Those Were The Best Days of My Life?

Recently Eric attended his first sleep over at a friend’s house. He was thrilled. I was petrified.

After I dropped him off and hugged him goodbye, I spent most of the night worrying. Would Eric be able to sleep without his favorite bear? Would he embarrass me by jumping on the couch at his friend’s house? Would I receive a bill for a priceless vase he broke in a game of tackle football in the dining room? Obviously, I have some serious social anxiety issues.

Eric, age 7, doesn’t have any social apprehensions. He’s at the golden age of his youth. All of the kids on the block and everyone in his class are friends. There are no “dumb kids.” There are no “popular kids.” There are no nerds or geeks. They are all just kids.

I don’t have the heart to tell him that things are going to change drastically when he gets to middle school. Let him enjoy utopia while it lasts. I’m also not sure I’m ready, or equipped, to see him through those tumultuous times without contributing to the damage.

My own social anxiety reached its apex during my sophomore year of High School. I was sitting in my World Cultures class and Sister Barbara Marie (a.k.a Bubba) was lecturing at us. Bubba was a short round lady with stern eyes. She never laughed and her lips were always turned down at the corner. When she taught, she spoke in a shrill cackle.

I can’t recall her entire sermon, but Bubba's gist was that “these are the best days of your life, so appreciate it while you can.” And “it’s all downhill from here.”

The best days of my life? I buried my head in my arms. That had to be the most depressing thing I ever heard.

Earlier that day a senior had knocked all my books out of my arms and scattered them in the hallway. My English homework had disappeared in the fray. Later, I had an argument with my best friend. She wasn’t speaking to me and I’d probably be stuck eating lunch by myself. My next period involved a geometry quiz that I had forgotten to study for. And in less than two weeks I would be sixteen and I still had never been on a real date.

The best days of my life?

I was full of hormones and riddled with angst. I had the social acumen of a wild orangutan. In the evolutionary scale of High School, I fell just above “the kid who always gets stuffed inside the locker.” These were definitely not the best days of my life.

Its not that I didn't have any good times in high school. I went to football games and school socials. I passed notes in class and giggled about cute boys. And I had some great friends who made me laugh. It was just, with all the anguish over fitting in, it was hard to tell the difference between the worst days and the best days.

Lucky for me, Bubba was wrong. The four years I spent skulking about the hallowed high school halls did not even come close to being the best days of my life. The best days, it turns out, were still to come.

College was a blast. I met a bunch of friends I could count on and expanded my view of the world. My twenties were crazy and fun. I learned how to let loose and go with the flow. My thirties were outstanding. I settled down and started my family. My forties have been homey and happy.

The best days of my life didn't involve algebra tests and acne. The best days of my life are eating birthday cake at Chuck E Cheese and building sand castles on the beach. The best days of my life are playing Pokemon and princess dress up. The best days of my life are happening right now.

The Called It a Near Miss

For my creative writing class, the assignment was to write a 300 word piece that began with the sentence "They called it a near miss but I called it...."

The piece was to include a twist. I wrote two. Tell me which you prefer:

*******************
A Near Miss

They called it a near miss but I called it bad aim. Fortunately, it was to my advantage and may have saved my life.

Ever since my mate disappeared I’ve felt useless. As a pair we always kept pace with each other. I felt like we were going places. But now that I was alone, I didn’t have any bounce in my step. I was run down, and worn out.

The last time I saw my mate we had fallen in with the wrong crowd. Our colors didn’t match with theirs. They had let us know they were from the top shelf and that we didn’t belong with their kind.

“I have a bad feeling about this.” I said.

“Don’t worry,” my mate consoled me, “It will all come out in the wash.”

Before I knew what had happened, I found myself being twisted and tangled in a mass of sheets and towels. Then the water poured over me, soaking me till I felt heavy. When the water began to churn, I knew I could not escape. That’s when my mate was wrenched away from me.

I don’t remember what happened after that. When I came too, I was lying on the floor alone. I admit that I panicked. I was washed up. I knew that on my own, I had little value. And I was right.

“An old sock,” she said as she picked me up for inspection. But when she noticed my mate was not there, she carelessly tossed me toward the trash bin as she walked from the room.

Fortunately her aim was poor and I landed behind the dryer instead. I’ve been here ever since. At least I’m safe. For now.

*******************
Another Near Miss

They called it a near miss, but I called it serendipity. I was crossing the parking lot in front of the Global Corp Headquarters on my way to my first interview. College was a dream. It was time to be an adult.

“Get off your arse and get a real job.” Dad had ordered.
I sighed. “Playing drums in the band IS my real job.”

Dad just laughed. That hurt. Before the week was out Dad had set up an appointment with the head of the accounting department at his office. “Don’t screw this up.” He warned.

I scowled as I approached the gray seven story commercial complex. The sun was shining and the air was cool. It would have been the perfect day to head out to the lake on my bike. Charlie and Craig were probably there already.

Just as I stepped off the sidewalk and started across the road that ran the length of the building, a silver Pathfinder whipped around the corner. It was heading straight at me and not slowing down.

As I dashed out of the car’s path, I caught a glimpse of the driver. His black hair was shaved short and the edges of his mouth were turned down in a deep frown. He never even noticed me.

“Jerk!” I shouted, as the car disappeared around the corner.

Thirty minutes later, I was sitting in front of the same jerk watching him study my resume. After a while he looked up.

“If you’re going to work here,” he snarled, “you’ll need to cut that rat’s nest you’re trying to pass off as hair.”

Without even thinking, I jumped to my feet and walked to the door. “I’m outta here!” I called over my shoulder.

Dad was gonna kill me. But I didn't care.

Rules Are Made to Be Broken

I’m a big fan of following the rules. Like traffic signals. Unlike other drivers on the road, and by other drivers I mean the guy in the silver Volvo who cut me off last week, I firmly believe that a red light is more than a suggestion.

“Hey, jerk, check your state issued Rules of the Road. Red means stop. Green means go.”

Another rule I think is important is that you don’t swim by yourself. That’s especially true if you have kids. For the record, when it comes to water safety, I am a big supporter of the buddy system.

But other rules are just silly. Like the rule about white after labor day. I tried to find out the history of that one. As best I can tell, it relates to southern bells trying to show how sophisticated they were by making up a nonsensical system of odd laws and then following them in an attempt to justify their validity.

If you ask me, it's a pretty stupid premise and has no legal justification. Plus, I watched Stacy and Clinton from TLC’s What Not to Wear and they told me white after labor day is OK. So I’m going with that.

Just like our country and our town, at our house, we have rules. We also have guidelines. Rules are situations where Ken and I don’t compromise. Guidelines are a bit more iffy.

A rule might be something like, if you put your hands in the toilet water, you are getting a time out – in addition to a stout scrubbing. Believe me, when you have a two year old on site, this is a pretty significant rule on the list.

Another important rule is don’t eat the cat food. Again, an important rule when you live with a two year old. It’s not so much that I’m concerned that the cat food will injure a child. It’s just when humans eat the cat food, it ticks off the cats. And there’s nothing worse than cat revenge – unless you enjoy stepping on cat puke when you get up to use the bathroom at two o’clock in the morning.

Guidelines, on the other hand, are a bit less defined and are subject to compromise. An example of a guideline is “if you don’t stop making that face it’s going to freeze that way.” To my knowledge, there are no documented cases of a child’s face permanently freezing into a grimace. But our parents passed that one to us and we throw it out there for our kids just in case.

Another guideline relates to breakfast. Traditionally, eggs and pancakes are breakfast items. I’m really not sure why. It’s the way my parents did things. And it’s the way their parents did things. But since it doesn’t involve life and death and has no bearing on my children's immortal souls, I’m willing to compromise.

It’s a good thing too. Because breakfast for dinner happens to be a favorite of my kids. For some reason, sausage and pancakes taste twice as good when you are eating them just before bed instead of just after waking up.

When it comes to breakfast for dinner, the absolute favorite in our house is green eggs and ham. The recipe is simple. Break a couple of eggs. Add green food color. Scramble. Cook and serve.

It’s about the grossest looking thing that you can put on a plate. But the kids love it. And if you can get past the "something that came out of a baby diaper" color, it tastes just the same as regular scrambled eggs.

Breakfast for dinner is a perfect treat for those nights when we just can’t bear to cook. And it makes a great incentive for good behavior.

“Eric, if you don’t stop throwing legos at your sister you won’t get any green eggs and ham.”

Works every time.

The final rule we don’t compromise on our house is that “sisters and brothers are nice to each other.” I feel like it’s a pretty important rule. The kids don't agree. I find that I issue several citations for violating this rule every day.

"Emily, locking your baby sister in the laundry room is not acceptable!"
"Beth, stop hitting Eric on the head with your teddy bear."

As my kids get older, they are starting to question the reasonableness of my rules.

"Why can't we eat dessert first and then have our green beans?" They ask.
"Because it's the rule." I say, as if that should settle the debate.

I’m beginning to worry that our system of home rule government is in jeopardy. Last week I caught Eric and Emily conspiring to overthrow the current regime and rewrite our family constitution.

If they are successful, the “be nice” rule won’t be part of the Family Bill of Rights. But they did have some interesting proposals about eating chocolate cup cakes for breakfast.

In Which I Reveal My Greatest Fear

Some people are frightened by spiders and snakes. Some people fear heights or enclosed spaces. Some people are alarmed by loud noises. But of all the people in all the world, I am the one person with a phobia for haircuts. Given a choice, I’d rather spend two hours having the dentist drill a molar than sit for ten minutes in the hairdresser’s chair.

One reason I don’t like haircuts is because I have unreasonable expectations. When I’m sitting in the chair waiting for the procedure to begin, I imagine myself being transformed from Plain Jane to Fashion Superstar.

When I was ten, I tried a mid length bob-like hairdo inspired by American Figure skater Dorothy Hammel. For my eighth grade graduation, I grew my locks out and switched to a Charlie's Angels, Farah Faucet wave. In High School, I experimented with the Pat Benitar chick Rock Star look, cut close up top and longer around the neck. Much later, I tried a Jennifer Aniston “Friends” Cut with little wisps framing my cheeks. Right now I'm sporting the "Forty Something Mom of Three Kids at Least I Washed and Brushed It" look.

Each visit to the hair dresser I would raise my hopes high. This is the style, I would tell myself, which will make me look prettier, thinner, fitter, hipper, happier. Instead, no matter the shape of my tresses, I continued to look exactly like me. It was very discouraging.

But the real reason I shun haircuts goes much deeper. And like most deep seated anxieties, my distress over hair dos and hair don'ts is rooted in my childhood. I caution to tell this tale as I fear my sisters, who suffered this with me, will have nightmares for weeks. But the only way to conquer our fears is to confront them. So here I go.

From the time I was four until the summer after I completed the fourth grade, Aunt Nell cut my hair.

Aunt Nell was Dad’s matron Aunt on his mother’s side, my Nana’s sister. She was a small woman with stooped shoulders who walked with a cane. She had baggy cheeks and droopy eyes, like an ancient basset hound. Her brown hair was piled on top of her head in a beehive hairdo and kept in place by a case of aquanet. She wore thick makeup and her wrinkled lips always left sticky red marks on her coffee cup.

A few years after Aunt Nell’s second husband passed away, she moved into the basement apartment in our house. Before moving in with us, Aunt Nell had been living in Nutley, New Jersey. I thought Nutley was a funny name for a town. But to hear Nana say it, you would have thought Aunt Nell had been living in the devil's playground.

"Nutley is no place for a respectable lady." Nana would say. "Its high time for Nell to come home and leave all the carousing behind."

I suspect Aunt Nell had some wild days before moving back to her Pennsylvania home town, because by the time she came to our house, she was worn out. She looked to be a hundred years old. But she was not even sixty.

For as long as I knew her, Aunt Nell had only four hobbies: smoking Kool menthol cigarettes; drinking cheap scotch; watching the stories (soap operas); and complaining.

Aunt Nell was especially skilled at complaining. If the sun was shining, she grumbled that it was too bright. If she found a ten dollar bill in the street, she lamented that it wasn’t a twenty. Aunt Nell had a knack for finding the pot of coal at the end of every rainbow.

At some point in her life, Aunt Nell received a beautician’s license. I don’t know what the qualifications for a hair dressers license were in the 1960s and 70s, but I’m guessing there was no sobriety test.

The haircuts took place in our kitchen. Theresa, Tina and I each received a turn. Aunt Nell would begin by lining up her gear, a row of sharp cutting utensils and straight edge razors. Next, she’d select her weapon, a sharp silver scissor with long, thin blades that resembled a scalpel.

After Aunt Nell picked up her implement, she would take a long pull on her cigarette and let the smoke waft out over her teeth. Then her crooked fingers, scissors in hand, would wobble closer and closer.

Aunt Nell never asked what style I wanted. She didn’t show me a glossy magazine filled with movie stars or models. She didn’t study the curve of my chin or the length of my nose. She just got down to the business of chopping and hacking.

I would sit still. Very still. As still as a six year old could possible sit. The fate of my ears depended on it. At the end of the procedure, I barely noticed my uneven bangs. I was too busy thanking God for allowing me to escape unscratched.

The resulting hairstyle was terrible. Theresa and Tina received equally awful cuts. It’s lucky for me that I had no sense of fashion at that age. Straight bangs, it turns out, were not at the top of my priority list. Intact ears were.

Don't get the sense that I didn't love Aunt Nell. Despite her nicotine stained fingers and whiskey scented perfume, she had her good side. Like when she made hot chocolate with marshmallows on cold winter nights. Or when she let me and Tina cower in her apartment during a summer thunderstorm. Or when she shared treats like cake and cookies. Or when she bought me a new pair of sneakers for Christmas. Or when she attended my school play or gave me a card for my birthday.

As time went by, to my relief, Aunt Nell had less time for haircuts - they interfered too much with her stories. (I can't believe Nathan's brother Seth was really his twin sister who everyone thought had died in a mysterious accident. If only Nathan would come out of the coma, he could get back together with Jill who is consoling herself in the arms her father's best friend.)

Eventually, I started getting my hair done at a little shop at the mall. That shop had ten chairs lined up against a mirrored wall. There were dozens of young, hip stylists sporting the latest cuts. There was a waiting area out front filled with fashion magazines. And there were no half empty shot glasses sitting at the stations. I took that as a very good sign.

Since then, I’ve had some weird cuts and some wild cuts. I’ve grown my hair long. I’ve cut it short. I've had perms and I've had presses. I’ve had my hair tinted every color in the rainbow.

To this day, no one has been able to make me look like Farah Faucet. The best I can say is that at least my bangs are straight. And I still have my ears.

Kicking the Caffeine Habit

Is there a support group for people who are addicted to caffeine? I’ve got a lot of bad habits (see Ken for a complete list) but being a slave to coffee is in my top five. It’s right behind my obsession with chocolate cupcakes and my tendency to forget things, like my point for example.

One time, about a year ago, I resolved to kick the caffeine habit. That meant no coffee and no chocolate. Walking away from chocolate was difficult. In my mind, it’s at the top of the food pyramid. But turning my back on my morning cup(s) of coffee was going to be a bigger challenge.

Things started off well enough. My first decaffeinated morning was as smooth as a Columbian blend with a hazelnut non-dairy creamer. I woke up early and sat by the window enjoying a tangy glass of orange juice instead. When the kids woke up I greeted them each with a bright smile and a warm hug. This was going to be easier than getting a To Go Cup of Jo at the drive thru.

Day two was a bit rougher. More like a tepid cup of half-caf served by a waitress named Madge. I ditched the orange juice and chewed on an old sock instead. When the kids woke up I gave them each a thin smile and grunted good morning. By noon, I was checking the phone book to see if Starbucks delivered.

On day three, I lost it. I must have been sleep walking because when I woke up I found myself digging through the garbage looking for last week’s used coffee grounds. I had a cup of tap water in one hand and a straw between my teeth. This wasn’t looking good at all.

When the kids bounced into the kitchen looking for their breakfast, my wild eyes stopped them in their tracks. Ken smirked. “Aren’t you a ray of sunshine,” he said. I lashed and spat in his direction. He gathered up the kids and rushed them back to their rooms. I think they spent the day hiding in their closets.

Over the next few days, I learned some important lessons. First, I’m not sure that I even like the taste of coffee. I usually take mine with triple cream and artificial sweetener to mask the bitterness. It’s really the energy boost that I’m looking for.

Second, if you talk to me before 10 a.m. when I’m off the juice, you’re taking your life into your own hands. In fact, I’d recommend keeping your distance until after sundown, just to be safe.

Finally, my family can’t survive a decaffeinated me. Before the week was out, I caught Ken trying to slap a caffeine patch on the back of my neck. He said our marriage depended on it.

So for now, I’ve fallen off the wagon, or the coffee cart. My family has ventured out of the safe room. And just last week I received a personal Thank You card from Juan Valdez.

(P.S. on the photo. No, there is NOT coffee in the cup. My kids are not allowed caffeine. That's another story.)

Fluff and Stuff From A Mom of Little Brain

When you are a forty-ahem year old mother of three children (ages 7 and under), its hard not to reflect about childhood. Let’s face it, I spend much more time than the average forty-ahem year old viewing the “Wonder Pets”, reading “Good Night Moon” and singing “When You’re Happy and You Know it Clap Your Hands. “ I play “My Little Pony” more than I play poker. And I am most often drinking a juice box when others are imbibing in a nice bottle of wine. You might say that when it comes to being childish, I have cornered the candy market.

But as I play, watch, read, or listen to these youthful preoccupations, grown up thoughts often creep into my mind to amuse and distract me. “If I’m happy and I know, couldn’t I just skip the clapping and go right for the shot of Beam instead?”, I consider. It happens to Ken too. That’s why you may sometimes find us debating whether its OK for Donald Duck to wear a shirt but he doesn't wear pants. (Ken’s argument - “hey, he’s a duck. There’s nothing there but feathers!” My point - "He is abusing all sense of fashion by neglecting to properly accessorize his ensemble – by wearing pants, for example." )

When the fluff in Winnie the Pooh’s head becomes cluttered with peculiar thoughts, he will often gather them together into a small verse. So in honor of my friend of little brain, I have decided to do the same.

If I could speak to Winnie the Pooh,
I wonder what he would say.
Would he reminisce about Piglet and Roo
Or tell of the blustery day?

If I could slide with Alice
To a world called Wonderland,
Would we search for the Mad Hatter
So I could shake his hand?

If I could find the cow
Who claimed to vault the moon
I’d ask her why she left the meadow
And then returned so soon.

If the world of pretend were real
And reality was make believe
I suppose I’d stay for a little while
Before I would need to leave.

I guess its time to stuff the fluff back in my brain now. A game of Pooh Sticks is waiting and I believe its my turn to win.

You Drive a Hard Bargain

Author's note: Prepared for my creative writing class. The assignment was to have a conversation with an inanimate object. Once again, I cheated as my cats are nothing, if not animated.

You think your pets are pests? My cats recently unionized. Before going out on strike, they approached me with their list of demands. Below is the official transcript of our negotiations:

Trixie: We’re here to renegotiate our arrangements.

Me: Renegotiate? I don’t believe your contract is up for renewal.
Trixie: Be that as it may, we feel that we deserve a more equitable distribution.
Me: Smokey? Is this what you want too?
Smokey: Mrrrooow.
Trixie: I can assure you, I have been duly appointed to represent all of the feline residents of the household.
Me; Very well then, what are your demands.
Trixie: I refer you to item number one. “Breakfast shall be served daily no later than 6:30 a.m.”
Me: No deal. You get fed when I get out of bed.
Trixie: That’s the problem. Sometimes you hit the snooze button two or three times. Last week we didn’t eat until 7:05 on three separate occasions.
Me: You keep track?
Trixie: Naturally.
Me. OK. Breakfast no later than 6:30 on workdays but I get to sleep in until at least 7:30 on weekends. And….you promise not to sit on my chest and rub your nose in my face before my alarm goes off.
Trixie: That seems fair enough. Now, regarding our second demand.
Me: Don’t even bother. I refuse to spoon feed caviar to anyone.
Trixie: How about fresh fish in our dishes once a month.
Me: The best I can do is to let you lick the empty Tuna can on Fridays during Lent.
Trixie: You drive a hard bargain. Let’s move on to the discussion of our salary.
Me: Salary! Outrageous! You don’t DO anything.
Trixie: Must I remind you of the mouse incident of 98?
Me: First of all, that was almost twelve years ago. Second, I believe it was Smokey who caught the mouse.
Smokey: Mrrrooow.
Trixie: Nevertheless, have you seen any mice in the house since then.
Me: Well……no.
Trixie: If you prefer to share your home with mice, it can be arranged.
Me: Fine. What’s your price?
Trixie: Smoky and I split nights sleeping ON the pillow. You ditch the cheap kibble and go back to the Fancy Feast. And… you provide nightly tummy rubs to each of us.
Me: This is extortion.
Smokey: Mrrrooow.

I Don’t Remember When I Was An Angel

I don’t remember when I was an angel. Mom once told me that before we were born we were all angels in heaven and that we lived with God. She said we had lots of toys to play with and that we ate chocolate ice cream for dinner. But I don’t remember what it was like. So I’m not sure that I’m going to like it that much the next time I go there.

I don’t remember what its like to be a baby. I saw a photo once of a bald baby. Dad said it was me when I was six months old. I was chubby with a round face and I was smiling at the camera with a toothless baby grin. Maybe the camera man was saying "watch the birdie." But I really don’t know why I was smiling because I don’t remember.

I don’t remember how it feels to sit in my grandfather’s lap and sniff the smell of cheap tobacco while he tells me stories about the Billy Goats Gruff. I don’t remember if his hair was blond or was it brown, like mine, or whether his eyes were blue, like Dad’s. I never met my grandfather. He died when my father was just a boy and I never got to meet him.

I don’t remember how awful it feels to flunk out of college. I was at the top of my class in high school. But I struggled through four years as an Engineering Major in college. When I figured out I couldn't hack it, I spent too much time drinking beer in smoky bars and not nearly enough time in the library. But somehow I managed to graduate and get my diploma. But I really didn’t want to be an Engineer, did I?

I don't remember what its like to wish to be a Mom. Because God blessed me with three beautiful children and I believe that they have been living in my heart since the day I was created. They are fiery and bold and funny and tender and wonderful. They fill my heart and make me feel complete. My wish, that was born years before I ever knew it existed, came true.

I don’t remember what its like to be old. To wonder how time slipped away so fast and wish you could snatch it back. To sit alone by a foggy window watching rain drops race down the panes and to wonder whether anyone still loves you. To flip through old photo albums recollecting times past and yearning to relive them. I don’t remember that because it hasn’t happened...yet.

I don’t remember when I was an angel……