Flashback Friday... Just trying to get back Home!

It's 1988, and I'm 16, sitting in the scratchy seat of the Greyhound, trying to get comfortable and not think too much about the hygienic habits of my seats previous occupants. Next to me sits a goofy looking guy who doesn't look like he's much more than seventeen but is more likely twenty five. I'm holding a book, rereading the same line over and over again but trying to look deeply engrossed so as not to have to talk to him. Apparently I'm unsuccessful because he takes that as a sign that I want nothing more than to listen to his endless stream of consciousness. We're just departing Santa Cruz, and entering HWY 17.

 "These drivers are crazy man... totally reckless." He starts off. "I would drive myself but I don't want to hit a dog. Last time I was driving dude, I so almost hit a dog. I'd feel so bad man, I think I'd want ta kill myself. I wouldn't feel bad if I hit one of those big white rats though. You know the ones with the long pink tails, about the size of a cat?..." 

An opossum, I think to myself.  

"...Yeah those are nasty man. They're all blind and shit and they're always walkin' out in the road and like starin' in your headlights. You know they have this project man, in like UCLA, where they give these rats all these hormones ya' know, and they have this rat, I'm not kidding you, that's like ten feet long. Really. And the thing man, is that it's legs and shit, weren't made to hold all that weight, so they're like totally crushed, and all it can do is like lay there in this big room while they do tests on it and stuff, cuz you know they want to create this super atomic man, but they can't figure out yet like how to make it so that his bones grow the same size, ya know?  I think that's So Wrong man! I mean like I don't like rats and all, don't get me wrong, but like to do that to another living creature is just wrong. Ya know?....." 

He finally gives up and I think I can relax, but no. He closes his eyes and starts to nod, and drool, and pretty soon, he's nodding and drooling closer to my lap. I try to scoot over but there's never been much wiggle room on a greyhound seat, so I don't get far. I'd change seats, but the bus is packed so I try to ignore him and go back to my book. Soon he's breathing loudly, not quite snoring, just sort of hissing, and his body is leaning in on mine. At the next bump in the road I try to jostle him back into his seat as if the bus bumped me into him, but he just flops back over, this time resting his head on my shoulder. He's asleep right? So I take my hand, and I shove his face back toward the window, but that just encourages him to take my elbow and nuzzle himself up to my side, sweet little smile gracing his face like he thinks he's some kind of adorable kitten or something.

I give up. Whatever. As long as he doesn't start dry humping me, I will try to ignore him. 

Fortunately he manages to wake himself up in time to get off at his stop in San Jose which is not so far, and I still have another hour to watch the couple in front of me grope each other madly in slippery, slobbery lust.

Oh, it's hard enough having divorced parents... Won't someone PLEASE buy me a Car!?

A Star is Born

Tizzy is tall and lean and beautiful. His movements are graceful and fluid and he slinks about like a cat. He slips in and around spaces, and then suddenly, with a start he'll leap into the air, fling himself about in a twist and with a shriek of delight propel himself toward the sky like an arrow. 

It's no surprise that he's a dancer. For several months, when he was a tot, he watched Singing in the rain repeatedly, following along to the steps of Gene Kelly and Donald O'Connor. He's now enrolled in a children's dance class called Hip Hop Boppers. He's the only boy, and to date, he hasn't noticed.  

Tiz thrives on zany energy and gets a thrill out of mischief. When he's in the company of boys, he gets wild. He attracts and is drawn to rascally troublemakers, and when in their presence, he sizzles and cracks with excitement. He's a challenge for individual girls, particularly ones who like to lead. He's not a follower and rebels against intense direction. But within a group of girls, he becomes poised, composed and collected.

He loves his dance class, and being the only boy, he's become a star of sorts. As my husband says, when you're the only boy, you're the guaranteed lead.

Each class starts out with a warm up, dancing with scarves, jumping through hoops. They spend twenty or so minutes doing gym, balancing on beams, swinging on ladders, a cartwheel here, a somersault there. For the last ten minutes they put on a show, dressing in costumes, following their teacher's choreographed moves. They've danced to Who let the dogs out, wearing puppy dog caps, worn stars and stripes to perform the Keystone Cops, but my favorite is when they get all tricked out and dance to Hannah Montana and High School Musical. That's when I get to see my little boy, dressed in drag, sportin' sequined vests and satin pink hot pants with trim. And Darling, he looks Fabulous!

This is when I beam with pride and the other mothers applaud his bravery saying their sons only ever lasted ten minutes, always left flushed with embarrassment, refusing to return. But my Tiz is a real performer, the dress is just part of the act, and he struts about among those girls, admiring himself in the mirror, looking, not dressed like them, but rather they dressed like him. 

Quite a mouthful

Sitting at the kitchen table:

Tizzy: If I'm really going to be a kid, these baby teeth have got to go.

Me: Be patient, they'll fall out in time.

Tizzy: I need them gone, now. (rubbing finger back and forth in front of mouth...) I think I'll saw them out.

Me: Mmm, not sure that's such a good idea.

Tizzy: Well, it's not working.

Trash to Treasure Tuesday - The Wiggles

I hate to waste food, and kids waste food. Whether it's dropped on the floor or simply not eaten, more than I'm comfortable with gets thrown in the trash. A few months ago, when Zip was into throwing things away, our ipod went missing. I looked and looked 'till the night before garbage day, when, having exhausted all other resources, I held my nose and sorted through the trash bin, discovering, not an ipod, but two-thirds of the bags filled with food! 

I wish we had a dog. No, actually, I do not. My kids do. A dog, however, isn't an option for more than one reason, first and foremost, we're all allergic. But I've come up with a solution that meets all of our needs... ready for this?... Worm Composting.

O.K. So I'm not the first. It's currently quite trendy actually, but, never the less, it's brilliant. I ordered a Biostack, which my sanitation department offers for a third of the retail price, and once my bin got here, I raced over to my dad's, who's been composting for decades. See, what's old is new again, and I picked up my first bucket of worms.

In the car on the way over, I explained to Tizzy what I had in mind, telling him that we'd be feeding the worms all of our scraps, and in turn they would convert our rotting food into wonderful rich fertilizer, other wise known as worm castings. I'm not sure where my words took a turn, but after a long pause, Tizzy agreed that he would eat the worms, as long as we cooked them first. This, from my pickiest of eaters. Who knew all I needed to do was fry up a few worms, and my culinary dilemmas would be over?!

I regret to say that, while we didn't eat our first batch, we did manage to kill them all off. In my haste to get started, I didn't properly wet the soil and bedding. I checked on them a few days later, and, no one was home. Where could five hundred plus worms have gone? Apparently they're comprised of nearly ninety percent water, and when they die, they just shrivel up without a trace. I felt a tad morose, for my part in their demise, to which my husband reminded me they were just worms, but they were my responsibility, and I felt guilty all the same. Yet, back to my dad's I went, and got two buckets more this time, for safe measure. 

It's now been about a month and a half, and they're doing great! They're frisky little buggers, and are multiplying at an alarming rate. I have a small bucket under the sink where I discard fruit and vegetable peels, pour soggy bowls of cereal, and all the food that's swept up from under the table at the end of the day. I bring a bucket of food to the bin every few days, and turn the new loam produced from the food of the last bucket, hardly recognizable once the worms and other critters have had their way with it. I have a bales worth of straw, that I'd mulched the side yard with last fall, and I'm working it into the compost as bedding. When I've used it all up, I can resort to shredding newspapers and recycled paper bags. Worms are better eaters than goats, who're much more particular about their eats than their reputation alludes, and the silent squigglers are far less demanding.

 I think I have met my family's need for a pet, at least for now. When people come to visit, the boys drag them to the shade of the forest, a low canopy in the corner of our yard, where the hedges meet the Japanese Maple, and show them the worm bin, which Tizzy claims is haunted. Haunted, by the first batch of worms, I suppose. Zip stirs up the compost with his plastic shovel and puts his finger to his lips, "Shhh - dey 'sleep," and when he manages to unearth a particularly large cluster, he shrieks with delight "Da Worms! Da Worms! See dem?!" 

I'm told it's important for the worms to do their thing for at least the first few months, before harvesting their castings, as they thrive in the richer environment. Ours seem to be thriving. 

They're surprisingly fascinating to watch, kind of like an earthy, rustic, fish bowl. It's not for the faint of heart, but if you're at all curious, you're likely to find this little microcosm more captivating than nauseating. I look forward to enriching my gardening experience with this environmental experiment, and I will keep posting my discoveries, in future Trash to Treasure Tuesdays.

Memorial Day

Officially, Memorial Day, is a day to honor the men and women who have died in military service, but it’s most frequently observed by Americans as the first day of summer, celebrated by friends and family with picnics and parties.

It seems that war is difficult for many Americans to fully grasp, even during times of war. Unless they became Americans after escaping the atrocities experienced in their own war torn countries, or are members / family of the military who are currently serving or have served our country in the past, it’s too foreign for most of us to comprehend, and for better or worse, most of us have the privilege to ignore it.

As warranted by it’s name, Memorial day is also a day we remember friends and family who have passed before us. 

Today I will be honoring three very important women in my life who have served and fought for my family. My husbands mother, who succumbed to breast cancer after fighting for two hard years, when her children were five and thirteen; My husband’s step-mother, who, after raising my husband and his sister, as well as her two biological children, had only two months before she died, to know that she was battling liver cancer; And my own mother, who when I was seven months pregnant for T, was diagnosed with stage IV breast cancer that had matastecized to her liver.

So much progress has been made since my mother-in-law’s got their diagnosis, and I am happy to say that my mother is still with us today. She will be celebrating with family and a picnic, gingerly, as she is healing remarkably, from having the left lobe of her liver removed less than two weeks ago.

When she was first diagnosed four years ago, her oncologist, a hilarious, strapping young man of 40, who was known for his infectious smile and silliness, respectfully told us her diagnosis, and encouragingly informed us that, while there was no known cure, he had patients who had made it five years with the same diagnosis, and he hoped that with the rapid progress being made in cancer research, he would shake her hand in ten, and say, keep up the good fight.

Right now, I would like to take a moment to honor Dr. Richard Shapiro and his family, because he passed away two years later after suffering a major heart attack at the age of 42. He is deeply missed by all of his patients who he helped in their own battles of cancer. He worked everyday with a life threatening illness, but never forgot to keep his sense of humor, showing up to work, more than once in a Tigger suit, the cartoon character who most resembled his bouncy bubbly self. We are grateful to him, and miss him.

Two months after her diagnosis, I went into labor for T, who was breech and a month premature. Because my water had broken, they went ahead and performed the c-section, and it turns out he was just ready, happy and healthy, at 7 pounds 2 ounces. Not fully believing that she would live to see him turn one, my mother bravely asked the anesthesiologist if she would bend the one-person attendant rule, and let her witness the birth at my husband’s side. After hearing her story, the anesthesiologist tearfully said that she would make an exception. The attending nurse later told me that in their 20+ years working together, she’d only seen her make that exception once before. 

My mother has been amazing. She has kept a positive, survivalist attitude the entire time. Because she was told there was no cure, she actively sought out complimentary medicines. In addition to taking hormone blockers, chemo treatments once the blockers were no longer working, and, most currently, liver induction surgery, she has kept her body incredibly strong with nutrition, herbal supplements, eastern remedies and treatments, and lots of meditation and exercise. She keeps her emotional strength by attending cancer support groups, and nurturing old and new friendships with a tenacity that few can match. I mean this sincerely when I say that she has thousands of friends. She runs an online business and works with farmers throughout the world. When they learned of her diagnosis, she began receiving prayers from people all over the globe. She tries to respond to each of them personally. So she also finds solace in prayer.

One of her friends, who found her via the phenomena of the internet, is a peaceful young Somali man, who is surviving daily in his own war-torn country. He has lost all of his family to the war, and his regular correspondence with my mother keeps him strong as he works to find the road to safety. We hope to meet him in person some day, and pray for his safety on this day of remembrance.

She has put herself into remission twice. She doesn’t try to identify which of her treatments are working, she just trusts that since she keeps staying strong, they must be working in tandem. Her doctors from all sides, agree that she is maintaining remarkable strength. We have discovered new tumor growth three times, twice when I was pregnant. I have teased her that I better not have any more children because when I grow something she grows something. However, this most recent time, I was not pregnant. As she’d exhausted the other alternatives, the doctors decided to perform surgery. Her friends in her cancer support group have been cheering her on, encouraged that the cancer hasn’t spread further and excited that surgery is a possibility.  For many of them, the cancer is far too progressed for surgery to be an option.

I thought about writing this on Mother’s Day, but we were rushing around getting her packed for the hospital, and I was repressing my own fears and anxieties, anticipating the possibility that the surgery might not work. But it did work, and she’s mending marvelously. So, today we will celebrate, by carefully walking her up the hill to watch her grandsons fly their first kite, and sharing her favorite foods on our picnic. And we will remember the other mothers in our life who, without, we would not have the family to share this picnic.

We will enjoy ourselves and celebrate, but we will also recognize that war is a human condition. One we have experienced throughout the history of mankind. As Americans, we have the luxury to argue and debate our stance on war. Regardless of our position, we live in a world where war is prevalent, and our world is getting smaller. 

Please join us on this Memorial holiday in taking a moment to appreciate the people you hold dear in your life, to honor those who work to make the world a better place, and to pray for those in the world who live under perilous conditions, that they too may see a better day.

Flashback Friday - The Junk in my Trunk!

When I was six we had a roommate, Phyllis from Philly, who would sneak me Rollo's before dinner, wipe my face and remind me that this was our little secret, then send me back upstairs. 

I had my fair share of treats as a child, as my mom has an incurable sweet tooth, but I rarely ate Junk Food. I ate my weight in sugar cereals the mornings after sleep overs, agonizing over the choices. Fruit Loops or Honey Combs? Maybe Lucky Charms, but without milk which makes the marshmallows too gooey. Usually I'd settle on multiple bowls and go home irritable and cross.

In the time she lived with us, Phyllis would frequently watch me on Friday nights so my mom could go out and get a break. 

The first of these nights, starts innocently enough. I accompany her on her weekly trip to Gemco, shuffling along side her as she loads up the cart with kitty litter, cranberry juice, cigarettes. I get to carry the panty hose in their goose egg containers, and study the sunglasses while she tries on lips sticks, and imparts advice on how to land and marry a rich doctor, which is her ultimate goal for us both.

We reach the candy aisle and she offers to buy me my own roll of Rollo's which I readily accept, and then testing the limits as only a six year old can, ask could I have a pack of Starburst's as well. No problem. Suddenly I'm keenly alert, scoping out my surroundings. My eyes fall on the tall glass jar at the counter containing enormous chocolate chip cookies and I wonder out loud if there's any difference between these chocolate chip cookies and regular chocolate chip cookies, and maybe we should buy one to know for sure.

In the car, on the way to Mc Donald's, I know that should my mother discover these delicacies they will be confiscated, so I resolve to eat as much as I can before the night is through. At dinner I order a happy meal, and happily finish my burger, coke and fries and casually ask for a chocolate sundae for dessert, and before we leave, could I maybe have an apple pie, because well, I've never had one. The hot sticky syrup simultaneously burns my mouth and my hands as we make our way to the car.

At the gas station on the way home, I discover the $100,000 Bar which, I report, makes me think of the Six Million Dollar Man who is very cool and wouldn't it also be very cool if I could try one? 

This is Golden! I'm learning how to work it, and my mom will never, ever know.

We get back to the house. I make no fuss about getting ready for bed, because this could become a regular thing and I am not going to ruin it. I brush my teeth and make my way into my moms room, where Phyllis is making herself comfortable in the queen size water bed. I lean in to say good night, and proceed to throw up, over every square inch of the room.

Cha-Ching!

This morning I'm changing Zip's diaper, which happens to be poopie, and I find a bright shiny penny in it. "Huh?" I say, wondering to myself, was it stuffed there? Or pooped there? It's hard to know when talking to a two year old whether the information gleaned from them is accurate, pure fantasy, or, often as not, a mixture of both, but I have to ask...

Me: "Did you put this penny in your diaper?" 

Zip: "Mmm-Hmmm."

Me: "Or...Did you eat a penny?"

Zip: "Mmm-Hmmm."

Me: "You ate a penny!??

Zip: "Ate a penny."

Me: "Hang on."

Not wanting to influence his answers, as I'm really curious, I go in the other room and whisper to my husband: "I think Zip ate a penny, but I'm not sure. Go in and ask him, but don't try to feed his answer."

Husband: "Zip, Did you eat a penny?" 

Zip: "Ate a penny."

Husband: "Did it go down your throat?"

Zip: "Mmm-Hmmm... hurt m'neck"

Husband: "Did it go in your tummy?"

Zip: "Mmm-Hmmm..."

Husband: "And you pooped it out?"

Zip: "Pooped.  Hurt."

Husband: "So you ate one?"

Zip smiles: "Two!"

Husband: "O.K. wait, did you eat three?"

Zip: "Two!"

I guess we'll never know for sure, but the unprompted "hurt" makes us think that he probably did. Later, we are sitting around the living room, when the all too familiar scrunched up face and serious grunting prompts us to ask him "Are you pooping a penny?" 

"Mmm-Hmmm..."

A Place to Call Home

Preschools, in our suburban town, are just as difficult to get into, and as expensive, as in any urban area these days, and the pressure to make sure our tots are properly educated before kindergarten is astonishing.

When I was four, we lived on Dillon Beach, a tiny beach community, even tinier then than today, perched just North of the Tomales Bay.

My closest friends were children of dairy farmers and cattle ranchers, and we all went to school at Mary Anne's farm, in Valley Ford. I loved going to Mary Anne's. She had a giant tree house, that spanned the perimeter of an enormous old oak, on which a tire swing hung. There was an additional structure, connected to the tree, by a swinging bridge, which she would chase

 us across, while pretending to be a Wild Thing. Mostly, we did normal preschool activities, circle time, sharing, cutting construction paper into shapes, and gluing them onto boards. I remember shaking freshly milked cream in a jar, and how astonished I was, when it turned, first into whipped cream, and then into butter.  Most importantly, there was a sense of warmth and caring, that made me feel safe, loved and protected.

                                  

We moved before kindergarten, and I found myself, consecutively, in two large institutional type preschools, which, for all intents and purposes were fine, but made me feel small, and lost. There were more teachers, but there were also more kids, and we were just charges to keep track of. My memory of these teachers, was that they were grouchy, and tired, and didn't spend much time speaking to, or interacting with us, except to snap at us during nap time, and shuffle us out to the play yard, in between morning snack and lunch.

The first center, was both a school, and a daycare. As if waiting six hours for our parents to arrive after the morning kids left, wasn't a grave enough injustice for those of us being left behind, we were forced to nap, on uncomfortable metal cots, while listening to the departers jump on a giant king size mattress in the next room. Our only distraction from the shrieks of delight and peals of laughter, was to study the countless mosquito bites, covering our little blond cot mate. Even that, was short lived, before the attendant would look up from her book and hiss at us to lie back down and close our eyes. Occasionally my mom would take a half day, picking me up early, allowing me to partake in the dizzying mad crush of half a dozen preschoolers crashing into each other, on this makeshift trampoline. This only made subsequent nap times all the worse, because I knew from experience, the fun I was missing. We had a neighbor, Tanya, who went to school with me, and her mother never picked her up before six. Once, my mom told me that Tanya would be coming home with us, and that she'd try to pick us up early. While I knew she didn't really mean early early, I told the teacher that that's what she'd said, and Tanya had her turn on the mattress. I was feeling pensive and evasive, when my mom, the last to arrive, retrieved us, but I wouldn't apologize, steadfast in my commitment to share the joys of mattress jumping with one more of my daycare peers. 

The second center, also a daycare, was unmemorable except for the blue milk we drank which was really just reconstituted powdered milk and disgusting, and the Spaghettio's they served which to me resembled vomit. I had my first existential contemplation while attending that school. The concept of reincarnation had recently been explained to me and I wondered if the familiarity I felt with the other children, who were more or less new to me, meant that they'd been aquaintences of mine in a past life. These are the things that hippie kids think about.

In searching for a preschool for my own children, I attended a preschool fair, where I was greeted at each booth by wide grinned teacher's aids, each regaling me with promises of their school's academic might. I was assured by one, that my child would be doing fractions by the end of the first year, and by another that he would be guaranteed admission to Harvard... Well, practically.

What I was looking for, was a Mary Anne's. I wasn't sure if something like that even existed in this day and age. What I found was Chally's Place. Chally's Place is passed on by word of mouth. She's unlisted, and tucked inside a normal looking house, perched upon a hillside. I wasn't sure that I even had the right address the first time I drove up to it. Once inside, everything's at childrens scale. The windows look out over an expanse of gilded tree tops. There are toys of all kinds to play with, little toy kitchens and appliances, blocks, an easel with the color of the day to paint with, a reading corner. They take time, each day, with every child individually, to work on a special project, sometimes cooking one individual muffin, or decorating a holiday craft. They go over current events and discuss the significance of important dates and people. In late January, while listening to a commemorative show honoring Rev. Martin Luther King Jr., I heard Tizzy pipe up from the back seat of the car, "I'm a gonna go tell it on the Mountain!... Martin Luther King was a boy, mama, and he rode bikes, just like me... and there was a lady who rode on the bus, and she wouldn't move back, and the police were very, very, cross."   Outside there is a quaint plateaued yard, with a sandbox, and a garden, play houses, and bikes. But, most importantly, there is warmth and love. 

Chally is like a female Mr. Rogers and her assistant, is just as wonderful. She greets each child in the morning, saying "Thank you so much for joining us Love, I'm so happy to see you today." My boys can't wait to get up on Chally days, and busily set about gathering special objects to share.

You never know for sure what goes on behind closed doors, and children can be very unforthcoming when it comes to sharing information about time spent away, but I know that they are being treated well, because after spending time at Chally's my sons come home saying "What a lovely day. You are wonderful, and beautiful, and perfect in every way. I like you, and love you! Aren't I lucky to know you?" 

I think, as a mom, that's all I need to know.

Off the Wall

I’m chanting a mantra as we make our way through the supermarket that goes something like this... Sit down...sit down... sit down, sit down, sit down...right now...sit down... sit down...SIT DOWN! I'm feeling far from enlightened.

Tiz and I are back in the car and I'm yammering on about safety even though he's unlikely to recall any of it during our next shopping trip and think, "Hmmm...maybe sitting down this time would be to my advantage..." But, it’s my obligation as his mother, so grouse I must.

“Do you understand why I kept asking you to sit down back there?” ... “Back there, in the store?” ... “In the cart?”  The one sided nature of this conversation prompts me to keep going.  “Standing up in the cart is very dangerous. You could end up in the hospital!” I point to the hospital we just happen to be passing.

“There are some hurts you can heal from,” I continue “but other’s you can’t. You don’t want to split your head open by landing on the hard cement floor. You could end up with a hurt that can’t be fixed!”

“Like Humpty Dumpty.” He replies “They couldn’t put him back together again. But he was on a wall!”

 

A,B,C,D....

T:

"Let me see... what begins with the letter R?

                        ...ARTIST begins with R!!!"

Hey Big Mama

Tizzy looked at me fondly this morning and said "You're a Big Mama!"

A little flustered with my hearty laugh of a response, he retracted with "Well, actually, you're really more of a medium sized Mama."

A Balloon of Ones Own

Not surprisingly, being two, Zip is a HUGE fan of balloons. 

His favorite book, and movie, right now is The Red Balloon which he studies from cover to cover and discusses at great length.

We went to a birthday party this last weekend, and received two fabulous punch balloons. This morning I blew them up. 

Zip's ecstatic, dragging his behind him throughout the house. 

Combine latex, friction, and static, KABOOM!!!  You've got a popped balloon. 

Before he even understands what's happening, I'm choked up. We regularly deal with the loss of balloons, but they're Trader Joe's balloons. They are droopy, wrinkled, reflections of their former selves, by the time I secretly dispose of them while the boys sleep.

This gleaming latex globe, in the eyes of a 2 year old is, er, was, HUGE, and could pass for Pascal's balloon. 

What am I going to say?!!

I don't have to say anything it turns out. As a bewildered Zip scans his surroundings, shards of latex draped over the furniture, dangling from the light fixtures, strewn across the floor, the tattered reality becomes painfully clear to Tizzy. He tearfully approaches Zip with his own enormous balloon. "Here Zip" he says placing the thin rubber band handle into Zips grip, "I didn't need a punch balloon anyway."