I'm Twelve

My child is far more mature than I am:

ParaNorman is on Netflix and I'm uber excited to watch it, but she's all, "Nah, let's check out Top Model."

I want to get cute tutu skirts to twirl in, but she's checking out the bootie shorts section.

She just asked when she can get her first phone. Hello - what happened to walkie talkies? Tin cans and string?

Also, she has decided that at fourteen she's gonna "get herself a boyfriend." Mama expired upon hearing that news; send chocolate in lieu of flowers.

I begged her to watch the newest episode of Gravity Falls because I wanted to find out what was going to happen.

Also, Good Luck Charlie is my favorite show on TV. I can't pass up a sitcom with the phrase "Has anyone seen my left shoe?" in the theme song. "There it is, up on the roof!"

There were rumblings of getting rid of the Barbies for a while, but that seems to have blown over. Whew! Dodged a bullet there! However, the not-so-good news is the Barbies are re-enacting Top Model.

All-day marathon of Avatar, the Last Airbender? I'm so in, with iced coffee and smores. But no.



I do see some hopeful signs:

When I offer to give helicopter rides - the kind where you pick up a kid with one arm, one leg, and spin them like mad - she still goes for it.

image courtesy of lindalu.typepad.com

She and her friends still enjoy making mud.

Stuffed animals are the most important thing in the entire world, so there's that.

She thinks it's funny to whack my butt cheeks and make a crashing cymbal sound. Mama's Junk Orchestra, y'all.


Yes, I'm twelve.

In A Perfect World...

courtesy imiorganizer.com

... I would be very efficient at filing things like receipts. I hate receipts.

... all my photos and news clippings* would be organized and popped into fancy albums with decorative borders. Scrapbooks, I guess they are called. Yes, I would be a scrapbooker.

... the gradual but merciless takeover of my kitchen cabinets by fast food toys, glitter, sidewalk chalk, and Barbie clothes would never have occurred.

... my hair would act more like hair and less like straggly seaweed.

... that one bite** of shrimp pasta that I just couldn't resist last night as I stowed the leftovers in Tupperware would not have gone straight to my waistline.

... my kid wouldn't beg to join the soccer team, only to have a meltdown when the soccer season actually is upon us.

... I would read more Dostoyevsky and less David Wang. Wait, no - that's not true. I'd keep the Wang.

... my freezer wouldn't be the kind you actually still have to defrost. With pans of boiling water and stuff. It's retro!

Good times, good times.
image courtesy alwaysorderdessert.com

... my husband and I would have the same sleeping temp preferences, not glacial (mine) versus tropical (his.) I'm menopausal, deal with it.

... my friends and I would hold our weekly coffee meetings each week, instead of once a year.

... I would actually SEND the Easter card to my nephew after signing, addressing, and stamping it, instead of filing it for next year, since it is May already.

... I would watch more MacNeil/Lehrer and less Fringe. Wait - that's not true either. I'd keep the Fringe.







*by "news clippings" I mean the one article published about me as a writer

**by "one bite" I mean several very large mouthfuls. Okay, maybe a small plate's worth.

Blue Morning

Alexander from
the Judith Viorst book

My kid woke up in an instant tantrum, and I had a touch of stomach flu. 

Due to the tantrum, Kid missed the bus and I had to drive her to school, yells and all. 

On the way there, I saw that the gas needle was pushing E. 

At that point, I knew I was having a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.

I got stuck behind Mr. Slow in traffic, and we reached the school too late to get in the side drop-off entrance. I had to get out of my car and sign her in as late.

The temperature had dropped at least 30 degrees overnight, and I was wearing a light spring jacket. Also, since I had expected to stay INSIDE the car for the drop-off, I was sporting bedroom slippers.

Thanking the good Lord that I had at least changed out of pyjamas, I walked Kid in, signed her in, and got back in the car with a sigh of relief. 

I coasted into the gas station and rolled down the window. The man came to the car, and he was skatting. Skatting! in 20 degree weather!

"How are you, lady?" he asked with a broad smile.

It was infectious. I smiled back. "Just fine," I lied. "And you?"

"Oh, you know, I'm in that moooood!" This was followed by a fine belly laugh and more skats. 

Image courtesy of DocumentaryStorm.com

At that point I began to feel ashamed of myself. Here I was being cranky about stuff that was, in the grand scheme of things, nothing but minutia. And if Gasoline Pump Man could be happy and skatt-ish while he worked outside in freezing weather, I could be happy inside my heated SUV. 

Maybe, I thought, I could salvage the morning. I would play some sweet tunes, have a long cup of tea and a hot shower, and wash the bad start away. 

Filled with these virtuous plans, I paid Happy Skat Man and drove off.....

.... only to realize my kid had left her coat and lunch in the car.

Curtains

Looking elegant.

(This post also appears in The Indie Exchange.)

And here it is, that date. Nine Eleven. It’s a date I have dreaded for a while.

A year ago, my mother passed away, on the eleventh of September. She had suffered with Alzheimer’s for years. It’s a foul, disgusting disease, both for the bewildered victims and for those who know exactly what is happening.

The thing is, my mom was supposed to be that old lady who would drive us all in her VW bus around Ireland and Arizona into her nineties. She was one of the first people to keep an organic farm in our town. She was an English professor, and there were always one or two students huddled around our kitchen table, chatting about Joyce or Yeats or sophistry.

Her speaking voice was incredibly beautiful. For years she read poetry professionally. Her tour de force was the section in The Waste Land spoken in a pub, in a cockney accent. For my 21^st birthday she took me, my sister, and our friend to Paris. We stayed in a cheap boarding house on the Left Bank. It’s still my favorite part of the city.

Was she perfect? No, in italics. Her temper shook our house at times and drove my sister and me to our rooms. I swore that once I saw dragon smoke arise from her nostrils, during one of those rages.

Old snap of Mum walking through Dublin

She studied at Trinity College, in Dublin. She backpacked around Italy. She volunteered at a birdwatching center. To watch all of that personality and intelligence ebb away was pure torture.

The night she finally ended her long fight was very peaceful. A full moon hung outside the window, kept open by the wonderful nurses at Mum’s final home. A slight breeze blew the curtains outward. My sister and I sat there and chatted and wept, while our kids played and decorated Granny’s bed with the stuffed animals and teddy bears she always had with her in her last years.

It was exactly the type of passage she would have chosen for herself. There were no tubes, no machines, and no drugs beyond those that kept her in a simple sleep.

 “Her diminished size is in me, not in her…” There are many others who sense that same thing as autumn begins. They lost friends and fathers and sisters on that date, the day years ago that was far more terrible than my own personal Nine Eleven. I can only wish for them a moment of peace, the calm I felt when the moon glowed outside the open window, when the curtains blew in the soft breeze.

And just at the moment when someone

at my side says, "There, she is gone!"

There are other eyes watching her coming,

and other voices ready to take up the glad shout;

"Here she comes!"

Dress Down Day

Out of the blue, it was Dress Down Day today. That meant that my daughter got to wear an outfit of her own choosing instead of the handy school uniform I took out a second mortgage to buy.

This is all well and good when there  is a specific reason for the Dressing of the Down, such as St. Patrick's Day (go and pick up a cute little  shamrock tee from the clearance rack at Justice) or Valentine's (grab everything red that she owns, since she refuses to wear pink. The girl is a Goth.)

To tell the truth, I'm *sniff* sort of proud of her Gothiness, as a former punk rocker myself.

But this Dress Down Day came from nowhere. It wasn't a holiday or St. Swithin's Day, as  far as I knew. So - WHY?????


Explanation: They won the Penny Wars. I have to deal with a  load of  stress because of the Penny Wars. (Yeah, I don't get it either.)

Here is how the resulting conversation went, and before I transcribe it, I must add a few new words of our own house language so  you will understand.


Pwthmf - Huffy sigh, usually combined with a folding of the arms and a turning away of the head
I!Wh!You!But! - Shocked exclamation by the mother, indicating that she doesn't even know where to begin
Waahydon'tknowwhatIwant - The screech emitted by a child who wants to be idependent and get someone to do  her stuff  for her at the same time
Bleaugh - The realization that you are beginning to sweat.
Ohcomeonpleaseletthiswork - The vain prayer, uttered under one's breath, that the tactic that never ever  worked  before will come through for you this  time.
droopdawg - (Nonverbal) I am tired of hearing everyone yell.
#*#&$#!!! - Oh, you probably already understand this one.


So, here how  it went down, and  it started very calmly and nicely, as  you  will see.


Thursday night, 7:03 pm


Me - Hey, sweetie? It's dress down day tomorrow! Go and pick out your outfit so you'll have it read in the morning.
Kid - Oh, okay, Mommy!
Me - Don't forget  to pick out shoes! And socks! And underwear! and a headband! Ohcomeonpleaseletthiswork
Kid - Okay! I will!

Friday morning, 8:10 am

Me - All right, go and get dressed, sweetheart. The bus will be here soon!
Kid - Wait, these leggings have bows on them! I'm not wearing these!
Me - But that's why I told you to pick out your outfit yourself! (to self ) See, I knew it wouldn't work.
Kid -  Pwthmf!!
Me - Well, then, you  need to pick out a different pair of pants.
Kid - No, I want leggings! And there aren't any more leggings! 
Me - I'm sorry, but that's why I told you to pick your clothes out last night. I could have helped then, but now the bus will be here in a few minutes! Bleaugh.
Kid -  Waahydon'tknowwhatIwant!!!!
Me - You have  to figure this out on your own. I will be downstairs.
Kid - Louder Waahydon'tknowwhatIwant!!!!

Friday morning, 8:17 am 

Kid - Sorry, Mommy. I'm all ready now - wait, these shoes hurt my heels!
Me -  #*#&$#!!!
Kid - I'm not wearing them to school. Pwthmf!!
Me -  I! Wh!You!But!
Dad - Here comes the bus ...  droopdawg
Kid - Ohmigoshthebusbyeeveryone

(Door slams. Silence.) 

Finis