Wednesday, April 28, 2010

planting seeds

Saturday did not begin as a great day.  I woke up very early because I heard the birds outside, twittering away.  My son was asleep in my bed next to me, the dog asleep at his feet, teen daughter asleep down the hall, husband away for the weekend.  All should have been right in my world.  I could stay in bed, it was not even 6 yet and I did not need to be anywhere for hours.  Yet somehow that lovely extra sleep eluded me, my mind refused to go back to the land of nod, deciding instead to go to a darker place.  You probably know that place.  The gears in your brain start turning, still not fully awake, yet beginning to remember bits and pieces: the things left undone, the things done too often, the things that should not have been said, the things said too loudly.  A beautiful, sunny, peaceful, bird-chirping Saturday morning of calm ruined by one plop of negativity that was now spreading, the ripples growing larger and larger.  And so, unable to stop the ripples, I finally got out of bed and began the day, going through the motions, completing the usual tasks, silently so the children would not wake. 

My dark cloud floated through the morning with me, and I tried to at least keep busy working in the garden,  making hay while the spring sun shone, before the April showers returned.  Work is good, keeps you busy, too many projects, where to begin?  I had just purchased a new shrub and began to dig the hole.  So many projects out here, so little time.  I actually got the shrub in, went to fill the watering can, and noticed my neighbor outside.  Still feeling like an outsider in this home we have occupied for almost 2 years, my initial introverted reaction was to hide.  For some reason, today on this dark cloud day, I decided to break the habit, to be bold and walk over to say hello.  I offered her some poppies that are spreading and need to be moved to a new location, as I remembered her mentioning that her daughter loved their color.  As we chatted, another neighbor walked his dog past and the conversation became a threesome.  A few minutes after this broke up, another neighbor who was driving past pulled alongside the curb and I offered her some raspberry plants that were spreading from last year's planting.  Later, the couple next door came by and we walked through their yard as they pointed out plants which survived the winter.  A teacher friend from school drove past and she and her husband parked and came out to tell me how they admired my phlox.  We must have walked and talked for half an hour pointing out specimens and promising each other cuttings of favorites.  And then I saw the newest neighbor, with a 2 year boy.  I was embarrased because I had forgotten their names when first introduced this winter during a snow shoveling marathon, and so had avoided them, not wanting to admit my ignorance.  My son had mentioned that he noticed the boy admiring our dog from afar on many occasions.  And so, I turned the moment into a teachable one for us both, crossing the street and striding up into the garage to say hello and make new introductions.  The visit brought them to our yard for dog petting and conversing and up into my son's room to find boy toys to share.  The  2 year old did not stay long inside the house alone with my son, as I had hoped his mom and I could work outside alone a bit, but I carried him crying back to his mother's arms, and my son brought the dinosaurs and cars, and he entertained the little one for an hour until those April raindrops scattered everyone back indoors.  Well, it was lunch time anyway.    It had been a good morning.  SO many projects, so little time, very little really accomplished in the garden.  But with the help of friends and neighbors, my dark cloud had lifted and I had planted some seeds, after all.  More seeds that I even realized that I owned.

Keeping a grip, deb

Saturday, April 24, 2010

4. made husband go to cub scout meeting while I met with my ladies book group

Alright, maybe this seems like a small thing, but it was a real choice on my part to do something for myself.  You see, I am the "assistant" scout leader for my son's cub scout den.  I have been the leader for the past 2 years, and this year I finally talked someone else into taking over the actual leader job so I could be the "helper" instead of doing all of it myself.  Three years ago I saw a table display at a school parent night and thought it would be a great idea for my son to join scouting.  I enjoyed being a girl scout as a youth, we are a hiking/camping kind of a family, my son loves nature and exploring the outdoors.  So when my son was beginning first grade and old enough to join scouting he and I attended the introductory meeting.  The leader in charge (the one wearing the crisp official boy scout leader uniform!)  explained that one of us new parents would have to step up and volunteer to be the leader of this new den. Silence. All the parents sat around the table, heads down, eyes lowered, trying not to make eye contact.  More silence.  Oh come on, said the leader, it is really not too bad, honestly, a time commitment of only about an hour per week.  Even more silence.  Finally, I snapped, I volunteered.  I couldn't take the pressure anymore.  I felt like I was back in first grade with Sister Maureen Peter at Sacred Heart Elementary School.  One of the many rules there prohibited talking in the halls and bathrooms.  Well, on one particular day girls were being girls and chatting was taking place in the bathroom and somehow Sister M. P. found out and upon returning to the classroom we were all lined up in front of the blackboard.  Silence.  "Who was talking?"  More silence.  "If nobody speaks up and tells me who was talking you will all be punished."  Even more silence.  Finally I snapped.  I  told.   I couldn't take the pressure anymore.  And that was my first lesson on catholic school justice--because after Suzie Debusky aka " the talker" had her date with the yardstick, I was beaten as well, "for being a tattle tale".  I guess it served me right.  At least I learned one lesson: that was the last time I would be Sister's stool pigeon.

SO as the silence in the cub scout meeting room dragged on and on, and I was caving under the pressure, one of my mom friends in attendance whispered, "No!  Don't do it!  You will be stuck doing it forever!"  (I can still hear her voice in slow motion being replayed over and over in my head)

 But did I listen to her?   Obviously I did not because here I am 3 years later still using my free time to plan a skit involving 12 third grade boys and myself which we will perform around a campfire in front of 200 people.  No matter how good the skit is, I already know the outcome--the boys will either refuse to speak, sing, or otherwise perform, or they will forget their part, or they will remember it perfectly but speak so softly that no one can hear them anyway and I will basically end up doing the whole skit solo.  Believe me. I have been here before.  Many times.

Now, I like that my son is involved in scouts.  I do not even mind being involved in some of the activities and doing some of the planning.  I'm a good sport, I'm an involved parent, I'm fairly organized and creative.  But the plan for tonight's scout meeting is a little different than the usual.  You see, the boys sell overpriced(!) Scout popcorn as their main fundraiser for the year (and I still cringe nearly every time I walk into a Walmart remembering the years of standing in front of the store in the rain and the snow with my daughter's girl scout troop selling boxes of cookies!)  and as a little incentive to spur on their salesmanship skills, the other leaders promised a special bonus for the top-selling boys.  Those who sold over 500 dollars worth of overpriced(!) Scout popcorn (honestly, how many aunts and uncles do some of these boys have?) would be awarded the privilege of throwing a cream pie into the face of a scout leader.  Now, I am a pretty easy going person most of the time.  I could see taking a pie in the face for the team.  But it just so happened that my ladies book group also meets tonight.  Through some unlucky twist of fate, both events are always scheduled for the third Wednesday evening of each month, are set in stone, and cannot be changed without special dispensation from the pope.  Knowing how busy he is, I usually just try to do the scout thing and then rush over to the book club thing half way through.  Not a perfect plan, but you do what you have to do.  Well, on this particular evening I did not really feel like walking into the coffee shop where the book group meets with whipped cream in my hair and since I started trying to wear make-up since turning 50, well,you can pretty much picture what I would look like at book group.  And I had actually read the entire book this time!  I really wanted to discuss it! 

Well, I have already given you the punchline--I made my husband take the boy to scouts.  And I did not even feel very guilty about it either.   Nine out of ten of you would have done the same thing, I know you would.  By the way, if anyone ever tries to tell you that something is "only an hour a week time commitment", hang tough.  Just keep your head down and your eyes lowered.  Do not, under any circumstances make eye contact.

Keeping a grip, deb

just an atom in the beaker of life

One of the things about turning 50 is the fact that you cannot go back and start over.  You are literally running out of time.  When I look back on these previous decades I realize that nearly every decision from young adulthood until now was the wrong one.  And now, it is too late.  There are some things that simply are not do-overs.  The problem with reaching this conclusion is that I am unsure how to proceed with "the rest" of my life.  Keep plodding along until one day is simply my last?  I guess so.  I can't think of anything else to do.  I am just too tired to make sweeping changes.  I don't want to rock every boat that I currently am balancing one foot on.  I have used up most of my gung-ho-change-the-world unlimited energy.  And how?  By putting my nose to the grindstone.  Pretty much THE exact thing I did not want to waste my life on.  Yet somehow that is exactly what I did.

What would I have done differently?  Pretty much all of it--marriage, career, college, location, all those biggies.  In fact, I have done do-overs on most of these and still have somehow made the wrong choices.  Maybe what this means is that it is not the choices  we make, or the things we do, or the people we encounter that help make us happy people.  Maybe it is just us.  Just us.  Ultimately we each are in charge of ourselves and our happiness and all the other variables are simply extra, something swirling around us, somtimes connected to us, sometimes breaking away, sometimes reconnecting in a different sense.  Rather like atoms in a scientific experiment.  Add a little heat, stir in a solution, and some atoms change, some mutate, some break away and create new molecules. 

So I continue to tread water, going nowhere, expending all my energy simply to stay afloat.  I am an atom being stirred in the solution of life, but somehow have lost whatever property allows me to adhere to other atoms to create a new element.  The giant spoon is stirring and stirring and the bunsen burner is heating and heating and pretty soon I will just rise to the surface of the beaker and be released as steam. 

Still keeping a grip, Deb

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

zen and the art of eric clapton

Whew, it was one of those days. A pretty good day actually, but school days are so packed and crazy that every day is one of those days, especially by the spring of the year. My day job is elementary school librarian (to be more realistic, it’s my evening and weekend job as well). Yes, I know what you are thinking out there: ooh, a librarian, wow, you get to sit around and read all day, gee, I wish I had that job. Yeah, right. Every week I see 680 kids in 34 classes at 2 different schools for a 40 minute library class each. Each class begins at an exact time, must flow through an exact series of events, and finish up at an exact minute because their teacher will be picking them up and another teacher bringing the next batch in exactly 5 minutes later. And on and on and on. I am in charge of submitting budgets and ordering books for 2 different libraries in 2 different buildings. On one particular day of the week I teach 4 classes in the morning at one building and then drive to the other building for afternoon classes. Neither building has the same starting or dismissal time periods, of course. I need to have new lesson plans conforming to the state standards in my principal's mailbox every Monday morning. I have recess duty, lunch duty, and bus duty. Nearly every minute of every day is accounted for. Lunch is eaten at my desk reading my emails.


Now don't get me wrong, I really do enjoy most aspects of my job. And I am definitely one of those people who would rather be too busy than bored. I am definitely NOT bored in my current job. And I realize it is not even in the running against stressful occupations such as brain surgery or police officer. Instead it is rather like being an actress in a 6-hour long performance. Or make that six 40-minute acts with a 5 minute intermission between each. And the play changes every week. And no one has actually paid for tickets (well, except the taxpayers living in the school district of course) so they may not necessarily want to be watching this particular play today. They may want to boo the performance. Or throw tomatoes (thank goodness actual tomatoes are not allowed anywhere near actual elementary school students these days!)

The interesting part of this metaphor is that I actually do get applause from the audience. Honestly, almost daily in one class or another the kids really break out in spontaneous applause. Now, I am not naive enough to actually believe this applause is for my stellar reading performance (well, maybe every once in a while). I prefer to take the credit in a more subtle way--a particular book was being applauded, and because I chose that particular book, then I, in essence, am being applauded for my selection skills. Either way, I will wholeheartedly accept the credit and take the applause as a positive statement on whatever level it may have been given. Feedback of any sort is slim in this profession, so I'll take what I can get. I believe the most important detail to take away from the whole applause situation is this: a group who belong to this modern generation of kids who have incredibly short attention spans due to their constant consumption of faster, more violent, and all consuming technology has actually noticed and appreciated the simple pleasures of a (shudder!) book.

And so, what, you may wonder was today's performance? Well, third grade is finishing a unit on the study of fairy tales by my sharing a selection from the
infamous "Stinky Cheeseman" by that dynamic duo of Jon (remember, it rhymes with Fresca) Scieszka and Lane Smith. This requires a multiple array of voices including: Jack, Giant, Chicken Licken, Queens, Kings, lying frogs, a being made from stinky cheese, and a sly fox (whose part simply begs to be read aloud in an impression of SNL's Jon Lovitz-"yeah, that's the ticket").


In fourth grade we are observing April being National Poetry Month and today I am reading an entire novel, "Love That Dog" by Sharon Creech, which is actually more of a novel-length poem about a boy who does not like poetry who is writing his thoughts about the subject in a journal for his English teacher. This is quite a lot to cram into one 40 minute class (and leave time for kids to select their library books!) but is so fulfilling for me because I get to read some great poems out loud and watch the kids faces as they slowly understand what is going on through the drama of the boy's journey. Suffice it to say that I have to work hard to not cry each time I get to the sad part.


In 5th grade I get to don my "Where's Waldo" hat as kids have a mission to solve clues using an atlas to find my location in a variety of states.


In Kindergarten we are making Stone Soup with plastic food (real stones and cooking pot!) after reading 2 versions of the story. Afterward I walk around ladelling the finished soup into their cupped hand "bowls".


In 2nd grade we are talking about Australia and I get to read an aboriginal dreamtime story and play didgeridoo music.


In 1st grade, we are studying the author Margie Palatini and I have time not only for "The Cheese", a hilarious take on the Farmer in the Dell, but one of my all time favorites, "The Web Files", a Mother Goose-meets-Dragnet parody in which I get to play the parts of the police detective (using Jack Webb's voice), a horse, a lamb, a hen who has had a peck of perfect, purple, almost-pickled peppers pilfered, and That Dirty Rat ala 1940's gangster speak (you can't pin this rap on me, I'm clean I tell you, clean!) The kids join me for the "Dum De Dum Dums".


Whew! That's pretty much the shortened version of today's matinee performance and I am exhausted just thinking about it. SO where does Eric Clapton fit into all this mess, you might ask. Well, I was driving home at the end of this day, and the classic Layla came on the radio and I spent 7 minutes and 11 seconds in a trance-like state of repeating the ohm-like track over and over and over and over and over again in an exhilirating musical purging that truly left me in a peaceful state of tranquility and bliss. Aaaaahhhhhhh. Ohhhhhmmmm. Laylaaaaaaaaa


Just in time to get home and start dinner . . .


Keeping a grip, deb

Monday, April 19, 2010

the internet ate our weekend

It was one of those rare weekends when my husband was out of town and I was solo parent. And it was a big event weekend for my son, a 9 year old who loves science. We are lucky enough to live in a major university town and one of the advantages of that is the opportunity to attend events such as this: a full day devoted to hands-on science education for local kids. He and I would be gone for almost 6 hours and leave teen daughter home alone. Now, teen daughter is truly a wonderful girl. Horrible baby (that's a post for another day), but wonderful girl. Mature, responsible, respectful, smart and funny, always a good report from teachers, will be the designated driver among her friends in the future. This is real life however, and I would be remiss if I gave you the impression that the child is perfect. She of course is a female, and a teenager, and has her mood swings, and a bit (or byte? maybe megabyte?) of that teen snippiness that all parents know and love. Still, a pretty great young lady.

So, the boy and I allowed the teen girl sleep in, then went out for the day and teen girl is left with instructions to pursue her usual Saturday chore (she does the family laundry! hates it, complains, but does it). Well, 6 hours later the boy and I return, exhausted and fulfilled, basking in the memory of rockets and robots, dry ice and fossils. We find the girl putting away a load of laundry. The first load of laundry. The other loads are still spread out on the laundry room floor sorted into dark, white, and medium piles, just as they were when we left. And so, what has she been doing for the past 5 or 6 hours? I glance at my computer screen and see the easy evidence--You Tube. 5 hours. You tube. YOU TUBE!!!! For 5 HOURS!!!!!

Now, I understand enjoying one's weekend, taking a break from the routine, hanging out and relaxing. I think I'm a pretty easy going mom about most things, but if there is one thing I despise above all else, it is wasting time. I'm sorry, make that Wasting Time with a capital W (and T) I have spent so much of my life working, working and attending school, working 2 jobs, working 3 jobs, etc, that I have no sympathy for time wasters. Time is simply too precious. Entirely too precious to waste on innanity like 5 hours of You Tube.

Well, you moms out there can imagine my response to teen daughter, I will not go into details. And so, end of story, right?

Sadly, no. Only, the next phase involves the Internet eating my weekend. You see, I have been trying to purchase certain items of apparel (which include a particular type of shoe) that I cannot find in local stores. I do not particularly like to shop and I am very stingy, well, let's say, thrifty with money, particularly when it comes to spending it on myself (see obelisk post). I really do need these shoes however, and I consider them to be ridiculously overpriced, so, hah, I'll show them(!), will get myself a bargain if it is the last thing I'll do. I have spent months now searching and searching and searching and searching for the best possible prices. I even went so far as to buy a pair already, in a different size than the one I really wear, simply because it was a great bargain price. Honestly, what an idiot I am! Not so much of an idiot that I am actually keeping and wearing the pair that is too big (but it really was a great price!), but I could have had a second job and earned enough money to pay for 10 pairs with the amount of time I have invested in the Internet Search For The Best Possible Price.

Fortunately "the search" is now over. The too-big pair is boxed up and awaiting a return to the company (and I am out the extra cost of return shipping), a pair in my size is being sent, and the weekend is over. I spent approximately 5 hours of my precious Sunday on "Shoe Tube". What is it "they" say--like Mother, Like Daughter . . . .

Inserting foot wearing overpriced-shoe in mouth and keeping a grip, Deb

Saturday, April 17, 2010

3. bought an obelisk

Seriously, bought a what? An obelisk. An OBELISK. I finally bought myself one after wanting it for more than 20 years. You gardening buddies out there already know, but for the vegetatively deficient out there, an obelisk is a columnar structure that climbing plants can attach themselves to. I have always salivated over the wooden variety, but when I saw an ad for a black wire version on sale at the local "bargain outlet" for only $12.99, I went for it. That money could have gone to pay a bill, or been added to the kid's college fund, or purchased a gallon of gasoline (well it sure seems like it, doesn't it?), but instead I splurged on myself.

An obelisk, wow. Finally. I know just the spot for it too--plopped over one of those ugly green metal box thingies that have cable wires, or electricity or whatever inside of them. One happens to be in our front yard and I HATE looking at it. I already planted a baby clematis there last fall, with the hopes of coming up with some sort of apparatus for it to climb on by the time it grew big enough to climb. Once the plant is established, it will smother the obelisk most of the growing season with greenery, and hopefully, large gorgeous blooms, and totally hide the metal box. If I was a bit more organized I would even know what color blooms, unfortunately I don't think I kept the tag that tells me which variety of clematis I bought (yeah, you guessed, it was on sale). But that's OK, now it will be a lovely surprise.

$12.99. Hmmm, that actually is a really good price, isn't it? Maybe I should have gotten two . . .


Keeping a grip, Deb

Thursday, April 15, 2010

first post and I'm already 6 months late

OK, so here is the deal: I turned 50 this year. Yes, technically it was last calendar year, but that is not important. What is important is that it was not so good. No party, no candles, no surprise gathering of loved ones, no big birthday dinner, no funny cards from adoring friends, no black ballons, not even a cake for god's sake! How did this happen you may ask? Honestly, I am not sure. I am married. I have kids and a career, neighbors, acquaintances, friends and family, just like most of you. And yet, this huge significant tidal wave event came and went with, well, instead of tidal wave, think leaky faucet.
Drip . . .drip . . .drip . . .

And now here I am almost 6 months later. Living, learning, loving, tripping, breathing, coping. Already half of that Big Year is over. I guess I am officially in the second half of my life now (betting on the fact that I will reach one hundred). And that, my friends, is a lot to chew over. You can't just sit down and deal with it quickly, it takes time. Time to heal, time to recover, time to just get over it already and move on.

Shortly after the birthday fiasco, a friend who lives far away made a suggestion. Instead of moping about how miserable "the event" was and how pathetic of a human I must be to not even warrant a decent celebration, I should spend the year doing 50 things just for myself. They could be big things like a trip, or small things like an hour to linger at the bookstore all by myself. Hmmm, intriguing I thought. She even made it easy by sending me an email with a numbered list. All those numbers lined up underneath each other with a nice, proper dot behind them, all that blank space, so many possibilities. I was supposed to fill them in as I went and email them to her. Ok, this sounds pretty good, I thought. Wow, only 50 things?

The next day I got started and filled in the first "thing". I hit the Send button and went on with my day. And the next day, and the next day, and before I knew it, the email with my friend's list got buried behind pages and pages of other emails, and, as they say, out of sight, out of mind . . . She is a gracious friend and, although we email fairly regularly, she has not hounded me about the list.

So, anyway, here I am, back on the saddle. Almost half way to 51 already, but better late than never. We 50 year olds are a mellow bunch, aren't we? We are supposed to be gracious and kind to ourselves, not go to that ugly pre-50 crazy perimenopausal place where we question ourselves and our bodies and our thoughts and our choices and opinions and, oops, sorry, got bogged down there for a minute.

Aaahh, that's better. Think mellow. . . mature . . . gracious . . .fill in your list and hit send already!

2. create a blog


Keeping a grip, Deb