my road trip left me humbled and grateful and anticipatory:  humbled by the scenery, grateful for the company and anticipatory for where we can go and what we can see next year.    

On the Road Again

I was very confident early in the summer when I said no road trips this year.  The epic road trip of 2014 was too fresh in my mind to commit to cramming everyone in the car and heading out again.  However, summer has a way of breaking down my will and the pleading of my children combined with heat that is creeping up and up and up have persuaded me to climb in and hit the road once more.  

I really wanted to go and see my sister in Chicago, but we made that trek last year and the thought of repeating that drive made my stomach hurt.  Oklahoma with its tiny towns and tiny speed limits: gut clench.  Missouri with its up and down and up and down hills: stabbing pain.  Southern Illinois with its never-ever ending farmland: curled on floor in fetal position.  Chicago was out.  I briefly considered Nashville as well, but again, I have made that drive so many times I felt the ennui of it before I even mapquested it to be sure of the mileage.  Ugh, that section of TN between Memphis and Nashville where if you miss Jackson, you are doomed to eat at Loretta Lynn's Kountry Kitchen.  I think I am still digesting breakfast there from the last time we made that mistake.  No thank you.  

As my mother is one of twelve children, we have relatives everywhere and I thought about who was close enough, liked us enough and was an easy enough drive away for me.  Taos, New Mexico quickly won out and I am now looking forward to a road trip!  One long day drive for a normal person or a two day easy drive for me and we will be there.  We will have a scenic stop in Lubbock, TX.  This is exciting because none of us have ever been there.  The next day we will hit Taos and I can smell that cool mountain air already!!  It was 49 there at night this week!  49!  That is February weather for us and the kids are gleeful as they think about packing jeans and a sweatshirt.  Kids, heck, I am gleeful thinking about packing jeans and a sweatshirt!  We will hike, we will take a chair lift up the mountain, we will be tourists and we will get to visit our amazing aunt and cousin.

We are a little crunched for time and will only be there a long weekend, but it will be worth it.  Also on the way home we are planning a stop in Roswell, because we are so close we just have to.  Sadly for me, Laura Ingalls Wilder never lived in New Mexico so there is no LIW homestead to visit, however, there is a BILLY THE KID museum!  I am trying to decide if this museum is worth the hour of road time out of our way.  It is, right? It's Billy the Kid! I apologize because I am sure he really was a murderer and all around horrible person, but I read a very fictionalized account of his life as a young teen and have a fangirl sort of fixation on him.  That and I believe the movie Young Guns is more documentary than fiction. I made the kids watch Young Guns in preparation for the museum stop but they were not impressed.  They also did not like the Goonies, so I do not look to them for movie reviews. Their brains aren't even fully developed yet, so really, what do they know? SG just read this over my shoulder and proclaimed me to be rude.  Again, what does she know?  I am sure it is not worth the hour of extra drive time, but I feel it necessary as a mom and historian to make the stop.  Plus I will get to make them listen to the two Billy the Kid songs I have again and again and that will be a lot of fun for me.  

Zoom.  Or, as we are in a Prius, whirrrrrrrrr.

I find that I am as excited as the kids now to get on the road and have this adventure.  I know that the miles might drag and there will be goldfish on the floor of my car from now until forever.  I know we will push it a little too far and have to stop in places to use the bathroom out of desperation and then worry about our health for the next ten miles. It will all be worth it because we will laugh, we will sing out loud and off-key and we will see and experience new things.  Also, my kids will tell you, road trip mom is fun mom.  I can't wait to see their faces as they see western mountains for the first time and I can't wait to hug my aunt and my cousin.  I guess sometimes the things that you think you can't stand to do again turn out to be the things you really need to do.

Tennis? Anyone? Please?

The boy and I have had a lot of quality time together this summer while waiting on SG.  Her Strength & Conditioning camp is only an hour long and as it makes no sense to drive there, come home for two minutes and then drive back to get her, he and I hang out up at school for that hour.  I thought he would be up for tossing the football back and forth or basketball on a real court, but it is pull of the blue cement tennis courts that have captured his heart and imagination.  I have played more games of tennis in the past month than I have in the past thirty years and for good reason: I do not like tennis.

When I was ten, my mother signed me up for a week long tennis camp.  Ten was the year that my body starting gearing up for puberty and in order to do so, I went from being a short, skinny, long-haired kid to a short, chubby, lanky-haired kid overnight.  I never once in my ten year old life expressed an interest in tennis so I think this was her ploy to keep me from watching TV and eating all the sweets in the house while she worked.  My main exercise seemed to consist of walking down the basement stairs to see what kind of frozen treats were hiding in the cellar freezer.  Ever eat so many Freezer Pops you kind of burn the inside of your mouth off?  I did.  Every day.  This should lead you to know that the idea of camp alone was traumatic but then add to it I was expected to RIDE MY BIKE THERE AND BACK.  Please know that in addition to being chubby, this was a very clumsy year for me and I had more bike accidents and flat tires than successful bike rides.  The same woman who took my bike away for a week due to fall after fall was now telling me it was okay to ride there and back for a week.  My mother, in an effort to assuage her guilt over this camp, recently clocked the mileage from her house to said tennis courts and tells me it is 1.2 miles door to door.  Can I just say that for a chubby, short-legged girl riding a crap bike that 1.2 miles seemed like 12?  My father refused to fix one more flat on my sweet ten speed after fixing one a week for a month and I was stuck riding an old bike I pulled out of the depths of the garage.  It was stuck in whatever gear that is that you pedal with all your might and the wheels turn so grudgingly it is like you have the brake on.  No, I didn't have the brake on, neither brake worked.  But there I was, on this deathtrap, sent down major thoroughfares, holding a racket in one hand, pedaling my heart out and chubby legs off to get to a tennis camp I didn't want to go to.  I hated it before I even got there.  Then I got there and I hated it even more.  Short chubby kids do not make great tennis players and I was no exception.  I was terrible and as this was in Lancaster, NY, the teenagers in charge saw no reason not to tell me so.  I think they groaned as much as I did when they saw it was me next in line.  I spent a lot of time languishing in the back of the line and huddled around the water cooler dreading the ride home and dreaming of Freezer Pops.  Somehow, I made it through that terrible week and vowed to never play tennis again.

Until this summer when the boy spotted the tennis courts and said "Mom, let's play tennis!".  I quickly lied and said "Oh buddy, we only have one racket." I forgot that the boy who can't memorize math facts has the entire garage and its contents burned into his memory and he quickly came back with "We have two.  One is under the shoes by the door and the other is in the green bin by the recycling can."  I said we didn't have any tennis balls and he said we did, under the couch in the front room as well as in the pool bag.  Realizing I was not going to win this, I gave in and said alright.  This was also early in the summer when I was determined to be a great mom.

I apologize to any real tennis players as I describe how it is that the boy and I actually play tennis.  I realize it is a true sport and its players are amazing athletes.  The boy and I are not amazing athletes and we have butchered the sport beyond recognition.  Given that the boy has very little depth perception, he has a hard time recognizing that the ball is coming and where it is once it gets there.  This in mind, the ball can bounce more than once.  It can bounce ten times, but if he gets a racket under it and returns it, I will hit it.  He can knock it into the next court and it counts.  He can step on the fault line, over the fault line, in the wrong box and still serve.  It counts.  Every  now and then I will hit the ball over and somehow it will hit his racket and come back at me and we are both so surprised we stop and say what a great hit it was!  He will tell me he gets a point for hitting it and I will agree.  That's right, a point. There is no love, fifteen, thirty in our games.  Everything is a point.  I hit the fence behind you?  Point.  Hit it so hard it got stuck in the fence?  Point plus bragging rights.  Landed in the corner of the opposite court? Point.  It is Calvinball on the tennis courts and he thinks he is great at it.  I was surprised to find I was actually having fun with it as well.  It is as hot as can be, but for an hour we are kings of the court: trash talking the other, hitting as hard as we can and laughing, by God, we are laughing.  My problem with tennis now is that he wants to play it every time we are waiting on SG and while he is obsessed, I am worn out.  We are also midway through summer and I am fine with being decent mom and not great mom.  He actually thinks he is good at the game and I am wishing some random teenager would come by and laugh to give him some perspective.  But then I remember that this is the kid who stopped playing games at recess because he wasn't picked anymore and if wants to think he is a great tennis player, who am I to say he isn't?  Actually, it is probably my heinous playing that is really holding him back.

This is absolutely my face the entire time.

SG has two more weeks of her camp left and I have five more times driving which means five more days of playing tennis.  I can handle five more times over two weeks.  I will keep trying to substitute basketball, football or sitting quietly in the shade, but I know he will keep picking tennis.  He is stubborn like that and there is too much tennis in the news recently for him to give it up now.  Personally, I think they should lay off that tennis player, Sharapova, and her grunting.  I grunt like that just getting the rackets out of the trunk.  And walking to the court.  And waiting for the boy to hit the ball back.  And running across two courts to hit it back.  Grunting makes it better.  I think I will suggest that we add points for grunting and see what the boy thinks.  Ha, what am I thinking?  He is a boy, he will love points for grunting!  I think we will both really take a shine to this and bring tennis to a whole new level; plus points for grunting may give us a score higher than ten!