Room for a 6th Grader

I am not sure what made me tackle the job today but this morning I told Paul to head upstairs to start "deep cleaning" his room, adding that I'd be up to help him fix his bookshelves which had come crashing down. I knew there were several hours of work ahead of me if I were to tackle the cleaning of his entire bedroom, but I started in on the "bad corner" where all of his books were and before I knew it, he and I were moving on to another corner...and another...and another.

We sorted through piles and piles of childhood books and despite doing this each year, we counted 100 books to donate to our local library's "bookbarn". I also filled a laundry basket with favorite books which we decided we'd move out of his bedroom to allow him extra room for his current library. Multiple garbage bags were filled to go to the dump and three bins of toys will go to Goodwill. Another three bins of toys were moved to the cellar. "I don't want these in my room, but I think we should keep them". Understanding how hard it is to part with stuffed animals, I was not about to squawk. (It took me years to part with some of mine from my own childhood, and truth be told, I still have some tucked away along with a few of my favorite dolls).

Forever a sweet boy, he hesitated in telling me he wanted to change his woods-themed decor, knowing how for years we'd purchased items for his room. I knew he did not want to hurt his Mom's feelings, but I suspected he'd like to feel he had a room suited for a Middle School aged kid, so I asked him what he wanted to do with his airplane shelf. He looked at me with squinty eyes, measuring my reaction and said, "I'd kind of like to take that down". I smiled and said, "Yeah, let's take that down. How about these pictures over here? Do you want to take those down too? Maybe you could get some new posters instead?" Seeing I was on board, he quickly nodded and pointed to a few more wall hangings to make similar exits. "I really want to get a chair", he added. And when I suggested we put the bureau on a different wall and move his bed, he liked that idea too. Before the day was through, my son and I had gone through every bin of toys, every inch of his closet, and every nook and cranny--under his bed and bureau too.

Finally, having vacuumed and dusted and having moved his bed and bureau to their new spots, we made up his bed. I told him how I'd chosen his red and navy blue flannel patchwork quilt as the bedspread for Sydney's room when she was just three years old, of how I'd dressed it up with eyelet lace to give it a more feminine look back then, but how I'd wanted a quilt that would fit either a boy or a girl so I could use it for years to come. "This quilt?" Paul asked. "I didn't know that. I've had this quilt forever. I like this".

Unusual for him, Paul stuck with the cleaning job as the hours passed. At one point during the bedroom overhaul, Paul and I were both seated on his floor, sorting through a bin of Legos. I flashed back to when he was just a toddler, when the two of us would sit and build towers together. It made me a little teary to acknowledge how many toys we were saying goodbye to, as if they each held the key to those memories. But it felt good to help him clean today, to help him transform his "little boy bedroom" to a space more suitable for a 6th grader, a room he'd be more comfortable to bring friends into, a room that is appropriate for an 11 1/2 year old. (I realize, too, that the days of helping him clean his room are probably numbered. I can only imagine the decor of that bedroom when he's in high school!)

When his older sister arrived home from work, Paul quickly grabbed her hand and brought her upstairs for the big "reveal". As she oohed and ahhhed over the changes, I saw Paul's face beaming. He told her of the posters he'd be getting and of the chair he needed to find.

I may have spent an entire day of my summer vacation helping him clean that bedroom today but it was worth it. And in solidifying that, I need only to think of how he slid over to me in the hallway as his sister was checking out his new room; of how he gave me a big hug, and whispered, "Thanks Mom".

Handing Over the Keys

I wanted to go to the movies tonight. There was a 7:25pm show but to make it, knowing the cinema is 20 minutes away, I'd have to ask Sydney to take Ziva to puppy class from 6:15-7:15pm. She was more than happy to do that; a newly licensed driver, she was most agreeable to taking the keys and driving to the vet clinic. She'd already taken the car to go buy grapes for the orzo salad she was making. And she was not too happy with her 16 year old sister for not allowing her to take her to her own driver's ed class. So seeing an opportunity to take the car for the night, Syd texted her friend and made plans. She'd take Ziva to puppy class, bring her home, and then meet Chris a little after 8pm.

Suddenly, I did not want to go to the movies anymore. I didn't want to move from my seat on the corner of the couch. In fact, I am going to take shallow breaths until I hear the car driving back into the garage.

It's no secret in our household that I'm going through a tough time with her behind the wheel, but I am trying to accept this. "You need to let go Mom", Syd said to me. "You're nervous that I don't have experience, but the only way for me to get some is to drive more". Oh I get it. I was even reminded by my insurance agent, "You were there once too. You've got to remember that". But then he added, "You're going to stay up every night waiting for her to get home, aren't you?! Yes, that's what my wife did too. I went to bed, but she stayed there with her eyes wide open until our children got in safely".

I have long stayed up late waiting for my children to get home from being out with friends. Earlier in the summer I even made Sydney text me each morning after arriving safely on her bike at her workplace. I've done pretty well with other changes. Seeing her head off to college was more exciting than sad, for example. As a high school teacher, I surely realize and defend the notion that parents have to "let go" and accept that their children are growing up. I am not a helicopter parent because it's important to trust our children when they've done nothing to betray that trust. I know that Sydney is a legal adult and is therefore responsible for her own decisions. But I'm sorry. As much as I can trust her to do her best to drive safely and to make decisions carefully, she is presently an inexperienced driver and I don't trust the world of other drivers. Accidents happen and the likelihood of danger finding her is far too great. Motor vehicle accidents are the leading cause of death among teens, according to the Insurance Information Institute. I just want to keep my baby alive. That's all.

So sure, you can tell me that I need to let go. You can tell me that every parent goes through this. You can tell me that eventually I'll need to move from this spot and allow myself to go to a movie because it truly doesn't matter where I am or what I'm doing, time marches on and what will happen will happen. But just as I knew this all to be true when she was an infant, when I crept quietly over to her crib to make sure she was still breathing, for tonight at least (but I suspect for many more nights afterward), I'll sit right here and hold my breath until I see her smiling face come through that door.

Scheduling Summer

The way the week's appointments are lining up, it's tough to remind myself this is summertime. Yesterday was easy: Sydney's boyfriend was taking her to her driver's test and we only needed to get Emma to her Driver's Ed class at 5:30pm. Today is much too loaded: Orthodontist appointment for Paul, Volleyball practice for Emma. Optometrist appointments for Syd and I. Driver's Ed again tonight. Oh and another round of puppy classes begin tomorrow and the car goes in for service too. Then Emma will have times for driving with her instructor.

As scheduled as the week is turning out to be, however, there is a welcome reprieve from having to rise at 5:00am, from having to be inside a classroom with only two small windows for 8 hours, and let's not forget the fact that I do not have to plan lessons or correct papers in the evenings or on weekends. I like having the deheading and watering of flowers being my nightly "homework" and of waking up in the morning knowing I can turn my pillow over and snooze for another hour or two if I want to.

Summer is short. So in between necessary appointments this week, I'll make time to browse through a magazine or to read another chapter or two in my book. I'll sit out on my chaise chair with a tall glass of raspberry lemonade and take time to play fetch with my pup. It's all about savoring the moment. I read today of a mother's panic that she has only 9 more summers before her nine-year old girl goes off to college. Wow. Why do that to oneself? Even realizing the truth that my 19 year old college daughter will most likely not be back home after this summer, having realized the joy and excitement of an alternative plan for next year, I refuse to count down the days of the week or the weeks of the summer. Let's just take each day as it comes, appointments or no appointments. For I know that today,for example, after our trip to get our eyes checked, Syd and I will most likely make a side trip to the mall for a little "mother-daughter bonding time", aka shopping and maybe a trip to our favorite restaurant. But maybe we won't. Maybe she'll want to come straight home. Either way, it'll be okay. Nothing needs to be forced. Nothing needs to be set in stone. Good times, good memories just happen, no matter whether a child is nine or nineteen years old, whether it's July or January. It's best to just let life happen. The thing is, good memories don't follow a set schedule. They're created no matter what.

Sure, in the summer, I'd like to forget what day of the week it is, but with three children to care for, that's not very realistic, so I'll circle the two weeks we'll spend away at camp in August, preserving those free from any appointments and I'll accept that there will be several weeks of "Get her here then" in the meantime. Still, not all schedules are bad. For examples, tomorrow morning we've planned to take a hike, go on a picnic, and take in the view of the mountains before finding a nearby lake to go swimming at. As we drop off the car for service in the afternoon, I'll plan the menu for dinner on the deck and then we can hit the drive-in movie down the road. I hear there's a great double feature playing and luckily, it starts soon after puppy class.

Living the High Life

Finding the recliner free tonight I took a seat and turned on the television. I first spent an hour watching two episodes of House Hunters on HGTV. I witnessed a young man and his girlfriend exploring homes in Nicaragua. He stated he had a budget of 500,000 dollars whereas his girlfriend said she'd like him to look at homes costing 1,000,000. As they toured three homes, I imagined what it would be like to wake up each morning seeing those ocean views, cooking in those high end kitchens, or enjoying those luxurious pools. Next, I watched a couple touring beautiful homes in San Francisco. The Eduardian condo won their hearts, although the art deco one and the Victorian "Painted Lady" condo were definitely contenders. Again, I imagined living in a brand new spot and in an upper class tax bracket. It'd be fun; that's for sure.

As I watched these shows, however, I remembered going to church and listening to Father Joe's discussion this past Sunday. He spoke of parts of the world that struggle with hunger, places where families do not have a roof over their heads. Father had reminded us of how in the United States many of us take for granted our local grocery store--the vast array of foods we stock our refrigerators and pantries with, and how we can buy any items we have a hunkering for at any moment of the day. It's true. I could not dismiss his talk even when I headed to buy the week's groceries after Mass. It felt odd to fill my cart thinking of his words. I know I am blessed to have the nutritious food I eat and I'm trying very hard to make sure none of it goes to waste when I cook for my family. There are people in this world who hold out hope that a simple bowl of rice will be made available to them, and if I can trim my budget, I just might be able to send another monthly check to CFCA, Christian Foundation for Children and Aging, to support another poor child who needs a sponsor. (Having sponsored two boys over years, something that had been a dream of mine to do since I was a child, I can attest to the fact that giving back, even just a little, can make a significant difference in the lives of both the sponsored and the sponsor).

It's okay to dream of living the high life at times, just so long as we do not neglect to realize that we're already living in such a way that millions of people in other parts of the world (or sadly, even in our local communities) consider to BE the high life.

To learn more of how you can sponsor a child, youth, or aging friend, please visit a reputable organization of which I have been a part, http://www.cfcausa.org/

Such a Fool

Tonight, while I was out on the deck, I discovered our citronella candle was not working. The mosquitoes found me quickly and in an attempt to scare them off, I picked up the candle to see if its smoke would drive the bugs away. It didn't, but in my foolish experiment, I accidentally poured some of the candle's wax on my leg. I expected to be scalded but luckily the wax was barely warm so the only thing I suffered from was having to peel off some blue wax on my leg and a little laugh at my expense. I do the most stupid things at times.

When I was my son's age, whenever one of those questions was asked regarding embarrassing experiences, I would talk about how in the sixth grade when feeling quite sophisticated wearing wedged heels for the first time, I slipped and fell with my skirt flying up in front of two male teachers who had all they could do to stifle a laugh. Then there was the time a few years later when I couldn't work the lock in a restroom and had to crawl out underneath the stall to free myself. Nowadays I find myself telling the story of my mishap with an eyelash curler.

If you think about how these contraptions work, you can probably already figure out what happened. But let me paint the picture for you just in case. Maybe eight years ago, as I leaned over my bedroom bureau with my elbow resting on some jewelry boxes, my arm lost its balance when the boxes toppled over and the eyelashes I had tightened into the eyelash curler were pulled out. All of my top lashes were gone in one not-so-smooth move! "My God! That must have hurt?!" is what I am asked when I reveal this story, but the only hurt I remember is the pain of looking into the mirror at my horrific appearance missing eyelashes on my right eye! To say I gasped would be a gross understatement. "Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God" is all I remember saying over and over as I panicked. I looked so freakish.

To make matters worse, I had to finish getting ready for work. After running downstairs to log onto my computer to do some quick research, (the lashes would start growing back in about two weeks' time), I took off my contact lenses, painted the thickest line of eye liner I could, and threw on my glasses. My plan was to stay in my room, to avoid the teacher's room and all one-on-one conferences with students and others for as long as possible.

The lashes did return but as I said before, it took two full weeks for them to even begin to sprout. Now I could end the story there, but I can't. I did the same damn thing again on the left eye a few years later. What an idiot.

Yes, I finally resolved never to use an eyelash curler ever again.

So yes, tonight as I stupidly splashed wax on my leg, I got thinking of all the dumb moves I've made in my life. Each foible has taught me something, namely a lesson in humility. Each dumb act reminds me of the clumsy, awkward fool I can be at times. From the giggling fits that prevent me from being intelligible as I try to order at a drive-through (This happens occasionally and oh my children get so embarrassed, especially when my husband and I both get going, laughing uncontrollably), to the occasional vocal flubs I make, "Mom! Did you hear what you just said?! You just said "Squeeze me" (instead of "Excuse me") to those college guys", it's safe to say that GRACE is not my middle name. I'm just happy that the people I surround myself with often join me in making fools of themselves. It makes life much more relaxed at the end of the day, and so much more fun.

“For God's sake, give me the young man who has brains enough to make a fool of himself” --Robert Louis Stevenson

Clean Sweep

It's rather funny how people can walk past the same messy sections of their house each day and then suddenly one day we JUST CAN'T TAKE IT ANYMORE!!. Just like that, we have to clean up the mess we've long ignored. That's what happened to me today. With everyone in the family gone, to friends' houses or to their summer jobs, suddenly the two neglected baskets of clothes needing folding were being folded. The clutter on the so-called puzzle table (which hasn't hosted a puzzle for months) was sorted through and put away. The three bins in the mudroom holding pens, markers, papers, and notebooks, and other various school-related items, were emptied. I tore through the fridge, cleaning out food containers and checking expiration dates. I even reorganized my deck's furniture. Then ironically, I sat down to give myself a break and turning on the tv, I came upon the show "Hoarders".

It's not a series I enjoy watching, nor do I usually take in more than five minutes of an episode when I do happen upon it. I find it sad to watch those who suffer from that condition. Tonight's episode for example featured a Mom, now in her 60's or 70's, who became a hoarder after losing her family's photo albums and her children's baby books in a fire 30 years ago. The tragedy of the fire compounded with the loss of sentimental possessions seems to have been the catalyst for this poor woman's malady. As the camera crews uncovered the horror of her living conditions, the general public, myself included today, were there to watch in disbelief that the woman would fight with a therapist to hold on to a broken toilet seat or a box of light bulbs bought by the woman decades earlier.

Years ago, folks less troubled but whose clutter had gotten out of control, were featured on television shows such as TLC's "Clean Sweep", where the host would cart in an organizational expert and a team of designers to help a family reclaim a room now in disarray. To see the transformation of both the physical space and the family's attachment to items they no longer used but which were sentimental and therefore difficult to abandon, required only an hour of the viewer's time. Loving interior decorating and creative transformations, I enjoyed the show and it taught me how to quickly go through a drawer or a closet by separating the items into three piles, "Keep, Sell, or Trash". Although in my case, the "Sell" pile usually is donated to Goodwill.

When you are a child of two children of the Great Depression like I am, there's a fine line between honoring the idea of making things last and learning to let go of material items. I cannot deny that I still have some beloved unused but sentimental items that are simply taking up space in my hope chest or in other parts of my house--particular clothes from my childrens' toddler years, doll clothes made for my dolls by my Nana, even a few sentimental tee-shirts from my childhood. My children will quickly attest to the fact that there are some toys and books of theirs that I would have a harder time letting go of than they would. But I make regular donations of clothing, books, and other household items each season and I like clean, streamlined interiors, although I do prefer my house to be comfortable and cozy looking. I'm by no means a neat freak. I am not bothered by the fact that magazines are on the end tables and that books are stacked five high on my nightstand. I don't mind that there are several Wii remotes on the back of the couch or a few spare batteries tucked onto the edge of a bookshelf. I don't mind birthday cards set in the dining room window or the kids' pottery on my bedroom bureau. But I do think it's time to junk that bulky desktop computer that no one uses yet which sits on an used desk in my dining room, and I am ready to find a new home for the big box of wooden Brio train tracks that is taking up space on the bottom of the family room's bookshelf. I might even suggest it's time to throw away the construction paper chain link record of books read by each family member since I don't know when that circles the edges of the family room. It's time.

But once those items are taken care of, I'm pulling out another puzzle to put on the puzzle table. I know once I get it started, everyone will join in to complete it. That's what I wish those poor people who hoard could bring themselves to understand, that when you clear out clutter, letting go of the old, worn out, or stale, there's suddenly room for what is fresh and new, fun and life-affirming.

Now if only I could tackle the cellar. Maybe next week. It's time to reclaim that space too. A ping pong table and foosball awaits us there.

Never Ready to Leave

I got myself to the ocean today. Every time I go, I think to myself, "Why don't I come here more often?!" It's of course a question that I know the answer to, but I ask it in hopes of pushing myself to take a detour from the responsibilities of my life as a mom and a teacher. The ocean is a good 40 minutes away from my home but going there more often seems to be what my soul needs.

Going with friends or family is nice. It makes me smile to see my husband take off on a walk down the beach knowing that sitting in the sun for any length of time is not his cup of tea, or to see my children bury one another in the sand with the help of a friend or two. I love to watch my son enjoy the waves or see my daughters taking photographs like I do. But no matter how much fun my kids are having or how patient my husband is trying to be as he coats himself with another layer of sunscreen, I am never at the ocean long enough for my liking. "I'm ready when you are" is something I hear way too soon when we are there. So what I need to do is to sneak away by myself more often and for an extended period of time.

Several years ago when my daughters attended a day camp at a campus on the coast, I'd pack up their little brother (or leave him home with his Dad) and spend hours upon hours on a little stretch of a secluded beach nearby. My girls were quite sad when their camp had to close its doors. I was devastated. I'd lost an excuse to go to the ocean on and off for three weeks straight each summer.

I used to dream of owning a home on the ocean and although I realize that is not something that will happen for me, I'd still like to find a way to rent a spot for a few days at least, just so I can spend a full 24 or 48 hours there in the sand watching the waves.

Then and now I tell myself there is no reason why I cannot drive to the ocean at the end of a workday come September for I'd love to walk the beach or sit and look out over the water during each season of the year. I could jump on the highway after getting out of work, drive a half hour or so, walk the beach, take time to breathe in the ocean air, then drive home. I bet I could still make it back in time to make dinner. But then September comes and the routine of driving home from work, trying to get home as early as possible so as to play taxi, or to throw in a load of laundry...it consumes me and I neglect what I told my soul it needs the last time my feet hit the sand.

I am going back to the ocean. I'm going back soon and I'm going to go back alone. Because I want to forget all sense of time as I sit reading my book. I want to take endless walks and jump into the waves only to do it again and again each time after my hair has completely dried. I want to be there as the sun is setting and as the moon begins to shine, not hearing, "I'm ready when you are". Because the truth of the matter is, I'm never ready to leave.